RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Och, not again! Silence! Do you never cease?” she snapped, causing them to pull up, then approach quietly.

  “Sorry, Sister,” Deward whispered, peeking over her shoulder.

  Sparing their immaturity little mind, she turned back to the stone wall. Dread bubbled in the pit of her stomach as she stared down at the barded riders. One knight, all in black and mounted upon a black charger, drew her eyes. Not wearing a helm like the others, the spring breeze ruffled the wavy black hair. For an instant her heart lurched, fearing it was Lord RavenHawke.

  “Open the gate in the name of the king!” he called, the tone conveying he expected to be obeyed.

  With piercing eyes, the warrior looked straight at the tower roof, as though he sensed her observing him. So handsome, he took her breath away. But he was no’ St. Giles, The Kenning whispered. One like him. What had her brothers said? His kinsman. A cousin. He favors Julian Challon, much the same way Tamlyn and you do each other. We thought it a fine jest. Only, it was no jest. Oh, aye, he favored his cousin. Only there was a darkness coiled within this man, something she could not quite place, as if the color of the ravens he wrapped himself in also cloaked his soul. So, this was the mighty Black Dragon, the man now Tamlyn’s lord husband.

  “Who demands entrance to Lyonglen?” the Captain of the Guard shouted down in challenge.

  “Challon, overlord of Lyonglen. I demand entrance.”

  Stunned, Aithinne jerked back from the crenellation, reeled. Overlord? Did that mean Edward Longshanks had given Lyonglen to the Dragon of Challon as well as all of Glen Shane? Why had no tides of this been dispatched? Of course, mayhap the English king did not send advance word, fearing that under the current political clime they might use the time to supply against a siege.

  Aithinne closed her eyes against the wave of dizziness trying to claim her. The Kenning said she did not want to let this English earl into Lyonglen, yet understood she had little choice. Near to fainting, she put a hand to her stomach, wondering at the cruel irony of Fate.

  She had missed her monthly courses. With a sly smile, Oona pronounced Aithinne carried the child she sought to conceive; the nausea of the past two morns confirmed this. Only, had the elaborate plans been for naught?

  “All this time, the Earl Challon was the overlord here and merely waited until after his marriage to Tamlyn to come lay claim? Surely, the Auld Ones jest.” Aithinne’s laughter was not mirth, but one of vapors.

  Panic coursed through her to the point she could barely think. What of Coinnleir Wood? Would she be permitted to retain control of her hereditary holding, or would that, too, be stripped from her with no regard to the ancient Pictish laws of her clan?

  Evidently she swayed, for Deward gently took hold of her elbow to steady her. “Aithinne, do no’ beg trouble, as you say, let us meet with this Dragon of Challon, see what he has to say. Mayhap ’tis only a formality, that you shall now look to him for guidance and protection, no’ a bad thing, do you not think? A dragon as protector at a time like this?”

  He was right―face Tamlyn’s lord husband, find out what the earl wanted. After all, he was kinsman by marriage now, possibly that would work in their favor.

  An invisible knife twisted at her insides as she nodded to Einar, who in turn signaled permission for the guard to raise the gate. She watched the riders enter through the portcullis, before she lifted her skirts and rushed to the staircase, descending them two at a time.

  “Oona!” She called, hurrying into the tower room and going to the wardrobe. “Where are you, Oona! Annoying woman, never about when I need her.” Flinging open the doors, her eyes searched through her kirtles. “What to wear, what to wear…” She needed to bard herself in female armor, summon all her confidence she could muster to face this treacherous situation. Yanking out the dark green velvet kirtle, she paused, selecting instead the black brocade. She tossed it on the bed and began unlacing the ties at her sides.

  Aggie rushed in, looking about her. “Why all the fashing, lass? You wouldst think Edward Longshanks himself has come to lay siege to Lyonglen.”

  “Och, him I could handle. Dragons are another matter. Where is Oonanne?” Lifting her hair over one shoulder, she turned so Aggie could untie the lacings up her back.

  “You ken that crone, about only when she wills it. Hold still, Aithinne. You wiggle like a puppy. Why all the trouble?” her maidservant asked.

  “The Dragon of Challon has come, claiming to be our new overlord.”

  “Merciful heaven, does the beastie breathe fire?” Aggie’s simple mind accepted the pronouncement as a real dragon had come to batter down the gates of Lyonglen. Mayhap she was not far off.

  “I must figure this out, amongst other things. Have cook fetch bread, cheese and any cold meats left from yestereve’s supper,” she instructed. “And wine. The good French stock, no’ the dregs from last summer we serve Dinsmore and Phelan.”

  “Stop twisting about, lass, or you will pop out of this dress. You would look a wanton with your breasts already swelling due to the bairn.”

  Aithinne’s head whipped around. “What bairn?” Outside of Oona, Einar and her brothers knowing, she was startled Aggie spoke of it as common knowledge.

  “Lass…lass…I have been taking care of you since you were a wee one. Oonanne can fuss all she wants, trying to muddy the waters, but I ken you breed with that man’s bairn.”

  “But how? Oona only said this morn she believes I be with child.”

  Aggie smiled and arranged Aithinne’s long hair about her shoulders. “A woman breeding has a special glow. That shimmer be upon you. Never have I seen you more beautiful, lass.”

  “Well, let’s hope that faery shimmer dazzles a Dragon,” she said under her breath.

  “Is that the bairn’s da?”

  Aithinne shook her head. “Nay, but his kinsman, now mine, too. The Dragon of Challon is Tamlyn’s new lord husband. He spake that he be the new overlord of Lyonglen. That scares me.”

  Aggie fetched the gold braided girdle and helped Aithinne place it about her hips. “Mayhap ’tis no’ such a bad thing, especial if he is kinsman now.”

  “Where is my circlet? I want all my weapons about me.” Aithinne affixed the circlet across her brow and took a deep breath.

  Hurrying down the winding steps to the Great Hall, she felt ill prepared to face her fate.

  ♦◊♦

  Aithinne drew up short when she entered the wide double doors. It was well after nooning, so the workers had already cleared away the meal. Several now fetched wine, bread and cheese and set them on the long trestle table. She remained in the shadows for several heartbeats, studying this Dragon of Challon. Tamlyn’s lord and husband.

  His hand on the mantle of the fireplace, he stood staring into the flames with a deep reflection. Word had spread through the Highlands of this mighty warrior presence―King Edward’s champion, a fearsome knight in battle. He was dressed in black, no adornments, even the heavy mantle that hung about his shoulders was of the same unrelenting pitch.

  Aithinne steeled herself to look upon him. Knowing her brothers spoke he was similar to St. Giles, still that little prepared her for just how strong the resemblance was.

  Putting a hand to her heart, she closed her eyes and opened herself to The Kenning, trying to brush his warrior’s mind, wanting to understand what she was dealing with in this English knight. Oddly, he was initially closed off from her. Focusing her mind, she was suddenly sucked into a vivid image of him on his knees, kneeling before another, younger man. His body jerked, choking back tears, as Challon cradled a body in his arms. A lad so very like him, he could have been this man ten years earlier. She fought tears of empathy as his intense sorrow pressed inwardly upon her mind and heart. This lad, so beautiful, was too young to have died.

  Aithinne swallowed back the sorrow which threatened to overwhelm her.

  She must have drawn a sharp breath, for his head snapped up and his eyes collided with hers. She looked into Julian C
hallon’s face, saw the madness of grief hidden within the green eyes. The force nearly robbed her of air. The redoubtable power of this man was terrifying.

  Staring at him full-faced, for a heartbeat it was as if she looked at Damian. The dark green eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed on her. The iron control dropped, but only for a fleeting instant. She should have expected the reaction, after all, in the shadows she must appear so like his bride. Whilst she had been expecting a man who resembled Damian St. Giles, she doubted anyone had warned him how much she favored his lady wife.

  Challon was not as tall as St. Giles; still they favored each other, enough to be brothers.

  Mustering her most regal stance, Aithinne lifted her chin and strode forward to greet him. “I am the lady of Lyonglen. I bid you ceud fàilte, Lord Challon.”

  “I asked to see Lyonglen,” he said quietly, but the words held thunder within them. “He sends you in his stead?”

  His level stare set her to quaking, but she forced herself to step fully into the firelight. As she did, movement caught her eye. Another man was in the corner. He shifted, but the veil of the dimness hid him. Something drew her, an odd unease unfurling within her, but Lord Challon slapped his leather gauntlets against his palm, jerking her attention back to him.

  She tilted her head and smiled. “Lord Challon, I be taller than your Tamlyn, and when you are near, you will see I have green flecks in my eyes. Aithinne Ogilvie, baroness of Coinnleir Wood, in my own right. Tamlyn be my cousin.”

  He glanced to the man in the deep shadows, and then back to her. “I do wish my lady wife would have mentioned the resemblance. It is astounding.”

  “Aye, it is.” The man stepped from the darkness and into the light.

  Aithinne blinked. St. Giles. She jerked her eyes back to the Dragon, fighting a wall of emotions flooding her. Challon’s brow merely lifted at her reaction.

  Aithinne tried to compose her wits. She had been pushed off kilter by Lord Challon’s arrival, and his claim to be Lyonglen’s overlord. Now she recalled The Kenning brushing her mind with an image of St. Giles. She had sensed his presence. She felt cold, as if all the blood drained from her, then she felt flush. A strange buzzing like bees sounded in her ears.

  Aithinne flinched as her eyes met the gray-green ones of Damian St. Giles. A man who had been her lover. The man who fathered the child she now carried.

  It took all her will not to faint.

  Chapter Ten

  Tha an sealgair no an sealg? Bi cinnteach a bheil thu a qui est?

  (The hunter or the hunted? Be you sure which is which?)

  — Auld Scots Saying

  “Beg pardon, Lord Challon. Tides the Black Dragon has a twin brother failed to reach Lyonglen.” Aithinne pushed the lie over her teeth, hoping it strong enough to guise her shock at facing the one man in the whole land she never expected to meet again.

  Willing her feet to remain plastered to the stone floor, she steeled herself not to flinch as Damian St. Giles slowly strode the length of the room to reach her. He moved with a regal grace, a warrior comfortable with power and command. Likely one used to getting his way in all. That sort of self-value often led to an edge of arrogance in a man, and this air touched RavenHawke’s mien. Heart pounding, it slammed with a bruising force against her ribcage, even so, she had to stand, a timid rabbit while this predator moved in for the kill.

  Her breath hitched as he drew closer, seeing the haunted, gaunt appearance to his arresting countenance. Shadows tinged the skin under his eyes as if he had not eaten well or slept, consequences of watching Tamlyn marry his cousin, she presumed. Aithinne sensed great honor within this man, as well, his respect and devotion to Lord Challon were clear to her. Thus, the conflicting emotions surely must be tearing him apart. Her heart squeezed, kenning this man was hurting inside, aware she could do naught to ease his grief.

  The pressure increased in her chest as she stared at Damian St. Giles. Flames of desire flickered within her, despite the overwhelming panic forged by his dominating presence. So handsome, he wore a dark blue surcoat over the mail shirt, a simple braided leather baldric about his hips, and like Challon, had leathern hose instead of the ones of mail. Frozen by fear she remained still, barely breathing, as his eyes roamed over her features and then down to her fist clutching the green garnet amulet suspended between her breasts.

  Veiling his thoughts with a sweep of his long black lashes, he reached out and gently took her hand from where it rested next to her heart. Uncurling her fingers from around the dark green stone, he raised them to his lips, then paused. Those pale eyes lashed into her soul, and stripped away all protection against him. Their force sent a dread slithering through her being, once more concern arose. Had the spells and potions done their mission? Finally, with a half-smile, St. Giles brushed his lips over her knuckles.

  Since the potion and Oona’s spelling were crafted to rob all memories of his time with her, for him, this was the first chance he had to study her in comparison with Tamlyn. A slight quiver wracked her body as she fought not to burst into tears, his unforgettable eyes almost seeming to count each bloody freckle on her nose.

  Finally, he inclined in a faint bow. “Damian St. Giles, Lord RavenHawke, your obedient servant, my lady. I am not Challon’s twin, not even his brother, but merely a humble cousin.”

  Perceptive, the Dragon lifted his brow. “You have met before?”

  The question was addressed to Damian, but Aithinne afforded him no chance to answer. “Nay, my lord. Had I ever met two such handsome men, alike enough to be brothers, I wouldst surely recall. Men such as you are hard for a woman to forget.”

  She tried to retract her hand, only the vexing man held firm, refusing to let go. Aithinne bestowed an aloof smile upon RavenHawke, then tugged against his grip again. His fingers tightened, the incisive eyes alive with challenge. Nervous, wondering what Lord Challon made of his cousin’s strange behavior, her eyes shifted to Tamlyn’s husband.

  “Damian, release the Lady Aithinne’s hand,” Julian Challon advised softly. “You may continue becoming acquainted later, after I settle concerns which brought us to Lyonglen.”

  St. Giles gave a faint nod. “’Til then, my lady. My breath is held in anticipation.”

  Instead of releasing her hand, he replaced it against her heart, then stepped back.

  A frisson crawled up her spine. Part dread. Part her body’s traitorous response to him.

  “Lady Aithinne, if you would be so kind to send for the baron. We must speak with him upon pressing business. We carry a missive from King Edward.”

  Challon’s tone was calm, but coldness spread through her blood, her worst fears becoming reality. Here the lies start. She hoped she was mummer enough to lend believability to her falsehoods. Her throat constricted, but she forced out the words.

  “It is with respect, Lord Challon, that I must decline this request. Lyonglen be unwell.”

  Challon nodded, the air of impatience upon him once more. “We heard stories of his being ill―why he failed to rise to Balliol’s standard or Edward’s. Later, tales tother were carried across the countryside about his marriage. Whilst I regret he ails, we still must meet with him― forthwith―upon matters most urgent.”

  She clutched the amulet hanging from the chain about her neck, squeezing it so tightly it cut into her palm. The pressure warned, ease the grip, but she could not relax her fingers. If she did, she might start shaking and never stop. A large stone of green garnet―the same gem reputed to adorn the Holy Grail―it focused her powers and gave her strength to face this ordeal. Striving for an air of regal detachment, she forced a composed demeanor.

  “’Tis not possible, Lord Challon. I regret your journey from Glenrogha was made for naught.” Aithinne found pride her voice managed to convey the right note of finality.

  Challon’s eyes narrowed, obviously unused to anyone failing to obey his command. “Lady Aithinne, I have spent the past two fortnights dealing with women of Clan Ogilvi
e, so I should not hold surprise at your refusing to follow my charge. Methinks you share more in common with my lady wife than a few physical traits.”

  The Dragon took several paces toward her, no doubt in Aithinne’s mind done to browbeat her with the force of his redoubtable presence. Those dark green eyes had the power to rip away her mind’s defenses, lay bare her every thought. Aithinne gnawed on her lower lip, studying this formidable man for several breaths. A dark fire burned in this warrior, an ancient fire, one that burned brighter than any man she ever encountered. Bloody discomforting. Never had she seen a man surrounded by such a dark, arcane aura.

  Aithinne was relieved Julian Challon had wed her cousin Tamlyn, and Edward had not sent this warrior to Glen Eallach to claim the holdings and her. While sinfully attractive, this man was frightening. Aithinne stood in dread of this mighty Black Dragon, so aptly named. Only fools and blind men would not. And whilst at times she felt the fool, she was not blind to the power of Tamlyn’s mate. Unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she looked away―had to for fear of him scrying all her lies.

  Her eyes collided with St. Giles’s enthralling stare, and suddenly his daunting cousin vanished from her thoughts. As imposing a figure as Julian Challon cut, it was Damian who drew her. Odd, upon first laying eyes upon both men, she had been struck by their likeness. Now, as she stood so close, that similarity lost the impact; it was their differences that held her spellbound.

  Her body, her soul, her heart were ensorcelled by Damian St. Giles, forevermore bound to this dark warrior.

  “Lady Aithinne, you fail to understand the situation. I am not asking to see Lord Lyonglen―I demand it. Edward made me overlord of Glen Eallach, as such, my orders shall be obeyed in all.”

  “All of Glen Eallach?” She barely could speak the reply.

  He inclined his head. “All―including Coinnleir Wood, which is what I believe you ask.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, her jaw clenching against the rising fury. “Edward has no rights here. He be no king of the Scots. My titles and lands pass to me through ancient charter through Clan Ogilvie. Right of Line guarantees thusly―”