RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Sensing the dark undercurrent of emotions, Moffet glanced nervously to Aithinne and then back to Damian. “I told her you would not want her to go out alone―”

  Aithinne gasped. “You said your father―”

  “Aye,” he nodded, his green eyes shifting to St. Giles, almost wary as if he was not sure he should have spoken up.

  She backed up a step, her spine bumping against the stall door. “Father?”

  Damian glared at her coldly, almost daring her to react wrongly, then reached over and loosely hugged the boy’s shoulder. In an affectionate manner, he ruffled the back of Moffet’s hair. “Aithinne, this is my handsome son, Maromme―though my mother called him Moffet and it stuck. A Scottish name, I believe. He is fortunate to be in training as a squire to Challon, though I would very much liked to have handled his education myself. Moffet, make your pretty to the Lady Aithinne, baroness of Coinnleir Wood.”

  The lad smiled shyly and he gave her a small bow. “She looks like the Lady Tamlyn, Father, though her eyes are more green.”

  Aithinne tried to control her reactions. She already warmed to the gentle lad, only knowing he was Damian’s son sent a hot poison through her, to the point of being so painful she wanted to double up and cry. Silly, but she felt betrayed. Ashamed of such thoughts, she misliked the reaction, only beyond her understanding or control, she hurt knowing this child was a product of his passion with another woman. Thoughts flew through her head as she tried to grasp some degree of refinement at learning this boy was Damian’s.

  “Yes…I wouldst imagine being a squire to the Black Dragon of Challon is an envied position. I…I am sure you serve your lord proudly, Squire Moffet.”

  Damian’s grasp tightened about the boy, then hugged him to his side. “Go seek your breakfast ere you begin all these chores. I know Challon does not expect you up at the crack of dawn and without nourishment.”

  The young man paused. “Merry part, Lady Aithinne.”

  Aithinne forced a smile for the innocent lad. “Merry part, Moffet.”

  Picking up the sword, Damian laid the flat of the blade back against his shoulder and watched the lad walking away. Aithinne sensed he was waiting for her to say something, nevertheless, she judged this was a time when it was best to keep the words behind her teeth. Jealousy, for it could be none ’tother, burned within her to the point where she could hardly think straight. Was he married? Had he a lady wife somewhere? Or was Moffet a merry-be-got, a child of some castle worker somewhere or a leman. Did he plan to install her here at Lyonglen? Her cheeks burned, the pain too much for her to sort out. All she could think of was finding some place dark and quiet and have a lie down before having to think things through.

  “Naught to say, Aithinne?”

  She licked her lips and then tried to don a false face. There was little use, she feared, those damnable eyes seemed to rip away the lies she was building for protection. “He…he is a…handsome lad.”

  “Aye, hearts will be broken as he comes of age.” He nodded, love clear on his face. “He makes me feel very old, Aithinne. He grows too fast. Already his voice is cracking. He is damn near as tall as Challon. A few more moons’ passings and he will look me in the eye on the same level. I am not prepared to be a father of a grown man.”

  “You and…your…lady wife must be very proud of him.” Her lip quivered.

  “I am proud. I have no wife, lady or otherwise, Aithinne—and you know it.” His gaze skimmed over the hooded mantle. “You were planning on going to Coinnleir Wood. Why?”

  She tried to step past him, unable to handle this confrontation when she was so shaky inside. Taking hold of her arm, he spun her around to face him. His anger stilled as his hand slowly lifted to push back the hood of the mantle, then gently stroked down her hair as he lifted the loose braid out.

  “Sorry, Princess. Your life has changed. You go nowhere without my permission. Same with your brothers. You are under my protection now―”

  “Protection? Prisoners sound a better name for it, Lord RavenHawke.”

  He shrugged. “Not so, yet it little matters. This is what will be.”

  “You do not own me, my lord. You think because I obeyed your commands last night―”

  He grabbed her and pulled her against him, to where his mouth hovered over hers, his stare challenging her, possessing her. “Own you, Aithinne? Aye, I do. Get used to it. We have a lot of things to get settled, a lot of your lies to cut through―”

  “Lies!” She tried to jerk back. “How dare―”

  “I dare much, Aithinne. For you, I will likely have to defy God and king, so save the high dudgeon. For now, you shall take my arm, and with a smile on your face, we shall stroll back into the castle, or by damn I will take you right here, up against the stall door―and I care little who sees.” His grin was unrepentantly wicked. “For my choice, I prefer the latter, but I am trying to be nice.”

  Jerking away from him, Aithinne stomped off without another word. His mocking chuckle sounded softly behind her.

  “I thought you might take that option.” His long strides quickly had him walking beside her. “Are you not going to ask me about Moffet? I saw the questions racing through your mind. You are a very easy person to come to know, Aithinne. All your emotions are there on your beautiful face.”

  Curse his black head! Why did he have to say that? Oh, yes, she was beautiful, but not as beautiful as her cousin Tamlyn. Had she not heard the refrain all her life? Her throat hurt as the tears welled up, but she was damned if she would let him see how affected she was by his words. She sniffed. “Good, then you know what I am thinking now, My Lord Arrogant.”

  “Hmm…I think that sobriquet is a hint.” He reached out and caught her arm to slow her pace. “I thought perhaps after we break our fast, you would show me around the fortress, introduce me to the villeins and serfs. I should like to get to know them a bit ere I call for them to kneel to me in fealty. I need to work to secure Glen Eallach. I think you comprehend the many forces that would seek to use this valley for their pale aims.”

  Aithinne nearly stubbed her toe, as her eyes locked with his. Reality intruded that this situation was more than just her and her pride; it was the people here in this glen and in her holding. All looked to her to see life continued in a safe fashion. Being their lady carried a heavy burden, she knew well, what had driven her to the desperate measures to get with child. Had she not wished for a strong man to help ease the load she carried?

  If only he did not love Tamlyn. How wonderful it would have been if he came to Glen Eallach yestereve and they met for the first time. None of her lies and deceits between them.

  If only…

  Aithinne muttered under her breath to herself, “Nay, I swear off wishes. Hobgoblins to trouble the mind.”

  “What is that you say, lass?” he leaned toward her with a smirk.

  She frowned at him. “Just you never mind, Lord Big Ears.”

  Damian shrugged, taking no insult. “Aye, I am arrogant and may have big ears...” he glanced down at his groin, then added, “…and big―”

  “Och, you certainly have not learnt any manners―”

  “Feet,” he finished. “Well, since you think it unmannerly to speak of the sum of my body parts, how about you ask about Moffet instead. You know you are chafe to do so.”

  She picked up the sides of her mantle to keep it from dragging in a puddle. “’Tis hardly my concern.”

  “And when did that ever stop a woman from meddling?”

  At the steps to the castle, she turned to face him. “And you Dragons of Challon ken all about women, do you not? They fall in your beds at the drop of a kerchief―”

  “You did.” he challenged.

  She couldn’t look away, as they both recalled how in the wee hours of the night she had surrendered all and asked nothing in return. How if she was not very careful she would find him in her bed again, and with no more willpower to resist him than before.

  Knowing this was
not a safe banter, she figured discussing Moffet was less risky, despite the reactions within her heart. “Very well, my lord.”

  “What, no My Lord Arrogant, or My Lord Big Ears, even My Lord Big―”

  She interrupted because the expression on his face said he was not going to say feet this time. “Tell me about your son. I see love in your eyes when you watch him.”

  “Aye, you do. I am very proud of the lad. It hurt like the blazes when I turned him over to Challon―”

  Aithinne followed him up the steps leading to the bastion. “Then, why did you? I think that is the saddest thing, for a mother or father to send sons and daughter to be raised in another household.”

  “Is that why you failed to send your brothers away?” he queried as they reached the boulevard proper, and began to stroll slowly along the walkway of the wall that surrounded the inner bailey.

  Aithinne’s spine tensed sensing the coming rebuke from a warrior born and trained, so ingrained in that way of life that he sent his son from him to train with the best, a man who would see no way other. “I lost my parents to a terrible fever. I did not want to lose them, as well. I did not want them trained for war, to ride out and kill or be killed. I did not want them to be made into killers.”

  “Is that how you see me, Aithinne?” Damian whipped around to see her full faced for the answer. “A killer?”

  Under those probing green eyes, she stepped backward. “I know men go to war, sometimes have to go to war…I just did not want my brothers to be warriors.”

  “You made them weaklings, Aithinne―”

  She exhausted her fury. “They are gentle souls―”

  “My son is a gentle soul. He is learning the way of manhood from one of the greatest warriors England or Scotland has ever seen. Challon will show him the way to survive in this world and by being squire, then knight of the Black Dragon, will secure a place in these isles where he mayhap will not have to fight and kill. But if the time comes, he needs to protect himself or those he loves, he will be a man able to do so. It might mean the difference between his life or death. I want him to have those tools in his hands.”

  Aithinne was unused to people criticizing her choices. She had been chatelaine to both fortresses and people did her bidding. Outside of Gilchrest, there had been none of rank to dare upbraid her in the manner Damian St. Giles just had done. Her pride stung.

  “I wouldst prefer we not discuss my brothers,” was all she could summon.

  His brows lifted in challenge. “Very well. We will not discuss them…now.”

  Ignoring him, she started to walk again. “Moffet’s mother…you were wed?”

  “Nay.” He paused by a crenellation to stare out across the glen. “I was very young. Of course, I did not think so then. She was a maidservant at Castle Challon. Being young, arrogant and foolish―and thinking with my nether regions―I assumed she loved me.”

  Aithinne was unsure she wanted to hear his love for another. Damian being with this other woman was a knife to her guts. Still, she was not one to shy away from the truths where this man was concerned. It only helped her to ken what a mistake last night had been.

  “Did you love her?” She watched this beautiful warrior, the breeze stirring the dark locks, locks kissed with the hint of Celtic fire, blood from his mother. Emotions swamped her. Loathing for this faceless woman who had given him such a beautiful son. Rage at him for daring to share with another what they had shared last night.

  “In the hot bliss of youth I fancied I did. She was so beautiful I hurt just to look at her. You have to be a man full grown before you understand what love really is, how it is so much more than the passion of flesh.”

  A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the thick haar about the grounds like restless, earthbound ghosts of the ancient Picts. Its coolness went to her bone. More than the passion of the flesh. More than what they had. She suddenly felt very, very tired.

  She heard herself ask, as if the words were spoken by another, “What happened to her? Is she still alive?”

  “Aye. I hear she is doing well. She wed the man she loved. They have several children now. But none with black hair and green eyes.”

  She swallowed back the bile rising within her, fighting the tears clogging her throat. “That is well, I suppose. What I asked about…was what happened betwixt you and her.”

  He sighed. “My secret, Aithinne. I shall have your word on this. Challon knows, but none tother. I would prefer Moffet never learns the circumstances of his birth. Aye, he kens he is bastard born, but then several men of Challon have borne the bar sinister upon their shields, so ’tis no shame to my son. Challon and I will see he marries well, he will become a knight, a powerful one someday. No one will dare look down their noses at the most favored knight of the Black Dragon, and the grandson of Gilchrest Lyonglen. Your word, Aithinne. I tell you and then we shall never speak of it again.”

  She nodded. “I give my word, Lord RavenHawke. I like your son and would wish him no harm.”

  “Damian.” When she looked confused, he smiled. “I ask you to call me Damian. I wouldst have us be friends, Aithinne.”

  Oh, aye, he would offer her friendship, and in the depth of night take her body because she was so like Tamlyn. Friends? Why did that make her want to break down and cry?

  Instead of railing at him for wasting his love on another, she nodded. “Damian, I give my oath.”

  “Anya, was a couple summers older than I. Already she was in love with her woodsman, but she wanted something better in life. She bartered her body, later my son, to gain that. She deliberately seduced me, and fully intended me to get her with child. Once she was heavy with that babe she told me about her loving another. He would wed her, but he did not want to raise a bastard of mine. That much suited me. This child was mine. Bear the taint of bastardy he might, but blood of Lyonglen, blood of Challon flowed through him. He was not going to be raised as some baseborn villein. I think she must have sensed this possessiveness within me. She saw the child as a tool. She would sell him to me for gold and silver, enough to give her and the woodsman a much better lot in life than they could have achieved on their own.” Lines bracketed his mouth as he frowned, anger, pain, betrayal etched deeply in his expression. “I bought my child, Aithinne. Spent a small fortune in Anya’s eyes. The price I paid was damn cheap. He is worth every pence, a hundred times over. I would die to save him. I came out of this Devil’s Bargain with the real thing of value―my son.”

  The tears she had been struggling against, filled her eyes at the love he spoke of, sympathizing with his betrayal, the taste still strong in his mind.

  Moreover, she reeled as though she had been slapped as she comprehended how grave the wrong she had done this man in having her brothers ply him with drink and then dump him in her bed. She had used him to get with child. While her reasons mayhap were less mercenary than gaining coin, she had sought to use his body, his seed to get with child, hoping to use the child as a tool to keep her freedom and to protect Lyonglen.

  She knew with a sinking feeling that one day this man would look at her with the same resentment, mayhap more, as he now displayed in speaking of Anya.

  God in merciful Heaven! What had she done?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trì luchainn le miotagan a ghlacadh gu cait.

  (Three mice with gloves can catch a cat.)

  — Maeve Montgomerie

  Damian turned to frown at Aithinne’s brothers. They needed frowning at. Gad, six and ten years of age, yet they held the swords as if they were gripping adders. He feared he had a task ahead of him trying to turn these milksops into men. He liked them, despite their annoying eccentricities. Hugh and Lewis had the habit of finishing each other’s thoughts, whilst Deward’s never seemed to stop. Listening to him made Damian want to gasp for a breath somewhere in his long recitations.

  He suppressed a smile at their disgruntled expressions. Upon learning of their new routine of spending the morning training on the lis
ts, they ran to hide behind the hem of Aithinne’s kirtle, begging for her to intercede. The lady of Coinnleir Wood had not warmed to the reality that she no longer had final say in matters at Lyonglen, especially where her precious brothers were concerned.

  “Swords do not bite. Get a firm grip on them or this will happen―” Damian swung his weapon with all his might against Hugh’s, the blades clanging together.

  Since Hugh’s hold on the pommel was too loose and far back on the hilt, all the vibrations of metal-meeting-metal traveled up the sword and straight into his arm and shoulder. The poor lad tried to keep his grip, but the blade jarred from his hand clattered to the ground.

  Damian extended his arm and leveled his blade, tip to the young man’s heart, staring down the gleaming steel at him. “That is how easily you can die in battle.” He almost laughed when Hugh swallowed hard.

  Unfortunately the lesson was lost on Lewis. He immediately held up the sword before his face, examining the blade. “This groove…what ’tis for? I heard say it as to let the blood of the victim flow freely once you pierce his body. Is that so, Lord RavenHawke?”

  “Ugh.” Deward shuddered and turned so pale, Damian feared he might faint.

  Damian sighed and lowered his weapon. “The groove is to let the sword be strong, yet lighten its weight. Blood does not need help to flow. So, it is not a blood-gutter.”

  Deward’s Adam’s apple bobbed as a green tinge filled his cheeks. “I do not think…I want to do this, they can just kill me and have done with it.”

  Rolling his eyes in disgust, Damian collected the swords. “Swords require strength, which you lads have not developed. Can you even hold a lance?” He handed Lewis one of the practice lances from the rack. Lewis and the lance hit the ground, as he went down on his knees. “Forget the lance and tilting for now. Have you had any training?”

  Hugh brightened and grinned. “We are very good with our staffs.”

  Damian could not help the chuckle that rumbled in his chest. He had a feeling Aithinne’s brothers were not any better at swiving lasses than they were at the art of warfare. “Ah, I let that pass without comment.” He took up the long poles and tossed one to a brother.