RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  ♦◊♦

  Nervous at facing St. Giles, Aithinne had put off joining them belowstairs by fussing with her hair and gown. Truth be told, she was trying to look her best, so she did not compare so unfavorably with her lovely cousin. Unable to put it off any longer, she arranged the long sleeves on her pale blue kirtle and then opened the door to go down to supper.

  She jumped, startled when she found the doorframe blocked by the body of a tall man. Instant alarm spread through her. Who was he? What was he doing standing there, filling the doorway and preventing her leaving?

  “Good eve, kind sir. If you shall move so I may pass?” She tried to sound calm, but something about this man, the utter stillness in which he held himself made her back up. A mistake. She saw the glint in his black eyes. This man fed upon fear. When she took the step back, he moved forward into the room and into the candlelight. The half shadows made his appearance fearsome, but seeing him in full light did little to dispel her deep unease. Madness touched his brain. In her whole life, Aithinne had never feared any man. She did this one.

  “Tamlyn…” he finally spoke, saying the name in a breath. A drunken breath. She realized though she saw him full-faced, the light was to her back, hiding her countenance in the shadows. Many would mistake her for Tamlyn.

  She tried to skirt to his side, hoping he would take the hint, but he moved to counter her leaving. Panic rising in her, she pulled up. Clutching her amulet, she tried to still the fear surging in her, and drew on her tone of nobility. “I fear you have mistaken me. I am no’ Tamlyn. I am Lady Aithinne Ogilvie, Baroness of Coinnleir Wood. Lady Tamlyn and I are cousins.”

  The white teeth flashed in something that resembled a grin, but there was no mirth in it. The expression lent on oily bile taste to the pit of her stomach.

  “What stupid jest is this…” he growled.

  Slowly, she lowered her hand to the sgian dubh sheathed at her belt. Getting her hand around the hilt made her breathe a little easier. “’Tis no jest, sir. Lord RavenHawke and Lord Challon returned this morn with me. All in the ballium saw Tamlyn greet me. I favor her, ’tis said. Though I am taller and have a red cast to my hair.”

  She had to steel herself not to flinch as those cold, empty eyes roamed over her face, her hair, her body. The show of teeth reminded her of what you would see on a hungry wolf in deepest winter.

  “So you do.” He lifted a lock off her shoulder, rubbing it between his fingers, studying it. “Your tits are not as big either, but are still more than a mouthful, more than a handful.”

  “Never speak such to me again, or I shall see you flogged.” She drew herself up to look down her nose at him.

  Evidently it was the wrong thing to say. “You Scottish bitches. I have been flogged once because of your cousin. She owes me. I shall collect. Soon. Mayhap you are smarter than the Glenrogha bitch―in heat for her lord and master every time he snaps his fingers. I watched them under the apple tree, rutting in the dirt―”

  “Dirk!” Damian’s voice was the most welcome sound Aithinne had ever heard. “What are you doing here?”

  Hooded eyes lowered as he nodded toward Aithinne. “I was merely saying well-come to Lady Tamlyn’s cousin that looks so like her. Rather puzzling the way God works, eh? You favor Challon and he has Tamlyn.”

  “By the grace of Edward,” Damian corrected.

  “I suppose our good king has given you Glen Eallach along with this bi…lady.” The way he stressed the word said he did not mean it in a flattering fashion, but equated it on the level of a whore.

  Aithinne stepped toward Damian, and almost sighed relief when he pushed her behind him as he stayed facing the taller man. “You would do well to remember your place, Pendegast or the whip shall taste your flesh once again. Mayhap it shall be my blade driving home the point.”

  “At your convenience, Lord RavenHawke.” Dirk Pendegast sketched a mock bow, and then departed the room.

  Aithinne was nearly sick from the evil coiling within that man, the foulness polluting the room even after he had taken leave. She was so upset she wanted to do something silly―like throw herself into the strong arms of this troublesome man. “I thank you for arriving when you did. Who be this man?”

  Damian whipped around and glared at her. “Sir Dirk Pendegast, a knight in Julian’s cadre. I mislike the man. He tried to rape Tamlyn, Challon said, the day he took possession of Glen Shane. Pendegast and four others caught her out picking flowers. Only by the grace of God did Challon arrive in time to stop them. What was he doing in your room?”

  Aithinne stiffened at his tone, which bordered the edge of an accusation. “Do no’ speak that question as if I invited him here, Damian St. Giles. I opened the door and he was there blocking the doorway. He thought I was Tamlyn. I tried to move past him, only to have him cut me off.”

  Damian gave a short nod. “Pardon me, the man troubles me. He lays a hand on you I shall kill him without second thought.” His eyes skimmed over her, as if assuring himself of her being unharmed. “You are very beautiful in blue, Aithinne.”

  Aithinne sucked in a breath, wanting to believe him, yet knowing that he looked at her and found her lacking next to Tamlyn. “I am taller than Tamlyn―”

  For the first time his countenance eased. “And I am taller than Challon. And prettier.”

  She nibbled on the inside of her lip for an instant, her eyes drinking in his male perfection. “Aye, you are. Though he be nicer.”

  “Challon? They call him the Black Dragon. A man once the king’s champion. He is the most feared warrior of these isles. Even Edward treads carefully around Julian Challon. I do not think anyone has called Challon nice. Ever. Not even Tamlyn.”

  “She loves him.” The words popped out. The instant they did, she wished she could recall them, knowing they had the power to hurt the man.

  He nodded sadly. “Aye, she does. And he loves her. Julian is a very troubled man. He needs peace, happiness. Your cousin has the power to heal him, make him whole again, and give him the son he so desperately wants.”

  “She be very fortunate. They share something very rare and special.” Unable to look at Damian any longer, she turned and hurried from the room before she could see just how unhappy that knowledge made the man she loved.

  Oh, aye. She was in love with Damian St. Giles.

  Fool that she was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  But if Love comes, he will enter,

  And will find out the way.

  — Love Will Find a Way, 17th Century Anonymous

  With mixed emotions flooding through him, Damian studied Challon as the man’s eyes hungrily followed his lady wife’s departure from the Great Hall. Tamlyn had come to report she had settled Aithinne for the night, and was now going to seek her bed, as well. Damian thought it endearing how she had asked Challon’s permission.

  Never could he envision the fiery Aithinne coming to ask his leave to retire. He almost snorted thinking of her, how she chafed at orders he had given over the past few days. She wouldst sooner take a knife to him than bend her will to his. Firebrand―what her name meant in the Scots. It was perfect for her, he thought. His Firebrand.

  It brought him joy to seeing how Julian and Tamlyn were already bonding so strongly. Truly, he was happy for them. Yet, in the same breath, it also made him feel empty inside. He craved this same contentment, the closeness of their affection. “She is good for you, Julian. I have not seen you this happy in years.”

  “Aye, Edward has no idea what a prize he has given me. I am damn lucky, indeed.” Julian concurred, with a half-smile. “I have a feeling we both are.”

  “You are. For me…mayhap.” Damian shrugged.

  “Have you twigged if she lies about this so-called marriage to Lyonglen?” Challon asked, settling back in his chair to finish his drink.

  Damian lifted the goblet to his mouth, paused and flashed his teeth in a grin. “Oh, she lies. I spoke with the gatekeeper, and casually inquired how often Malcolm the
Culdee comes to Lyonglen. He said the priest comes only when called. So I asked, when was the last time the man had been summoned?”

  “And?” When Damian just smiled smugly, Julian nudged his foot with the tip of his boot. “Spit it out. Do not keep me wondering.”

  “The guard said the priest was fetched one stormy night―first time since last Yuletide―a little over three moons’ passing. He came as quickly as a fast horse would carry him. Then, departed with the dawn.”

  Julian yawned. “Interesting, but not quite to the point.”

  Damian nodded, then took a swallow of the wine. “The crux being, the brothers started putting about the rumor that Lyonglen had married several sennights before that. Which means―”

  “I raise a cup to the Dragon of Challon…brought low by love madness!” The slurred words rang out through the Great Hall.

  All eyes turned in the direction of Dirk Pendegast, who had stood and now lifted his cup to Julian. The man’s eyes glazed from the drink. Clear that demons ate at his insides.

  Damian gritted his teeth. He recalled earlier when he had found the man in Aithinne’s room. She had been scared by Pendegast, but then, to Damian’s disgust, he had long ago surmised the warrior liked females to cringe before him. One of the best knights Julian had ever trained, his cousin was disgusted by the man’s sadistic bent toward females. Under a less careful liege, the tall knight with black hair and eyes would likely prey on maidservants, or rape women in warfare, proof of this was his near taking of Tamlyn before Julian had stopped him.

  “Love madness?” A small twitch in Julian’s jaw, barely perceptible, bespoke of his controlled anger. Only a fool provoked Julian Challon.

  “Aye, ’tis a distemper—and you, my lord—” Getting to his feet, the fool gave a mock, sweeping bow. “—mayhap be beyond cure. It can make a lapdog out of the strongest. Rot our brains.”

  “Distemper?” Julian probed, clearly wondering what maggots had gotten into Dirk’s fouled mind.

  Challon had stated a fortnight ago he had sent word to Baron John Pendegast, Dirk’s eldest brother, that he wanted Dirk recalled to the family holding, that his services would no longer be needed. Unfortunately, thus far there had been no reply. The baron had hoped Julian would settle a fief on Dirk. Damian knew that would never happen. Challon wanted the man gone from Glen Shane.

  Damian noticed Challon’s right hand had deceptively slipped down to the hilt of Tamlyn’s sgian dubh, which he kept tucked at his belt. After Pendegast scaring Aithinne earlier, he wouldst like naught more than to see the repugnant pup taught a lesson, but he had a feeling Dirk was not as drunk as he pretended, and deliberately provoked Julian for just this sort of response. Mayhap he assumed Julian’s wound to the wrist to be worse than it was. Tamlyn had pampered him all evening. Possibly, Dirk assumed she did so out of necessity instead of love. Dirk would never mistake to challenge Julian in a fair fight otherwise.

  To head off the coming confrontation, Damian slammed his gold cup down hard on the tabletop to draw Julian’s focus from the knight. “Sir Dirk dips into the wine overly this night. Pendegast, close thy mouth, before you ruin our digestion with bilious nonsense.”

  “Any healer will attest to the truth. Go ahead and ask them. Just make certain to speak to a male one, not some female witch, who plies you with love filters. It is disease, say I. As with any disease, there is a cure. Does not our Church say women corrupt us, weaken us? No man shouldst suffer such indignities to his honor and pride. A woman needs must know her place. Obey their lord. A man never permits one to lead him around by his cock.”

  Julian jumped to his feet.

  Damian loosely restrained his arm, and cautioned lowly, “Ignore him. His words spew forth from a green fount of jealousy.”

  “Healers bleed a man…draw out the foul poison crippling spirit and body. To sear wounds and prevent infection you slap hot iron. For a man to cure this insidious sickness that saps his soul, he must have intercourse with another woman. Then, and only then, shall he rid his soul, mind and body of this dark malady. If that does not work, he needs must discover they all are alike. From lowly serving wench to high born lady, willing to lay with any man when his back is turned. A man is a fool if he thinks any one of them is special above others. A lady screams her pleasure same as the lowest swine girl. ’Tis sad when our mightiest warrior is brought low by cock fever.”

  Before Damian could blink, Julian tossed his dagger, and with a thunk it landed tip first between Dirk’s first two fingers. Casually, yet with regal bearing, Challon strode to the table. He stared at the knight, unblinking, waited, and allowed the man’s fear to rise. Julian wielded silence as a weapon, one of his tools that always gave him the advantage. Finally when Dirk blinked, Challon reached out and snatched the knife back and then used the tip of the blade to pare his fingernails. “You were saying?”

  Dirk sat down and reached for his cup. “Nothing, my lord.”

  “What I thought. Keep that vulgar tongue behind your teeth, eh?” Julian’s lashes flicked disdain.

  Dirk’s jaw muscles flexed visibly, holding back the fury, but he said naught.

  Spinning on his heels, Julian headed for the doors.

  Damian followed Julian from the hall. “You wouldst do well to send that pup back to his brothers.”

  “I plan on it. I sent word to his brother to recall him.” Julian strode from the Great Hall. “The prickles up my scalp tell me I may regret not using that dagger to slice that insolent throat.”

  “Good, because if you do not send him from here I shall end up doing worse. I found him trying to corner Aithinne in her room just before supper. She said at first he thought her to be Tamlyn. I trust him not. Tamlyn or Aithinne―I do not want him near either woman.”

  “Do not worry. He is gone, or I fear I shall have to kill him.”

  Pausing to glance back to the arrogant soldier, Damian asserted, “You might have to stand in line, Julian.”

  ♦◊♦

  Damian watched Challon go on up to the next landing to the lord’s chamber. He smiled as he saw Julian taking the steps two at a time. Eager to be with his lady.

  The emptiness that gnawed at his innards at supper, now arose again as he wondered at the feeling of knowing someone awaited his return. With a sigh, he turned and stared at the long hallway, dark except for the torch burning in the sconce, about halfway down the corridor. No one waited for him. There was no body warming his bed―or his heart.

  His whole life he had carried the sense of feeling apart. Not a Challon son, just a cousin. Unwanted by his grandfather. He was half Scot, and yet this land was strange to him. He wanted to vanquish this restless, hungry spirit within―to belong somewhere. He wanted what Julian had―love, a home, a future. Someone waiting for him to come to bed.

  He wanted Aithinne.

  She alone could give him for what his soul yearned.

  His eyes were drawn to the door where she rested. Was she asleep, or was the redheaded harridan waiting to hear his steps pass by? Mayhap someone waited for him after all.

  With a smile, he started to take a step toward her room, only to have raised voices at the bottom of the stairs distract his attention. The small hairs prickled at the back of his neck, causing his warrior’s skills to take over. Stepping so he was cloaked by the deep shadows, he looked down the stairwell to the floors below. Several of Julian’s men were passing, coming from the Great Hall and heading out of the lord’s tower. Talking, chuckling, enough to be heard, yet just at a level where most of the words were indistinguishable. They laughed at some jest, and then moved on past.

  One lingered. Dirk Pendegast. He paused at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the newel post, looking upward, as if trying to decide something.

  Damian’s hand went to the hilt of his sword without conscious thought, his warrior’s instinct happening involuntarily. If Dirk so much as put a foot on the first step he was dead before he reached the third one. The torches on either side of the sta
irs illuminated the hard planes of Pendegast’s face. A face a woman might mistakenly find comely―until it was too late.

  After Julian took the three holdings, he ordered Dirk and the other men who attacked Tamlyn tied to the post in the ballium and given a hundred lashes. Pendegast was lucky Julian had not killed him, so great was his offense. As Damian stared down at the cold, empty eyes, he feared Dirk had not learnt his lesson. An oily taste filled his stomach, as he realized he held his breath, ready to strike.

  Finally, with one last inimical look, the man moved on. Something in his manner spoke to Damian. Whatever poison that fouled Pendegast’s mind would only grow worse. He bore the taint of madness. Uneasy, he glanced to the stairs. Both Moffet and Gervase slept in the hallway leading to the lord’s chamber. They would protect Challon and Tamlyn.

  Turning, his eyes went to the door where Aithinne slumbered. No one slept as sentry before her chamber. She had not even brought a lady’s maid with her, so none else would be resting in the room. Even if there had been someone, he would not trust her to be capable of defending Aithinne. If he admitted it, he would not depend on anyone but himself to see to the lady of Coinnleir Wood.

  He smiled. “Ah, the sacrifice. The code of chivalry says a knight must protect his lady. If she shan’t have me in her bed, then I shall have to make a pallet on the floor.” With a last look down the stairwell, he went to play guard.

  Aithinne jerked up in the bed when he pushed the door open. Wearing only a thin chemise, so sheer, it was nearly his undoing. The dark circles of her breasts were clearly outlined against the pale material, bringing a wolfish grin to him, as he noticed how those crests became more defined the nearer he came to the bed. Even in the firelight, he saw her blush as she tugged the wolf pelt cover to her chest. Her long hair had been plaited, the braid hung over her right shoulder and down to the bed.

  Her wide-eyed expression lent her an air of innocence. He knew that was a lie. Aithinne, his mistress of deceits. Only, as he looked at her he could not breathe, let alone care what she was hiding from him. He just needed her.