“What are you doing here, Lord RavenHawke?” She tried to sound chiding, aloof.
“Take off your chemise, Aithinne.” He began unbuckling his baldric.
“Go kiss the backside of your destrier, my lord,” she snapped, her nostrils flaring slightly.
Whether it was with rising desire or anger he was not sure. Mayhap a mix of both.
“The command worked last time,” he pointed out, grinning. “Ah, my lady plays hard to get this night. Fair enough. That being the nature of things, I thought you might be in need of a bed warmer.”
“The night be soft, not cold, my lord. So you may hie yourself on down the hall―or to the stable,” she fussed.
“True, it is not cold.” He leaned the sheathed sword against the wall, within reach from the bed, then sat on the edge of it. “But sometimes, there is another cold that touches people, Aithinne. It comes from being lonely. Are you ever lonely, lass?”
He saw such sadness, such longing in her eyes, before she pulled her knees to her chest and looked away. His heartbeat dropped to a low thud, her pain becoming his.
“Please…” came her whispered reply.
“Please what, Firebrand? That is what your name means, does it not?” Lifting the long braid, he toyed with it. “I think the name fits you well. You have a rather fiery temper and―”
Her head jerked up, the sadness still there so tangible that it was nearly a living force between them. “If you say freckles…I will…will kick you.”
Damian chuckled, though everything within him wanted to soothe her pain, to bring a smile to her beautiful face. “Freckles? Ah, my lady, you are sensitive about them? Even in the bright sunlight I hardly notice them. By candlelight I cannot see them a’tall.”
“Do not laugh at me, Damian St. Giles, or I will…will―”
He reached out and lifted her chin with his crooked finger. “I do not laugh at you. Freckles have divine possibilities, Firebrand. Such as—since you have freckles in one spot―your nose―then you might have at least one or two…or three…elsewhere. A man might spend half a night hunting for them.” Might spent his lifetime, he wanted to say, but feared she was not of a mind to hear that yet. “Since I am suddenly quite captivated by freckles, it wouldst be a quest worthy of a knight of Challon.”
Aithinne crossed her arms, and buried her head against her knees. “Oh, go away,” came the muffled request.
Still playing with her braid, he chuckled. “Cry and you will have puffy eyes and a big red nose come morn. Likely, your freckles will stand out more.”
“I could grow to hate you, St. Giles.” Her hazel eyes lashed daggers at him. The words might have had some force if her chin had not quivered.
He traced the faint cleft in her chin with the side of his thumb. Some might consider that slight dip a flaw in the perfection of her beauty. Not him. It made her more real. Emotions overwhelmed him, as he knew without doubt he stared into the face which had haunted his dreams for years, that kept him clinging to life when he was ready to give up because his whole existence had been hollow. He needed more to his life, wanted roots, a home, more sons like Moffet. Mayhap a daughter with those ensorcelling eyes.
“Hate me?” He shook his head no. “You resent that I have come into a life where you had final say in all. Now, I tell you how things will be. You do not like that. You have been used to doing as you please for too long. Give it time, Aithinne. We will learn to work together for the good of Glen Eallach. You will do what is right for your people. So will I. They are now my people. When you come to trust that―trust me―maybe you will also trust me with the secrets you guard so jealousy.”
She looked away.
“Coward,” he chuckled.
Her head snapped back. “I am no coward.”
She started to slap him, but his quick reflexes caught her wrist before it made contact with his face. Grinning, he let her struggle against his hold. Then, he forced her palm down inside his sark’s opening to the center of his chest where his heart beat. “I warned you, Firebrand, about trying to hit me. What would happen.”
Distracted by the pounding under her hand, she stared where her palm met his flesh, in thrall by the magic rising between them. Then, her eyes batted as she recalled what he said would be the punishment if she ever tried to strike him again. Aithinne attempted to pull back as if she had been scalded, but he refused to let her go.
“I am sorry,” she whispered the apology.
He laughed out loud. “That, I do not believe.”
Her smile tried to slip out. “Very well, I am no’ sorry. But I do wish you would go away.”
“I do not believe that, either. Your body puts lie to those words.” He brushed the back of his hand lightly against the dark circle of her breast, where it pressed against the thin material with each shallow breath she drew. She shuddered. “As your body becomes aroused, it speaks to me with its changes. No words are needed between us, Aithinne. Words can lie. This does not.”
He covered her mouth with his, giving her no chance of protesting. He was not being fair. Fair be damned. This night, he wanted to be with her, to hold her through the long shadows of darkness, feel her heart beating next to his, and awaken in the warm glow of dawn with her in his arms. He was a warrior. Anytime he went into battle, he waged war to win. The war he played out on the plane of her bed was little different. He wanted to conquest Aithinne’s heart, take her hostage and never let her go. Mayhap, he would tie her up and tickle her with a peacock feather until she surrendered, and yielded all her secrets as well as her body.
Something about peacocks trigged drunken images to float through his mind. He recalled there were no peacocks at Glen Shane. There were some at Glen Eallach, though. What had led him to the tower room at Lyonglen that first night? He had meant to examine why the remembrance bothered him, but Aithinne had entered the chamber and he had told her to take off her clothes. Then, his mind had suddenly forgotten all about peacocks.
This time was no different. She muddled his thoughts.
Breaking the kiss, Damian gasped for breath. His eyes searched hers. Words floated on the night air, so he made them his own. “Half-measures never see the deed done, Aithinne.”
He heard the small hitch in her breath and knew he had struck a chord within her. Yet, once again, his mind little cared for riddles as he stared at this pagan enchantress. The candlelight made her eyes seem to glow. Intelligent, penetrating, they held a power, a pull. Their directness might unsettle some men. Men too weak to accept the challenge flashing in their hazel depths. His mother had whispered tales of the Cait Sidhe, a race of witch women of the Picts. Lore said they possessed the power to assume the form of a cat under the rays of the full moon. He recalled Challon saying the women of Tamlyn’s clan were descended from such females. As he stared at Aithinne he found it easy to believe she was some magical creature touched by the blood of the Fae―a witch. A woman a man would kill to possess.
She provoked his warrior’s blood. The need to conquer her flooded his mind until he could no longer think. Only beg. “Touch me, Aithinne.”
For several heartbeats she did not stir. Then the corner of her mouth twitched as she rose up on her knees and moved closer. “Touch you how, my lord?”
“Any manner you wish. Burn me with your fire, Aithinne.”
She pushed at his shoulders. “Get off the bed, my lord, you have too many clothes on.”
He watched her for a second, wondering if she was trying to trick him. His inner voice told him to take the chance. Trusting it, he slid off the bed and stood.
Aithinne’s legs slipped off the bed, coming to stand behind him, her soft hands snaking around his waist to reach for the hem of his sark to pull it over his head. So damn slow, he had to grit his teeth at the ghostly friction upon his skin. He barely breathed until she tugged it off and tossed it to the floor. Molding her body against his bare back, she ran her hands around and up his chest and then slowly down to unlace his chausses. As the d
eft fingers nearly drove him to madness, he took over undoing them.
With a throaty purr, she slapped at his hands and then nipped his back. Damian smiled and let her continue her game. She pressed her soft breasts to the curve of his spine, whilst like an idiot, he balanced on one foot to undo the cross-lacings on each boot in turn, then kicked out of them. She was already shoving down the leathern hose, allowing him to step out of them. With another rumble in her chest, she brought her hands up the outside of his thighs, nails lightly scoring his flesh.
Her questing hands slid around his waist, one going up so the first finger could encircle his flat nipple, the other going down, to the soft sack between his legs. She squeezed gently, causing his staff to buck painfully. Damian leaned his head back, closing his eyes, to ride the edge of the pain pleasure threshold she brought to him.
“Is this how you wished to be touched, my lord?”
He smiled in delicious agony as she wickedly added a pinch to the nub on his chest. It sent lightning arcing through his body to explode in his groin. Sensations he never before experienced as Aithinne’s magical touch made it all new for him.
Spinning around, he caught her waist. She did not resist him. Instead her mouth met his, opening to taste him once more. Slanting his head for a better angle, he pressed his advantage. Hungry for all she could give him. Control―if there had ever been such a thing―shattered as the kiss went on. And on. He heard a low moan―her moan―felt it through his skin and every drop of blood. Took it within him and made it his own. Deepening the contact, he issued the primitive male demand for her submission. Now.
His hands roamed over the swollen breasts, toyed with her nipples until her breathing was ragged, wheezing. Damian smiled, arrogant, happy, determined. He pushed her back on the bed, then covered her with his burning body. Never had the primal urge to mate torn through him with such savage force, proclaiming this woman was his.
Aithinne was more than he ever dared hope for, even in his darkest dreams, a woman with the power to make those dreams a reality.
The magic was voracious, like a forest fire consuming all in its path.
What he felt for her terrified him. But by damn, he would possess her, own her. Kill anyone who tried to take her from him.
The passion burned so bright the explosion came quickly, then immediately seared them all over again, pushing him to take her again and again.
Aithinne…Firebrand. Aye, she had branded him.
In her bed, he was no longer alone.
Chapter Seventeen
So gloomy gloomy was the night
And eerie was the way.
— Ballad of Tamlin
Aithinne spent the better part of the morning hiding in her room. Two reasons. The most pressing one was her sour stomach. The smells of cooking from belowstairs had set her to scurrying for the chamber pot at first light. Fortunately, Damian had already gone to break his fast before the urgency hit her. The other reason she remained―she was not ready to face the arrogant man again after last night.
The door opened and she jumped, fearing it was Damian. Only Auld Bessa strolled in. “I fetched you a tansy, lass, and some dried apples. It’ll ease the morning sickness.”
It did not surprise Aithinne the old woman knew about the babe without being told. A healer, a witch, she was one of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, women who watched over and cared for the people of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Bessa, Oona and Evelynour were her teachers, showing her how to use The Kenning, and instructing her in the ways of herbs and plants.
“Ravens carry messages from Annwn―the Otherworld―for those wise enough to hear. Your soul kens this dark warrior. Hiding away in your room will no’ change that, lass.”
Aithinne frowned, trying to avoid speaking of him. “You prattle riddles, Bessa. I do no’ ken who you mean.”
Bessa clucked her tongue, sounding out her disbelief. “These Dragons of Challon be worthy of reflection, child.”
“Bessa, he confuses my mind.”
“But no’ your body?” Bessa chuckled, shaking her head. “Tamlyn spake nearly the same words the first time I brought up the Black Earl to her. Through the long days of my life I have seen the faces of many a warrior, and looked into their hearts. Some were good men. Some needed killing where they stood. These men of Challon possess courage and fire. They be a breed rare. Their comin’ be the will of the Auld Ones, a blessing from them. Seven seasons past, the laird of Kinmarch sought auguries about a man―one he called the Dragon. He felt in his heart this man would make a braw husband for our Tamlyn.”
“The Earl Hadrian thought Challon and Tamlyn wouldst make a good match?” The tides surprised Aithinne.
“Aye, Evelynour foretold with the first awakenings of springtide a dark warrior would come to Glen Shane. Challon. His life threads are woven with Tamlyn’s―there be no turning back for either of them. Only, the visions were confused at first, hard for our seer to understand. Slowly they became clearer. There were two men, not one. One who wrapped himself in the shade of the ravens. Another who came with the color of fog.”
This night is our Beltaine. Great magic rises. It touches your cousin Tamlyn at Glenrogha, and like the reflection of a mirror, it affects your life, as well.
“Oona spake as much to me on May Day,” she admitted.
“Aye, the men be similar, women similar. Each pair charged with protecting our glens, our way of life here. A time of trial be at hand. You lasses need strong helpmates to see what needs to be done, to fight for you, protect you.”
“Mayhap. Only, the path for Tamlyn and the path I must tread be different.” Aithinne’s heart burned. Challon loved Tamlyn. Aye, very different.
“Sometimes, lass, we make things more thorny by our fashin’ over what might be, rather than facing what is. Let life happen. Accept it.”
“If only it were that easy, Bessa. If only…”
“Mayhap it be that simple.”
Aithinne watched the witch go, despair rising within her.
Last night hurt her in ways she could not begin to understand. She loved Damian. And because she loved him, she could see that she had little sense or willpower where he was concerned. Oh, she was full of righteous plans on how to handle him, how to keep her distance.
Each time she was with him, the stronger the urges grew in her foolish heart to throw reason away and caution to the wind. She wanted a life with this arrogant man, and it was becoming clear, she little cared what the cost would be. That only made her deceit about the child growing within her womb all the more damning.
In the night, she held nothing back from him, gave him everything he asked, and more. Now in the cold light of day, she regretted her wanton ways. She made everything too easy for the vexing man. From the very start she had felt a bond to him, knew that she had given away a piece of her soul to the stranger in her bed. Wrapped up in the passion they shared, she had lain with him with love in her heart. Oh, how she loved this proud, beautiful, aggravating man!
No matter which way she turned, she could only see the devastating consequences to come, feared them. She felt the need to confess her lies, her tricks she used in stealing him from his life, using him to get her with his child. Just as she summoned courage enough to tell him, she recalled the look on his face when he spoke of Moffet’s birth, and how he had been deceived―betrayed. The complete coward, she tried to imagine if she just never told him. He made it clear he did not believe her assertion about marrying Gilchrest for the sake of Lyonglen. What will he think about her turning up with a bairn, especially one that bears the clear stamp of Challon, as all these men seem to do?
“He will never accept a second immaculate conception,” she muttered, then shivered.
Noises from the bailey drew her to the narrow window. Confused, she saw people running toward the stables. Shortly after, Challon came out carrying a bundle wrapped in his mantle. From the long hair, Aithinne judged it to be Tamlyn that he held.
Not pausing, she
rushed out of the room and down the staircase, meeting Challon carrying her cousin up the steps. Damian was right behind him. Grim of face, he hesitated for a breath, stared at her with such pain, then pushed by her and up to the landing of the lord’s tower without a word.
Pausing at the first landing, Damian barked at one of the maidservants. “Send for Auld Bessa, the healer. Now!” The young woman bobbed a curtsey and nearly ran to do his bidding.
“Damian, what happened?” She caught his arm, as he nearly pushed past as if he did not see her. “What happened? Tamlyn? Be she all right?”
He tried to say something, but frowned. Without a word, he set her from his path and rushed up to the lord’s chamber.
“Men!” She stomped her foot, and then headed to the third floor after him. The door at the end of the hall was half open so she entered on Damian’s heels.
“I called for the healer.” Damian informed Challon. “I saw her about this morn, so she should be easy to find.”
Aithinne moved farther into the room. “I be a healer, as well, Lord Challon. Let me see to Tamlyn until Auld Bessa be fetched. What happened?”
Challon rounded on her, fury in his dark green eyes. “Where the hell were you?”
Aithinne backed up a step, hit by the full redoubtable power of the Black Dragon and unsure why he was angry with her. “I…I…was in my room, my lord.”
“Why were you not with her? You and your damn Kenning. Why did you not foresee this…stop this? What good are these powers if you cannot prevent bad from befalling you?” His accusation lashed at her.
Without thought, her hand reached for her amulet to steady herself against the wave of black despair and fury breaking over her. “I...sorry...I...”
“Julian, there was a guard with Tamlyn. He could do naught to prevent what happened. I know not what you thought a woman could to do. So do not blame Aithinne. You are just looking for a target to vent your misplaced anger. Save it for the one who deserves it.” Damian glared at his cousin.
RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Page 21
