Taking point, he raised his right hand. A flip of two fingers signaled the formed host to advance to the Scottish stronghold…and his waiting destiny.
Lasher’s prancing gait shifted the woman side-to-side, her long legs creating friction on his thighs. Worse, the positions of their bodies in the deep seat of the war saddle sent his mind awhirl with dark, erotic images of them together, naked. Heat flooded his flesh with potent cravings, so sharp they were a knife to his gut. The depths of these reactions to this Scots female were disturbing. Muscles along his jaw flexed, as Julian did his best to dismiss them.
On the far tòrr a wooden cross burned. The height of seven men, its black pitch smoke curled high into the loch breeze, rising and spiraling into the Highland fog.
Julian leaned his head close against hers. His chest tightened, as all around him seemed to fade to grey. There was only her. He inhaled her haunting fragrance, fought the urge to bury his face in the bronze tresses. Blinking to resist the spell, he asked, “Pray tell, what be that, my fool?”
“Cross Tàradiach—Fiery Cross. A signal to all that Glenrogha be at peril. Even if your knights intercepted the rider dispatched to Kinloch, they espy the cross burning high atop Dunstrathraven Tòrr. So does Clan Ogilvie.”
“For all it serves Glenrogha. The fortress cannot stand.” Julian stated with complete assurance of success. Reining Lasher at the rise of the knoll, he stared upon the corbelled broch and the newer flanking towers surrounded by the vitrified stone walls of Glenrogha. “God’s teeth, what means of bastion is that?”
“My ancestors—the Picts—built that battlement. You shan’t find the parapets can be breached, nor will sapping see success. The whole fortress rests upon cliffs of solid stone. Despite the upper part being wood, ramparts are set upon solid walls the thickness of four men’s lengths and half as high. Boulders, rock and sand were stabilized by huge beams of black oak and covered with massive amounts of fuel, then set afire. Burned over a fortnight, it did. Stone melted, melded, so what you see be clinkered. The Elders speak that salient has existed since the time before St. Columba came to Alba’s shores. The corbelled broch is older still.”
His smile held a trace of satisfaction as his eyes assessed the curtain, searching out strengths and vulnerabilities. “The gates are wood. No true defendable portcullis. A strong foundation for ramparts serves naught if the gates are pregnable.”
He glanced to the banneret on his left and nodded once. The high-ranking knight put a gold spur to his steed, setting the animal to a lazy lope to the outer wall.
Stirring on the boulevard was evident. Nevertheless, the men-at-arms stayed behind the protection of the wall, fear and respect for the deadly range of the Welsh longbowmen.
The messenger rode to the wall and called for all to hear. “Who answers for Glenrogha?” Full of barely controlled spirit, his snow-colored charger pranced sideways in a flashy display, the flag-of-truce snapping in the spring breeze.
A woman wearing a plaide strode to the edge of the rampart and stepped up on the banquette. “Rowanne of Lochshane speaks for Glenrogha this day.”
“A woman?” The knight gave scorn at the notion. “Where is the captain of the guard? Prefer I to confer with a man.”
“Southron knave, you stand in Alba, land of the Picts. Here women can hold the honours of our birthright.” Her blonde hair swirled in the breeze like a warrior’s pennant.
“Then I needs must parlay with the Lady Tamlyn MacShane. I carry tides from the earl of Challon and Torqmond.”
She scoffed, “’Tis spake the king’s champion rides an ebony stallion, darker than your Devil’s soul, named Pagan. I shall speak with the Lord Challon—not his page.”
Julian shifted hands: the left one gripped the reins now also pressed against the woman’s belly, leaving his right free to lightly rest on the hilt of his sword. All eyes were on them as he nudged the mount forward, guiding the pitch destrier with his knees and clicking sound of his tongue. The animal danced from the rank of the avant-garde and to the fore of the curtain wall.
“This day I ride Lasher, not his brother, Pagan. Heartfelt felicitations, Rowanne of Lochshane. We did so miss your lovely presence there yestereve,” Julian taunted. He deemed the new experience of dealing with a woman being in charge of a fortress thought provoking. Long ago, he had learnt how to read men, knowing the words they said and what they thought were oft entirely different. With a female, he was not so sure.
“Why has Longshanks sent forth his mighty firedrake to this wee humble dun? We are but a small Scottish demesne and remain peaceful in these times of troubles.”
“But not thy sire at Kinmarch. The laird of Clan Shane supports the Scottish king, Balliol, in his rising. A mooncalf’s choice.”
“My lord father follows a mind of his own. Lochshane, Glenrogha and Kinloch remain separate from Kinmarch by Rite of Line.”
“That no longer holds truth, my lady. Bear I Writ of Attainder from Edward, king of all England, lord of Ireland, duke of Guyenne and Lord Protector of Scotland. Henceforth, all honours of the Ogilvies and Shanes of Glen Shane are forfeit by acts of lèse-majesté. I now hold charter and rule here as the new lord and earl.”
“You have strayed far past the Marches. Your king holds no power here,” Rowanne bit back.
“Under suzerainty, word of the Lord Paramount becomes law. Learn to accept this. Your sire foolishly rose to Balliol’s standard, thus Edward decrees all lands and titles seized.”
“Even if you use this so-called proclamation to claim Kinmarch, the three fortresses of the sisters do not belong to my lord father. Look around, Lord Challon. None here be in rebellion,” Rowanne countered, not backing down one measure. “Daughters of The Shane rally to the standard of no man.”
“Bootless arguments aside—I needs must trade words with the Lady Tamlyn to see transfer of rule is done in peace. I hold little taste for futile spillage of Scots blood,” he pressed.
Rowanne stared down at the two people on the midnight charger, seeming to make up her mind on how to answer. With a tilt to her head, she spoke in a level voice. “Our Tamlyn be no’ within these walls.”
“Might I suggest you permit our entry? A runner can be dispatched with call for your lady sister,” Challon offered, a trace of mischief filtering through his deep voice.
“Och, you and you alone, Lord Dragon, may enter Glenrogha. Come and we shall bid you ceud mìle fàilte.” One hundred thousand welcomes.
With a lift of the black brows, he cautioned, “Judging me as a fool, Lady Rowanne, be a grave mistaking. ’Tis unwise to bait a dragon.”
“I decline your generous offer, Lord Challon. Tamlyn kens your trespass. Only she may grant leave for the gates to reopen. Until she says different, you and your grand fine knights needs must remain without.”
The heavy rise and fall of his armoured chest pushed against the spine of the woman before him. Impatience surged through his body. She could feel it pulse with his every breath, for she turned to look at his face. The shortness of temper reflected in his demand. “Where might the countess of Glenrogha be found?”
“I am no’ certain. No one was informed where she went. Like our lord father, she has a mind of her own. And no’ oft a wise one, mind.” Rowanne paused, once again, her eyes studying the woman before him. “May I, Lord Dragon, beg a boon? Humbly, I appeal for release of the lass held before you. Though dressed in garb of a serf, she be of noble blood. ’Twould prove muckle difficult if anything improper happened to her.”
“’Tis hard to turn down a request from so beautiful a lady. Still, I think it best this fool remain under my protection.” As if emphasizing his words and possession, his arm flexed about the woman. “Naught shall threaten the demoiselle.”
The baroness’s eyes flashed fire. “Even from this distance my gaze espies spoil already done under your noble care.”
“Not by my hand. Ask her,” he granted.
Lady Rowanne’s stare remained fixed on his fool
. Inclining her head slightly in reply, the woman indicated that he spoke truth.
“Naught else shall occur to her. This I so swear upon my troth as the earl of Challon.”
“I warn you, Sasunnach, if the lass be harmed in any fashion, one night you shall waken with a sgian dubh cutting your Norman gullet…take that as my bond.”
“Shall I send in my brother as hostage, a guarantee for her safety?” Caprice flashed through him, and he could not stop his smile from forming. He glanced to the knight immediately to his left. “Sir Guillaume of Challon would gladly offer himself as surety. Is that not so, banneret?”
His brother’s eyes raked slowly over the baroness. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, my lord. ’Twould be my pleasure to serve the Lady Rowanne.”
Lady Lochshane tugged the plaide ruana snugly over her breasts, clearly rattled by his brother’s arrogant stare. With a tilt of her chin, she dismissed him as beneath notice. “Gracious thanks for your grand offer, but I think the answer remains nay. I prefer all your bonnie knights remain on that side of the curtain.”
“Very well. I grant you until the morrow to summon your lady sister. If she is not here to empower the gates to swing wide, I shall commence siege. The force within—so sorely depleted by your sire’s call for fighting men—shan’t hold against my host. Take that as my bond.”
Not lingering for a reply, he spurred his stallion into a prancing trot back over the knoll to his waiting van, followed strides behind by his brother. Once Guillaume drew alongside of him, he spoke his commands. "Food and rest be needed by all. See the troops to ease. Give orders for the tents to be set and a hot meal prepared. Put the squires to care of the cattle."
With a flashing grin, his brother nodded, and then set off to see Julian’s will carried out.
Clutching the high square pommel of the saddle, the woman turned to glance back at Glenrogha, clearly terrified what the future would bring now the Black Dragon had come to claim all.
Chapter Three
Is leàm fhein a gleann, ’s gash t à ann.
(This glen be mine, and all that’s in it.)
— Auld Scots Adage
Fearful, Tamlyn’s nails bit into the saddle pommel, as Julian Challon spurred his black steed to the rear of the long columns, past the Heavy Horses and soldiery. Once out of sight, he reined the powerful stallion to halt beside the small burn fed from Loch Shane Mòhr. He swung his leg back over the high cantle, descending easily for a man in heavy armour and mail.
Reaching up, he placed his hands about Tamlyn’s waist. He paused, his eyes narrowing on her flesh exposed by the ripped sark. Almost transfixed, he brushed the sword-toughened thumb against her soft skin. Her belly quivered, scorched by his warlock’s touch.
The Kenning oft permitted Tamlyn to read feelings in others. This time, his thoughts sang out clearly. Some fey cobweb brushed against his mind, warmth both exciting and discomforting to him in the same heartbeat. Then, a steel shutter within him fell, and she no longer shared that connection. Withdrawal of that tentative bond left her feeling bereft, alone as she had never felt before. Tamlyn blinked back tears.
He swung her free of the saddle. Bringing her body close to his, touching, rubbing in places, he let her slide against him until her feet touched ground. Her heart slammed in her chest, as her eyes locked with his. She could not draw air. The shard of time spun out, as they both seemed unable to move. Gradually, he lowered his head, as if he were going to kiss her. She saw the muscles flex in his jaw as he fought the compulsion. Irritation flashed in the green depths of his eyes, then he wheeled away from her.
Flipping the reins over the horse’s neck, he permitted the animal to drink. He pulled a cloth out from under the black breastplate, leaned down to dip it in the water, and then strode back to her. Fingers deft, compassionate, he took hold of her chin and dabbed at the blood crusted around the edge of her nose. The gentle contact hardly seemed capable of belonging to a warrior, let alone the mighty Black Dragon.
Tamlyn stiffened, fighting pressure to shrink away from this dark earl. Odd. Though he terrified her, it was not precisely fear she felt. She struggled to prevent him from witnessing how her body trembled due to his warmth, his closeness, his scent. The raw, palpable power exuded by this unusual man proved more daunting than all his tall knights combined. Small wonder he stood as a legend amongst men.
His eyes met hers with vague indifference, proclaiming her no more than a riddle that plagued him only in passing. Mayhap the arrogant earl contemplated if she had scales upon her belly and breasts. She shrugged. Indifference had not lit his eyes a few heartbeats ago. He had wanted to kiss her. Tamlyn did not need The Kenning to tell her that. And counter to all logic, she wished him to do so, to close his mouth over hers with a deep, driving hunger that gnawed at the pit of her belly.
Freed from the mashing confines of the metal coif, the black hair pushed away from his skull in thick waves. Bluish glints highlighted the soft locks stirred by the gentle breeze.
Despite what his coming meant, she found the Lord Challon compelling. That angered her. Curse this beautiful warrior! Damn his near flawless, angelic countenance! Why had The Fates been so cruel to send this intriguing man to face her as foe? With a true measure of regret, Tamlyn could merely wonder how meeting him as friend instead of enemy might have been. Wisps of a dream. But they were enemies. Naught could alter that simple reality. Only, hating him would be easier if he were not so...attractive.
Swallowing, Tamlyn summoned courage to speak. “I tend thanks for rescuing me.”
He gave a slight nod, then changed the subject, as if he did not wish to dwell upon the incident. “The Lady Rowanne is beautiful. Seems for once court gossip did not exaggerate. Edward oft promoted matches for the sisters to English nobles. One incentive for resettling northward, entailing more taxes, was tales of the ladies’ beauty.”
“Aye, she be a bonnie lass.” Jealousy fluttered in her chest over this man deeming her sister beautiful.
Challon paused from cleaning her nose. His dark eyes skimmed over her features, pausing at the faint cleft in her chin. His thumb brushed across it as though he thought it a smudge of dust. When he found it was not, he rubbed the pad across the tiny dip several times. “And the Lady Tamlyn...be she as comely in face and form?”
Panic rippled through her body as he spoke her name. “’Tis muckle hard to judge. The daughters of The Shane are different. Very different.”
“’Tis said the baronesses are twins.”
“In faces their sameness ’tis apparent. But Raven is Celtic dark, whilst Rowanne is Norse fair.”
“Then, that was the darker sister standing behind the Lady Lochshane?”
Tamlyn felt the heady pull of his ensorcelling eyes. She had to blink to concentrate upon his words. “Aye, ’twas Raven of Kinloch.”
“And the Lady Tamlyn? Be she as pleasing to the eye?”
“Whether she be swart hag or lovely maid, you come to steal her holding. Should she be humpbacked or have warts upon her nose it would make no difference to you,” she accused, scared of his quest for knowledge of Tamlyn. Did he suspect? Was he a big cat playing games of illusion with the doomed mousie?
“Does the lady bear warts?” A hint of a smile toyed at the edge of the too sensual mouth.
“Aye, three and a big hairy mole on her cheek—a mark of Satan, some folk whisper.”
She heard Normans feared the Auld Ways, their Pope preaching they were wonts of the Devil. Silly nonsense! Lucifer was their invention, a bogeyman to frighten gullible minds from straying from the kirk. Still, if these ignorant English were so easily spooked, then such was their lot and an advantage to exploit. A woman wisely seized and used whatever weapons were at her disposal.
Searching his bonnie features Tamlyn tried to fit his male perfection and sensuality to the name of the Dragon of Challon. Her heart thudded erratic, rapid, as he lured her with his dark magic. She had trouble masking this unwanted reaction
to the enigmatic lord.
Long, sooty lashes batted over his devilkin eyes. “The hump? Poor woman...she be so sorely afflicted?”
“Nay, but her spine is twisted, so she hipples. ’Tis muckle sad.”
“Strange,” doubt laced his tone, “court gossip seems to falter in this instance. Jongleurs regale the third daughter of The Shane is as lovely as the elder two.”
“Folk at Glenrogha love her. They wouldst never shame her pride. No looking glass or polished-plate be permitted within the tower. Poor lass, she does no’ ken her homely, kenspeckled state.” Mayhap she was piling it on a bit, and it would likely return later to haunt her. Even so, she could not leash her wayward tongue.
“Such loyal subjects.” He pressed the cold cloth against her reddening cheek. “I hope these tenderhearted villeins serve me as true.”
♦◊♦
Anger flared within Julian’s mind. Nothing as finely molded as this woman’s face should be touched in such harsh disregard. His knights would pay with the skin off their backs and count themselves fortunate he had caught them in time. Had they raped her, he would have seen them hanged.
“Such tales of her ugliness fail to ring true. I sense you play games, my fool. Mayhap you are jealous of the lady’s appeal, hmm?”
“Wrong, Sasunnach. She holds naught for me to envy.” Her eyes moved past him to the dark sky near Kinmarch. Fear shadowed her face. Her voice quavered. “May I beg answer of you? Word came of the siege and that...The Shane were...dead.”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 3
