He wanted to fling the cloth aside and allow his hands to slide over every inch of her golden skin. His eyes were drawn to the pale breasts bobbing just under the water. Their seductive sway raised a shiver to crawl up his neck and across his scalp.
Taking it slow with this pagan witch just might kill him.
Fighting the dizziness brought on by her scent, Julian exhaled. “The visit to a church full of pagan carvings was...ah...enlightening.”
Tamlyn’s lilting laughter burst forth. “Och, shelia-na-gigs. Aye, ’twas surely that.”
Julian thought back upon the carvings of females exposing their genitals, and shook his head, still having a hard time accepting it. “I fear I am unused to seeing pagan fertility symbols within a Christian church.”
When the rag roved to the front of her shoulder—and oh so casually downward toward her breast—her hands locked on his wrist, preventing farther encroachment. “I can manage the rest, Lord Challon.”
He leaned close, whispering against her ear, “Think hard upon all the delights you deny us.”
When she did not relent, he dropped the cloth into the water with a plop, and moved to pour himself a goblet of wine. Leaning his hips back against the table, he sipped the drink and watched her. Tamlyn had no idea how deeply she provoked him. A more experienced woman would use those powers to try to bend him to her will.
Julian was not a patient man. Used to his word being obeyed, rarely had he ever turned his mind to compromise. Yet, he asked it of Tamlyn. For a bargain to be reached, peace made, it would take both of their efforts. Only, sexual tension was playing havoc with his logic.
He wanted her now.
This past year his life had been stagnant, guilt over Christian’s death devouring his soul. For the first time since Wales, he was forward-looking, eager to begin his life here. Reawakening of his desires for a home and family were so strong that the need for self-control was almost painful. He had made mistakes with Tamlyn already. No more.
“Are you going to remain?” she asked.
Julian could tell Tamlyn waited for him to leave so she could get out of the tub. Suppressing a smile, he almost laughed at her dark glower. Tamlyn was not passing fond of patience either.
He smirked inside, and yet, kept his expression indifferent. “You shall prune and shrivel like an old woman if you stay in there much longer.”
She reminded him of a wet cat ready to hiss. “If you would hand me that drying cloth?” She indicated the blanket of baize on the long bench.
Acting as if he saw it for the first time, he picked it up. “This?”
“Could you fetch it to me?” When he did not move, she snapped, “Amadán.”
Julian moved closer. Still out of reach. Holding it chest high, he let the large sheet unfold. Those amber eyes spoke her fury, but he liked baiting her. In that instant, he realized being with Tamlyn made him happy. The sensation was so foreign that he almost failed to recognize it.
“Hand it to me...please.” It frayed the edge of her temper to tack on the please.
The right side of his mouth pulled into a sensual half smile. “A compromise, Tamlyn? I come half way—you come the rest of the distance.”
He stood holding it, as she considered simply outwaiting him, her stubbornness biting at her. The chill of the room caused her to shiver. Spring might be upon them, even so it was unseasonably cool for this time of year. Giving up the pretense of modesty, she rose from the tub. Water sluiced off her skin. She did not shrink, but threw her shoulders back, proud of her body, and only now beginning to understand the power it could hold over a man.
Julian felt gut-punched.
His game of playful torment now came back on him, as she turned the tables, her sensual beauty nearly driving all reason from his mind. He wanted her. Badly. The pounding of his blood was near blinding. Even so, he knew this craving went much deeper than mere urges of the body. He needed her. Still, in some fey fashion, he sensed she might be his salvation from the darkness, which consumed his mind.
He would kill for this woman. He would die for her.
She stepped from the tub and took the three paces to the sheet of wool, allowing him to wrap it around her. He did, ending with her in his arms. He leaned close, letting her feel the heat off his skin, the scent of his male body. He was visibly aroused. No way that she could fail to notice. Instead of pulling back from maidenly fear, she arched into him, so close.
He wanted to reach out and claim what was his, take her in a hundred ways, but he dare not. She had to accept him. If she did not come to him freely, willingly of mind and heart, something in him would die. The blackness would claim him and there would be nothing left.
He feared becoming as Edward. Since the death of his beloved Queen Eleanor, that small spark of humanity she instilled in the king had turned to cold ash, leaving nothing but hard-bitten cruelty. Julian would rather die than continue life headed down that same path.
Tamlyn was the sun at dawnbreak. She held the craft to drive away the black miasma devouring his soul. This woman was the beacon by which he could try to find something better in life.
Their bodies close, almost brushing, he let the confusing jumble of sexual desire and emotions spill over him, warmed by the magical radiance she exuded. After feeling dead inside for the last year, all these violent extremes were agonizing, almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes against the sheer torment she wrought upon his senses, and let her witchery storm through him.
Oh, please accept me, his soul whispered.
Opening his eyes, he swallowed the dryness in his throat, the muscles so corded it was hard to speak. “You need to sit by the fire. You shiver.”
Tamping down the ravenous desire, he helped her into the solar to sit on the bearskin throw before the fire. She watched him warily, as he added more peats, the blue flames spreading quickly.
“You have met my lord father.” It was not a question, but a statement. “Before you...”
Her voice broke, unable to finish the question. An arrow that pierced Julian’s heart. Pushing down the reaction, he concentrated on the chore of building the fire higher, and forced his thoughts to only that. The shadowy emptiness still raged within him, howling for her light, her warmth. He paused from adding the blocks of peat, and glanced at Tamlyn, staring at him with those luminous cat-eyes.
“Several seasons past.” He answered slowly. One of those forgotten shards of memory, really, the significance of their meeting in London suddenly took on a new dimension. Only now did he see the true import. The Earl Hadrian had considered a match. The older two daughters were still married at that point. It could have only been Tamlyn her lord sire had held in mind. “He had spake I should come to the Highlands for a stay, that I would find peace here. Did you know that?”
Stunned, she said nothing. The implication of his reply was not lost on her.
He had delivered her father—a man she obviously held in great esteem—to the enemy. How could one overcome that obstacle? Feeling pressure, regret, Julian jumped up and searched for anything to do, to keep his emotions under control. He tried not to infer too much into The Shane asking him to visit him and his family. Only, there was no way around it. The conclusion was unavoidable.
Nausea rolled in his stomach at the irony.
Well, he had come, but not as the Earl Hadrian had hoped. How different life would have been. Julian swallowed the pang of anguish in his soul. Tamlyn and he would have met in fellowship, instead of the strife of war. Without doubt, he knew he would’ve been captivated by her and wanted to possess her. They might have a son by now.
Instead, he had followed Edward to Wales and Christian had died. He wanted to throw back his head and howl his madness.
His throat was parched, but he dare not drink more wine. His emotions were too unstable around her, too rattled by this new turn of the screw. He needed all his wits.
Concentrating on the immediate, he fetched a comb for her hair. Figuring his mind w
ould best be occupied, he picked up his misericorde and the whetstone and carried them in as well.
She accepted the comb without word, and quietly began working tangles out of her hair. A safe distance away, he settled in the chair and pretended interest in sharpening the dagger, keeping at bay all these wild thoughts. The simple quiet moment, one which would chafe most men, yet was the precise thing missing from his life. They both seemed content in the amiable silence, leaving Julian to draw some small measure of hope from this shard of serenity.
♦◊♦
The hand holding the comb dropped as Tamlyn stared at the dark lord. She tried to come to terms with what Challon just told her. Her father had sought him out and asked him to come to Glen Shane. So, the laird had been considering this man in marriage for one of his daughters? Since both of her sisters were still wed, there could only be one conclusion: her father had been contemplating a marriage for her to Challon. These tides only echoed what Auld Bessa had told her about Evelynour’s vision.
Still, ’twas much to absorb. She loved her father dearly. He was a constant joy, and oh so handsome with his red hair and pale green eyes. All the females twittered and blushed in his presence. Fear over his fate ripped at her heart.
In spite of it all, Challon drew her so. Oh, much easier it would have been had he come seasons ago! Instead of arriving as friend, he came as conqueror, and delivered her lord father to the hateful English King.
She forced herself to speak. “My men...the ones in the oubliette...”
“They were never in the oubliette, Tamlyn,” he said quietly.
“But you told me—”
“I prodded your mind. They are held under guard in west tower. They fare well.” He regarded her with hooded eyes. “I am no ogre.”
“Just a dragon?” She offered a faint smile. Questions nearly inundated her mind. Worse, it was hard to think clearly when around him. “Your brothers―you spake they are to marry with my sisters. Will they make good husbands for them?”
He nodded. “My brothers may be bastard born, but none dare say ill word to me. They are good men, ones I put above all others. I paid dearly for dispensation for the marriages. Guillaume be calm and steady. He should suit the Lady Lochshane methinks. Destain is reckless in spirit, and loves to laugh, but when needed, he be a rock. The Lady Kinloch is serene, sensible, a good balance for him. I owe my brothers much in life. They chose to follow me, never gainsaid or challenged me. You lady sisters could find no better men to accept as their husbands. They will honor and treat them well.”
Tamlyn lowered her eyes to the comb in her hand, not seeing it, instead listening to what could not be heard. She loved her sisters and wanted their happiness ensured, wanted them protected from the ugliness of this world, and the wars made by man. The Kenning only whispered in tones of hope. She had to trust that inner voice. Accepting, she gave a small nod, more to herself than to Challon.
“You and I needs must seek resolve. You have a duty here to your people. They look to you for guidance. There comes a time when we choose for the whole, not for ourselves. Edward means to crush this rebellion, and the manner he wages war can be most foul.” Closing his eyes, his face turned ashen, as he seemed to walk through the Hell of his memories. “Pray, God, Edward does not deliver unto Glen Shane what he did at Berwick. Tamlyn, you have no idea just how ugly that fate can be.”
Tears welled in her eyes at his words. Aye, she did know. She was coming to understand this man, as she, too, had walked through his dreadful memories. The town of dying―it must be Berwick. What Challon had lived through.
That they shared this fey bond told her much.
Her mind summoned the images the beautiful lad who died in his arms. His younger brother. She choked on a sob, her heart mourning as she could see his horribly mangled body. No man so beautiful, so pure in spirit, should suffer such an end. No brother should have to face what Challon did to ease his passing. She shook with the crippling pain of that vision now forevermore burned into her mind, as strong as if she had been there, experienced it.
Challon surged from the chair, coming to his knees before her. The freshly sharpened dagger was in his hand. Obviously, he mistook her tears for his young brother as ones shed due to sorrow for her own situation.
“You don’t get the way of things, do you? I will stand between Edward and Glen Shane. I will be your shield.” He grabbed her hand and pushed the misericorde in it, wrapping his fingers around hers. Forcing her to hold it. “You want rid of me, Tamlyn? This be the weapon used to deliver the death stroke. Then do it! Here is your chance.”
Tamlyn stared into Challon’s eyes, drowning in his anguish, knowing she would sooner take the knife to herself than harm this man. That surety was staggering. So much had changed with his coming.
Her father’s destiny hung in the balance. The betrothals of his daughters, decided by a man not even their King. The fact she felt things for this warrior, their dark bond, was still too much.
She needed time to adjust.
His voice was harsh, “Go ahead, Tamlyn. Use the knife! What stops you?”
Tamlyn could barely see through the tears as she tried to drop the weapon. He would not let her. His hand closed around her squeezing tightly. She felt his body vibrate with the raw emotions as he tugged her hand and the dagger toward his bare chest, pointing the tip at the spot where his heart beat.
“Do it!” he barked.
She gasped in shock. She saw into his pain, recognized some dark part of Challon almost hoped she would use the knife to end his torment. His soul rotted with a foul blackness for far too long. His thoughts were so clear. To show him these glimpses of a possible future—a home, a wife and a son—and then to snatch it away, was just too much for his heart to bear.
This man’s sanity hung in the balance.
“Accept me or kill me. Here. Now.”
Oddly, The Kenning suddenly flooded her mind with images. Some coming so fast she could scarcely understand what she was seeing. Ancient rites, high on the hill. A balefire burning in the ring of sacred stones. Maids dressed in thin baize, with chaplets of flowers adorning their long, flowing hair. Men in mail and plate, standing at attention. A golden cup. Words intoned, but she could not make them out.
She sucked in air, fighting to breathe, unable to control the flashes of foretellings, and the sheer agony that was a living creature within this warrior. “You do not care if you die.” It was not a question, but a stating of what she knew from Challon’s mind.
“If I cannot have some measure of peace, a home, a family...” The words lodged in his throat. For the longest time they remained frozen. His eyes beseeching, seeming to ask something of her. Something only she could grant. He finally pleaded, “Say it.”
“My Lord...say what?” Tamlyn struggled to comprehend his words, too stunned by the depth of agony coiling within this man.
A man so mighty, a King’s Champion. Yet, if The Kenning was to be believed, only she could wield the special ability: the power to heal him.
“My name,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.
She reeled as more visions flashed through her mind—of the dark knight and the rose, the town of death and ravens, of his brother’s passing. So many things. Too many things. The black void of his soul sucked at her, and she had to fight against the near paralyzing anguish tearing this man apart. Her body trembled, his agony now hers.
“Is that so much to ask?” he begged.
Tamlyn tried to form an answer. She could not. The tableaus of visions, raced through her thoughts: the waterfall, scenes she little understood of a ground turned white by petals from flowering apples trees, a stag-man outlined against a huge bonfire. All the ugliness of Berwick. She could not respond to his simple wish. And still, more scenes came, the emotions nearly drowning her. Of his young brother, so like Challon, of them laughing together. Challon kneeling over the crumpled body. Then, him raising his sword high and driving it into the chest of the young man—Christian
—who was his mirror image, saving him from an agonizing, lingering death.
The howl of madness that seized Challon as the lifeforce departed the body on the ground.
“Baoth smuain.” Foolish thought. Julian jumped to his feet. Standing motionless, he closed his eyes tightly, as if he struggled to gather the frayed threads of his sanity.
So shaken by all the painful glimpses into his soul, Tamlyn tried to cast off the lethargy. She became aware he had pulled on his tabard and was leaving the room.
Through the tears, she called out, “Julian!”
Too late. The door closed.
Chapter Thirteen
Chan ann leis a’chiad bhuille thuiteas a’chraobh.
(’Tis not with the first stroke that the tree falls.)
— Auld Scottish Adage
Several times through the long night, Tamlyn roused.
Still, Challon did not return.
Tamlyn lost track of time’s passing. More than a little concerned about him after their earlier scene, she fought to stay awake. Exhaustion and the power of the tansy Bessa had brought her kept claiming her mind. Despite her fears, there were no dreams of the town of death. No knight on the black steed. No ravens crying in the fog.
Inexplicably, through insight into Julian Challon’s mind, she had found an odd peace within herself. Mayhap, after hearing his words and sensing his torment, he became less a legend and more a man.
She wanted to speak to him again, to tell him...what? That she possessed the ability to walk in his thoughts. That she could see and experience shards of his memories as strongly as if she had been there. Some did not understand this gift. Others thought it not a gift but a curse, and feared the women of the clan touched with The Kenning. How would this man react to that revelation? Would he believe her? She could make him accept with the knowledge she now held. On the other hand, once she achieved that aim, wouldst that summon revulsion within him toward the woman he wanted to claim for a lady wife? She barely knew him, yet that thought pierced her heart for reasons she could not fathom.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 15
