In spite of their numbers, Julian had no trouble singling out Tamlyn. She shimmered, her aura golden. Even from this distance he felt the pull toward her. It took all his willpower not to nudge Pagan with his gold spur and go after her.
He did not stalk her to spy on the activities, but for protection. Last night, after hearing of this ritual at dawnbreak—and being firmly told no man was allowed to accompany them—he had left orders to have three of his knights posted high on the tòrr as lookouts, and gave word for others to discreetly follow in the ladies’ wake, and guard them without their knowledge.
’Twas true they had chased the miscreants who attacked Damian’s cadre from the glen and the two beyond. Nonetheless, he could not rid himself of the fear the Scots had circled around and returned to the area. At the back of his mind, he worried other stragglers from the battle at Spottsmuir might seek refuge in this forgotten pocket of the Highlands. Desperate men were as dangerous as a wounded animal. He would not see the females of the four holdings at risk.
Protective streak aside, Julian admitted to a pinch of male curiosity about this eccentric females-only start to their day of Beltaine. He saw the old woman waiting for them. By the white hair, he presumed her near the age of Auld Bessa. As he maneuvered Pagan closer to the grove, he was surprised to notice she was comely. Despite the youthful face, something about her manner bespoke a wisdom of the ages. Then the shafts of the morning sun penetrated the deep wood, and it created a brilliant halo around her being. She appeared like an angel that he had seen in paintings, coming to earth to guide mankind or to deliver a message.
Tamlyn nodded her head in deferment, and then accepted a kiss of pax upon her forehead from the fae woman. They linked arms and leisurely strolled into the grove, and were nearly swallowed by the blanket of fog. Julian’s jaw set in frustration. That damn haar was disquieting. So thick, it hungrily shrouded the area around the orchard.
His knees nudged Pagan, wanting to be closer. As the horse approached, it suddenly shied and began backing up. Off to the right, Julian could have sworn he heard tinkling of bells. The horse was sweating, spooked, an unease Julian almost shared. His destrier was trained to gallop into the mouth of hell and not flinch, and yet the fog and tinkling bells sent the horse into a panic.
Then it struck him. No chirping of birds. Not the first stirring of breeze. ’Twas eerie, unlike anything he had ever experienced. This place was touched with otherworldliness, of ancient mysteries. A stillness that was unnatural. Julian found disquiet that Tamlyn seemed so a part of this primeval land. This glen held a claim on Tamlyn’s soul, owned some part of her he could never touch.
His blood surged, resenting that insight. Julian closed his eyes for several breaths, willing his anger to still, until the thud of his heart was the only thing he could hear.
You belong to Glenrogha…the ethereal whisper brushed against his mind.
If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear furtive voices, murmuring. The words were unfamiliar, but not the emotion behind them, reassuring in some strange manner he was of this land. All he had to do was open himself, his heart and make it so. Whether these shades were Tamlyn’s Auld Ones speaking to him ever so softly, or mayhap as Guillaume suggested, the presence of Christian, he could not decide. He had never bent his mind to accepting things that could not be seen. He dealt in realities, the power of his hand, his mind. Only, he had a sense if he truly wanted to be a part of Tamlyn’s life here, to be a part of her world, he would have to change.
Reaching out with his thoughts, Julian embraced the feeling of rightness. This rich dark earth and the golden woman touched him. In his life, he had been many places, and not once had he tasted this sense of being a part of a place, of knowing this is where he was meant to be.
Of coming home. The sense of belonging was water to his parched soul.
He only had to reach out to make it come true.
♦◊♦
“Where be our Aithinne?” Rowanne asked, pausing from paring twigs from the low hanging branches and dropping them into the basket. “Our cousin loves this festival. She never misses coming to us. I canno’ imagine letting the day get away from her for any reason. It seems odd her no’ being here sharing the morn with her.”
All heads turned to Evelynour for the answer. The pale, iridescent eyes looked in the direction of the hills far behind Kinloch, as if seeking knowledge. “Aithinne shall no’ come. Matters press her. You will no’ see her until summer.”
Frowning, Raven inquired, “She ails?”
“’Tis a demand for her presence there.” Evelynour turned away, signaling that was all she would say concerning their cousin, who resembled Tamlyn closely.
“Come, there be much to do this day,” Raven called, dashing ahead.
As they approached the entrance, where the ancient trees arched and twined together, the fog parted and revealed a black destrier with the warrior upon its back, just beyond. In the world of white and grey, he was a stark contrast clothed all in black. Apple blooms swirled around him, as heavy as a snowstorm, ruffling the blue-black hair, and covering his head and shoulders.
Tamlyn’s breath caught and held. Julian Challon was beautiful, as powerful and majestic as these Highland Hills. Somehow, she sensed he belonged here. Just as she belonged to him. As their eyes locked, she knew her destiny twined with his, that Evelynour’s visions of the coming of the dark lord were true.
He was the one.
Petals rained upon him, the Goddess Evelynour giving Tamlyn the sign for which she had asked.
Slowly, he held out his upturned hand, beckoning.
As if still needing affirmation, Tamlyn glanced back to the pale woman, almost materializing from the fog. She could not draw breath as Evelynour’s witchy lavender eyes met hers. Finally, the old woman gave a single nod.
Tamlyn ran to her mentor and hugged her. Evelynour squeezed her tightly, as a mother would a daughter, and in many ways, she was. “Oh, lass, you be special. The fate of the whole clan rests with your happiness. The Most Chosen Daughter, the child conceived under the Silver Bough on Beltaine. Listen with your heart. Show him the way. Make him yours.”
Tamlyn nodded, a sob lodging in her throat. Lifting her eyes, she saw tears of joy mixed with a bittersweet sadness in her teacher.
Evelynour leaned her head to Tamlyn’s and whispered against her hair, “Go to him, my bonnie lass. Trouble looms ahead for you both. Take him, make him part of us, a part of this land. Remember, that which has the most value you must fight for… fight for him. The Lord Challon be your soul mate. Never forget that, my child. Never.”
Tamlyn kissed Evelynour’s cheek. In some ways, she had rushed to Evelynour as a child seeking assurance. Now she turned, her eyes searching for the Dragon, waiting motionless upon the midnight charger. The horse snorted and stamped its impatience. After a hesitation, she rushed forward―a woman ready to accept the changes this man brought to her world.
Willing to take him, as Evelynour said, make him a part of her life, a part of this glen. Willing to fight for Challon.
♦◊♦
Julian’s jaw clenched as Tamlyn sought the assurance from the witch. His gut tightened, fearing what the woman might do. Relief flowed through him when Evelynour nodded to Tamlyn, almost seeming to encourage her to go to him. He met the fae woman’s eyes. Pale, almost dead eyes that saw more than others. She bowed her head to him, blessing and acceptance upon her serene countenance.
Warmth filled him at her approval, her favor. ’Twas evident the woman was reconciled to see Tamlyn set upon the path of her life. Then, the expression altered, her face clouding to sadness. Julian almost flinched at the change.
Though the pressing need pushed him to snatch Tamlyn away from the crone, some invisible aura stopped Julian just outside the entrance to the orchard. The invisible barrier warned both man and beast that they were intruders in this sacred female place and unwelcome. Howbeit, he was ready to set spur to Pagan, violate that sanctity,
and swoop down to carry Tamlyn back to a sphere of his control shouldst the crone call her back. Evelynour did not.
The woman’s crooked half-smile spoke volumes. Julian felt as if she looked into his dark soul and found him wanting as a mate for Tamlyn, nonetheless recognizing there would be no stopping him from claiming her. The witch’s head drooped slightly. Then, she moved back, the mist beginning to rise around her angelic form and enfold her.
Impatiently, Julian observed Tamlyn kiss her sisters on their cheeks. Raven clutched
at Tamlyn’s shoulders and leaned to whisper words to her ear. Turning, Tamlyn picked up the kirtle’s material on either side of her knees and then ran to him.
Until that instant Julian had not realized he held his breath, for what seemed so innocent, held much portent, for Tamlyn. For him.
Julian’s knees silently controlled the steed, dancing its impatience at the entrance. He was not making Tamlyn come to him, but sensed his black presence was not welcome in this white and silver world of the sacred orchard.
His left foot kicked out of the stirrup so Tamlyn could use it. He leaned over, eager to reach for her.
Tamlyn’s face was so open, as she placed her icy cold hand into his. All her emotions were etched there, all the hope, trust and faith. All the wanting. He lifted her and seated her crossways on his lap, feeling her shiver.
Julian swung the heavy black mantel around her, and for the first time since coming this grove, felt secure of his possession of his lady. Tamlyn was now surrounded by his color. His left arm slid around her and she leaned into his warmth.
Once again, off in the distance, he could hear the tinkling of bells and then laughter. Then it struck him, his shoulders and hair were nearly white from the apple petals. In an odd way, the whiteness of this fey grove was touching him with her color.
Julian closed his eyes and leaned his head back for an instant. For a man who abhorred tears from a woman, and saw them as a weakness in a man, he felt very much like shedding them now. In his life, he had not cried many times. When he was sent away to be page to the Warrior Prince Edward at the age of seven. Again, over Christian, as his brother lay begging for death.
And this morn, as he held Tamlyn in his arms. Julian wanted to say a prayer of thanks, knowing that somehow in his dark, empty life he had been granted this blessing.
He could force Tamlyn to wed him. Force the people of this glen to accept that act and him. ’Twas the way of the world, the way of the sword. To travel that road would kill him in a way he lacked words to explain. Some inner hunger drove him to crave acceptance from this woman, his lady. He needed Tamlyn as he needed air. The ravenous plaint was as fearsome a power as any he had ever encountered. He was incapable of controlling it, any more than he could put name to it. It scared him, more than facing the infidel in the Holy Land. More than the horrors of Berwick. It terrified him. If this consuming need were not satisfied, it would destroy him beyond time’s healing.
♦◊♦
Tamlyn buried her face against the curve of his neck. She absorbed his radiant heat, the heady male scent off his flesh. So right, whispered The Kenning. She had been so cold, felt she might never be warm again. Then, she put her hand into his larger, warm one. He pulled her against his body and wrapped the thick mantle around them, cocooning them. Sharing his body’s fire, she felt safe.
Other Challon knights materialized out of the fog, along with Sir Guillaume, and St. Giles. Then other men-at-arms moved forward. They had been on guard the whole time, yet the women had remained unaware.
The way of men, she thought. Reaching up, she dusted some of the petals from Challon’s black locks. The prospects scared her, being lady to this powerful, complex man. Even so, it was a fate she embraced. A fate she would fight for.
The gentle rocking gait of the prancing destrier, coupled with the soothing energy from Challon, nearly lulled her to sleep. Batting her eyes, she resisted. She did not want to lose one precious moment of this magical day.
She leaned to kissed his jaw.
Surprised, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Pleasure warmed his dark green eyes. “What is that for, My Lady?”
“A Beltaine kiss, My Lord Challon,” she whispered, once more burying her nose against the soft skin of his throat to drink in that wonderful scent. She could stay like this forever, absorbing his dragon’s fire, his magic aroma that was his alone.
Aye, she was Challon’s lady.
And tonight, she would make him hers.
Chapter Eighteen
Mar gum biodh an air do chraiceann.
(As if the fire be on your skin.)
— Auld Scots Adage
In the pink and purple gloaming, Challon joined his brothers and cousin to watch the lighting of the balefire of Beltaine. The Scots considered this a sacred fire, he had learned. Within Glenrogha every candle, each fire had been extinguished, and they would be relit from this blaze come dawn.
Men and women formed seven rings, dancing around the great fire, the pit cut deep into the loam. In opposing directions, each circle revolved about the balefire, its pitch-fed flames shooting high into the night sky. Their pagan invocation to the God Bel, Lord of Light.
“’Tis difficult to tell the women from the men.” Damian laughed, referring to the Scots males wearing their feile-beag―kilts.
Arms folded across his chest, Julian’s eyes took in the spectacle, but shifted to judge his
cousin. Once more, he grew uneasy with the bent of his cousin’s mind. Damian downed his second tankard of mead, as if he sought escape from some inner demon. Julian feared the trouble stemmed from Damian’s growing preoccupation with Tamlyn. It was impossible not to see how Damian’s eyes followed her every move when she was near.
Julian gave him a half smile. “Sorry, to hear you are so sorely afflicted, cousin. Fortunately, I do not suffer the same problem.”
Guillaume laughed, “A first―Damian having troubles differing betwixt males and females. Mayhap, you indulged in too much mead? It addles your vision?”
“Normans,” Tamlyn huffed, coming to stand next to Julian. Her amber eyes glowed in the orange-yellow cast from the bonfire as she smiled up at him. “In the Highlands ’tis spoken any man can appear manly in trewes and chausses. Only a real man can wear the plaide. Lasses ken him very virile.”
Julian leaned to the side to breathe the words against Tamlyn’s hair, meant for her ear only. “Then, mayhap I shall wear one for you...sometime.”
Her blood thrummed, visible in her neck. Julian felt the same pulse beat within him.
A playful grin formed her small mouth. “You wouldst be bonnie in one, my lord.”
“Bah, the fool thing be too drafty in winter,” Damian almost snarled. The mead seeing his guard down, his eyes flashed in jealousy. “A man could die of…exposure.” Then, realizing his jest, he laughed a bit too loudly.
Destain was sitting on a chair they had fetched for him, since his leg was still healing. Behind his cousin’s back, Destain pantomimed the motion of downing cups. His brother’s arched brows asked Julian if he knew the reason why. They all recognized this sort of behavior was so unlike Damian.
Julian shrugged, ignoring Damian’s troubled spirit. He placed his hand on the small of Tamlyn’s back, reminding his cousin of realities.
Noticing the heavy gold torque about Tamlyn’s neck, he ran his thumb over the intricate design. The workmanship was strong, with subtle artistry, bordering on the mysterious. The flattened torque would fetch a king’s ransom on any market. The gold’s patina spoke it was not new. Ancient gold had a deeper luster, it shimmered—just as the woman who wore it did.
“Romans wrote about the Picts, and the walls built to hold them back. They spoke about their customs and their abilities to craft in gold and silver. Yet, so little is truly known about your race. Only spoken memories. What happened to your ancestors, Tamlyn? Where did the Picts go?” Julian asked, hungry to know all about this woman who would soon be hi
s wife.
“Go? Why nowhere, my lord. They remain here in the blood of their children.” Pride flared in her eyes, her words containing a small barb. “What generally happens when invaders come. The Irish―called Scoti―came, forming a kingdom on the southern shores of Alba called Dalriada. Then, Kenneth of Alpin used his mother’s Pict blood to claim the double crown. He rose and slaughtered all the royal houses of the Picts, uniting Alba under one Scottish Crown.”
“Speak to my curiosity. Why are holdings of Glen Shane then still passed through the distaff side? Why did they not go to Sir Malcolm?”
Tamlyn swallowed hard, distracted, as he continued to slide his finger along the figure of a wildcat etched into the heavy metal about her neck. “A special charter granted by Malcolm Canmore―in return for another Lady Glenrogha saving his life. The grant honors our Pict blood and sees the three holdings remain matriarchal, so long as there be a female in the direct the line of Ogilvie blood.”
“Beg pardon, my lord.” A small girl with curly red hair bobbed an awkward curtsey, trembling before the Dragon of Challon. Holding up the basket of small cakes, she smiled. “For you—a May Day Cake.”
Julian studied the small oatcake, and then glanced to Tamlyn. “’Tis some custom concerning this?”
“Everyone gets a May Day Cake. We used to bake one large one and hand out slices, but there are so many people ’tis easier to bake small ones.”
When he reached for one in the basket, the child almost squealed, “Oh, no’ that one!”
His brows lifted, “No?”
“I…I touched that one. The one to the right, my lord—’tis a grand cake.” Her green eyes were wide and full of mischief as she kept glancing from Tamlyn to him.
Suspicion tingled, but Julian read no change in Tamlyn’s expression, so he took the one the child suggested. The small cake was still faintly warm and smelled deliciously of spices and honey. Biting down, his teeth grated against a solid object. “Christ’s blood! What affront be this? ’Tis a piece of metal in the cake.” Anger―and oddly, hurt―exploded within him. “Someone shall pay for this insult.”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 22
