He snorted. “I am not stupid. I understood the symbolism of the Highlander plunging the sword into the earth before you.”
She smiled like a contented cat. “As you did last night before you took me. Aye, ’twas symbolic. ’Tis the opening of the spell of bonding, one to enforce the nature of the fertility ritual. Beltaine be a very sacred day to us…our ways.”
“Pagan heresy,” he complained, trying to rein in control that seemed beyond his grasp this morn.
“Mayhap to some...” She sighed. “I can tell you of these beliefs, but I see they hold more meaning to me, to my people, than to you and your Norman mind. Last night was special—rare, magical. My heart saddens you cannot share that wonder. Our Auld Ways—”
“Are blasphemous!” he snapped.
Two red spots flooded her cheeks, as her Pict temper flared, rising to meet his. She stamped her foot. “Only to narrow-minded, tight-arsed Normans!”
“By damn, you shall act the proper lady this morn,” Julian warned. She started to drop his hand, but this time, he refused to let her go.
Her mouth opened to say something, but then it snapped shut. “Och, you bloody fool! I was the proper lady last night. If you could just shut your gob and listen—I know that be a lot to ask of the mighty Black Dragon. Howbeit, you might wish to learn that last night was considered the Grand Rite to Glenrogha’s people. Our mating be viewed as a great augury. Provided you control your Norman righteousness. You will find all view you are the proper Lord, their true lord, because of that bit of heresy under the apple tree. You the Lord of the Glen—oddly enough, oft also called the Green Dragon—bonded with the lady of Glenrogha.” She lifted her brows for emphasis. “Well, My Dragon, you do have green eyes. Please try to understand, the people of both clans view last night’s rites as more binding than any words spoken before the kirk and priest. As the sun rose, you greeted the morn as the lord of Glenrogha, and none save some small-minded Normans will look upon it any other way. I chose you when we danced. I accepted you as lord here, Julian.”
This took some of the wind out of Julian’s sails of worries.
She took up the pot of soap from the tray and began to lather his back. “Our marriage before the Christian church shall unite us in your eyes. To our people, what took place last night be just as binding, if not more so. Thus, there be no need to rush forward the ceremony.”
“Tamlyn, I meant no shame to your ways, but I was raised to believe an honorable man does not take his betrothed under an apple tree in the dirt. A virgin needs―”
“First, it was no’ in the dirt. We had a soft cushion of blooms and your mantle. Secondly, we Scots do not value virginity the same as you Normans. In truth, the Picts consider all unmarried women virgins.”
“What nonsense,” he scoffed.
“No’ nonsense. The Picts grant women the same degree of freedom and respect they do men.”
“Blatherskite. Your people numb my mind with your peculiar laws, rites and ways. ’Tis small wonder the Gaels defeated your people.”
“Like most invaders—they destroyed the royal houses by treachery.” She jumped to her feet, staring down at him.
Her lip quivered. He had wounded her with his words. Tamlyn’s beautiful gold eyes shimmered with the threat of forming tears. It felt like a dagger lodged in his heart.
“Tamlyn, I wanted our marriage vows to take place before all.”
“And they will. Malcolm shall wed us on the steps of the old kirk, same steps where my mother and father spake their bond. There be no foolish need to push forward the ceremony. Truly, Julian, do you view what happened last night as something born of shame?”
His lips compressed in a frown, so torn by warring thoughts. “My mind is divided. Last night was beautiful...and yet, I should have never taken you.”
“To be specific—you did no’ take me, oh mighty Dragon—I took you.” She held up her hand, and taunting, wiggled the finger that bore the May Queen ring.
“I wanted to take my virgin wife in bed,” was all he could muster as a puny rebuttal.
“A stupid male obsession with something of little value.” Tamlyn took her thumb and traced it over his lips.
Bigod, the teeth of the hydra were upon him! His need to take her resonated within his blood, ignoring all his logic. She leaned toward him brushing her lips over his. All the blood left his brain.
She smiled, nipping his chin with her sharp teeth. “If you must have your Norman sensibility appeased...there be the bed, My Lord Dragon. And until we wed before the kirk, I be considered virgin by Pict ways.”
“Witch.” He laughed.
Julian grabbed her with a quickness, a ferocity that should have frightened her. His power, so many times stronger than hers, was now barely held in check. She should have been scared. Tamlyn―his wild Tamlyn―wasn’t. She gasped as he pulled her into the tub. Her chest heaved with the quickening as he set his mouth roughly on hers, possessing hers. Water spilled over the edge of the tub, but neither of them cared as he grabbed the front of her chemise, ripped it down the middle and filled his hands with her beautiful breasts. With some awkward shifting, he finally had her sitting astride him, and with a quick flex of his hips, he was inside her. She came instantly, her internal female sheath rippled along his shaft, squeezing him, milking him. Riding the crest of this terrifying power she unleashed within him, he met the force head on, taking the raw desire and giving it back to her. Her second release made her sigh, but he gave her no measure.
Breaking the kiss, he commanded hoarsely, “Again, Tamlyn.”
He pulled her head back so he could suckle her breast, drawing hard until she keened. Bucking into her, he forced Tamlyn to ride him hard, his hands roughly skimming over her wet skin, and raising her body as he drove up into her repeatedly.
Wrapping an arm around his neck, she leaned to him and gently nipped his ear. “I thought you wanted a virgin in bed, my lord.”
Julian wanted it to last forever, but he knew he had no more control than he had last night under the apple trees. Every muscle tightened as the power of his violent release shattered his mind, pulling his lady to follow him into the world of blue hot ecstasy and exploding colors. Her fingernails bit into the back of his arms, as a moan shuddered through her. That soft mewing sound ripped through his mind and body. The force nearly caused him to black out.
“Oh, aye, Julian,” she purred, her hips flexing on him. “Again.”
♦◊♦
Julian was edgy as he led Tamlyn belowstairs and to the Great Hall.
The bath had gone on until they were both wrinkled as prunes. And then he rose from the tub, with Tamlyn in his arms. Carrying her to the bed, they fell into it, laughing. At some point, they finally slept, ignoring the sounds of the castle coming alive around them.
He should have felt sated. Never had he found more pleasure in a woman. Tamlyn made him feel alive again. So alive, he wanted to take her, over and over, touch the golden fire that was his Tamlyn. Still, he had held back, concerned she might be tender after their strenuous activities.
Tamlyn was dressed in a new green kirtle that Raven had sewn for her. The neck was low and square, near her breasts, which showed off the wide Pict torque at her neck. Across her forehead was a thin gold circlet. Still the Pict princess, but this Tamlyn was a more sedate version, the true lady of Glenrogha. His lady.
Julian felt pride at having her hand on his arm as they entered the Great Hall.
Despite her assurances the people of Glen Shane would view their bonding as a great omen, he still held fear he would see glares of condemnation in their eyes, or hushed whispers about how he failed to show Tamlyn the respect due her rank. Just inside the double doors, he paused to assess the reaction. In keeping with Tamlyn’s promise, he was surprised and relieved to find only bright eyes and approving nods.
Tamlyn flashed a radiant smile as they passed to the lord’s table.
Julian was still perturbed at her rising poise. Tamlyn seemed so
self-possessed in this new level of their relationship. As he had seen in the bedchamber, dealing with her was going to be all the harder. She was coming into her full power as a woman. He swallowed hard and tried to arrange his countenance to a calm demeanor, thinking he was glad his surcoat was long, for just watching her sent his damn tarse to throbbing.
The servants were quick to serve him, saw his plate never empty, his goblet full. It was done with grins, deferential bobs, and requests to know whether he was pleased with the food or the wine.
He reached out his hand, and closed it about Tamlyn’s left one, giving it a small squeeze. In response, her eyes flashed her happiness as she silently said, see, my people accept you as I have.
As his gaze roved around the Great Hall, he found all faces were cheerful, watching Tamlyn and him preside as lady and lord. At least, until his eyes fell upon the countenance of Dirk Pendegast. The expression he saw there turned his blood cold. The man’s hawkish eyes watched Tamlyn with emotions that unsettled Julian—a dangerous mix of desire, loathing and resentment. The man bore marks on his back for his affront to Tamlyn. Such a warning should serve to bring a man to heel. Only, Dirk Pendegast had a streak in him that made Julian think he would rise up against the hand that had disciplined him.
A dull thud pounded in his eyes as he watched the knight. On the morrow, he would send word to the Baron Pendegast that Sir Dirk should be recalled. ’Twas time he moved on to his own holding. He knew Pendegast hoped Julian would settle a fief on Dirk, one in Mortain. He wanted the man gone from his service. And the morrow would not be soon enough.
Wondering how Damian would react to the clear sign of Julian’s possession of Tamlyn, he leaned to look down the table. Julian asked. “Damian has not returned still?”
Destain carried a piece of the roast pig to his mouth the paused. “I have not seen him since about the time the dancing started.
Guillaume shrugged. “I saw him go off with some men last night. At the time I paid little heed, but this eve I grow concerned. They were not of this valley, Julian.”
“Not of this valley?” Tamlyn echoed. She looked pointedly at Julian, reminding him of the Sacred Mists warding the valley.
“No one seemed to raise concern about their presence, so I assumed they were known to the people here. Moffet said his belongings are in his room. His destrier is in the barn.”
Julian pressed, a little concerned about his cousin. “I saw him with men. Three younger men that appeared the same―triplets―and hanging about them was a tall Norsemen.”
To his left Tamlyn choked on a bit of food. “Three the same?” she finally managed to get out, through him patting her on the back.
“Aye, red of hair, slight build, a score or less in age. The tall man was clearly of Norse ancestry.” Julian noted at his description that Tamlyn exchanged glances with Raven and Rowanne. “Who are these men? Obviously, they are known to you.”
“From your description, I wouldst think them our cousins—Hugh, Deward and Lewis. The big man is a Viking. Through an ancient trust, the Norsemen send an honor guard to protect the Lady of Coinnleir Wood. Our cousin Aithinne now rules there as baroness.”
Laugher erupted in Julian at her naming her cousin. “Aithinne? Firebrand? Lord save me if she is as willful as the other ladies of Clan Ogilvie.”
Tamlyn laughed, and then took a drink from his goblet when he offered it. “Oh, aye. One might call our Aithinne willful. In truth, Fate smiled upon you, my lord. Edward might have sent you to claim Coinnlier Wood. My cousin be a redhead, and has quite the temper. Count your blessings, my lord, and light a candle for me and my fair hair, though willful I be.”
Raven ignored the servants offering of more wine, by putting her hand over the goblet’s top. “Our Aithinne has freckles and a temper that goes with them, my lord. She has had to raise the three imps of brothers after their mother died, so the men of Challon would offer her no challenge.”
“Then, I breathe gladness that Coinnlier Wood is not of my holdings. Let another deal with this troublesome female with freckles. I have all the Ogilvie women I need for one lifetime.” Julian raised the golden goblet in salute to the Sisters MacShane.
Rowanne turned slightly in her chair, subtly giving Guillaume the back of her shoulder. “I wouldst not worry overly about your cousin, Lord Challon, if he went off with those three. They are prankish, and love to jest, but they are quite harmless—outside of trying one’s patience.”
“Where is Coinnlier Wood?” Julian asked
Tamlyn touched a cloth to her mouth. “About a half-day’s ride north of Lyonglen.”
Julian shrugged. “Mayhap your cousins merely escorted Damian to visit his grandsire then. I shall send a messenger to Coinnleir Wood on the morrow and inquire if that be the situation.”
“I am sorry, Lord Challon. I have just returned from Lyonglen. They have never heard from Lord Ravenhawke, and were not aware he traveled north to assume control of the holding,” Gervase informed Julian, as he took a seat on the far end of the trestle table.
Julian considered the matter. “The three young men still might know something of his whereabouts.”
Gervase gave a nod. “Vincent and I will sally forth at dawn to seek answers.”
♦◊♦
Tamlyn came over to where Julian sat slouched in the chair before the Great Hall’s fireplace. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. Glancing up at her, he took her fingers and laced them with his. On impulse, he tugged her into his lap. She gave a small squeak, but allowed him to handle her, adjusting her so that she leaned back against his shoulder. For long moments, they just stayed there, soaking up the heat from the peat fire.
He leaned his head to the side of hers, burying his nose in her hair. The familiar scent filled his mind—heather, herbs and Tamlyn. Beneath her rounded bottom, his body throbbed to life. Agony or no, he smiled. Not due to the physical reaction to Tamlyn’s nearness. It was strong, so strong it nearly overrode all within his mind. The smile was because this was one of those rare moments his soul had hungered for with such crippling desperation.
He blinked to clear the sudden haziness in his eyes. Surely, it could not be tears? The dry heat hitting his eyes was what caused them, he told himself.
Everyone around them receded to a blur, to where it felt that Tamlyn and he were alone. He little heard the men jesting over the arm wrestling contest. His knights and hers finding companionable grounds and getting to know the other. The women sat closer to the firelight to do needlework.
Julian was content, just holding her. Even when he had conjured this image in his mind, he had never realized just how peaceful it would be to simply cuddle Tamlyn, know she was his.
If the world could just go away, if the troubles of Edward’s wars remained outside of the passes of Glen Shane, life would be good. Very good indeed.
Julian said a silent prayer that the king would forget the Black Dragon ever existed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mar a 'tarraing mar; fuil losgadh airson fuil.
(Like draws like; blood burns for blood)
— Auld Scots Adage
Challon lifted her up on the black mare, named Goblin—his bride’s gift to her. Moffet stood to her right, holding the lead on the restless Pagan, until Julian mounted.
At Tamlyn’s right side, he rode upon the prancing destrier. A restless energy possessed the charger, reflecting the same impatience in his master. Whilst Challon had gone to great expense to see the wedding take place in a manner befitting a man once the king’s champion, she sensed eagerness, an urgency to have the ceremony over, as if wanting to make sure of his possession of her and Glenrogha.
Challon wore black, though the edge of his surcoat was trimmed with thin gold braid. At his throat was a gold torque, a heavier version of the one she wore. A smile formed her lips as she recalled giving it to him this morn. Her wedding gift to him. The reverence with which he touched it, stroked it, told her just how humbled
he was to receive the present for her husband, the new Earl of Glenrogha.
Her eyes glanced down at her black kirtle trimmed in gold braid, designed to match Challon’s surcoat. A heavy golden chain, another bride’s gift, encircled her waist and hung down to her feet. Worth a king’s ransom. It went well with her gold Pict torque and cuff bracelets. Her final present from him was a thin gold circlet, adorned with a large oval of green garnet, fit for a queen. The stone reminded her of Challon’s eyes. An exact matching ring of gold sat upon Julian’s brow.
Raven told her Julian had designed the wedding gown, down to the smallest details. Such finery was not her way, but she understood his need to strike a statement with the marriage. Challon’s lady would only be wed dressed in a manner befitting a princess. Whilst touched by his caring, these beautiful adornments caused her to feel as though she were in the body of another.
She found peace in the coming wedding. The Kenning whispered this was meant to be. Still, so much would change. Rowanne and Raven had helped her dress, and Auld Bessa had been at her elbow reassuring her that she had made the right choice. She wanted Julian Challon. Just looking at him made her body burn, ache with an ever-growing need. Truly, she held no second thoughts. Yet, a good marriage did not mean life would be smooth. The dream of the attack came to her during the night, causing her to cry out in terror. Everything had been so real—arrows flying through the air, horses screaming, Challon commanding his men. She jerked awake crying his name. Her heart had pounded painfully. She shook with bone-deep fear.
Julian had caught her in his strong warrior arms and held her close. He kissed her forehead and then her nose, reassuring her ’twas naught more than a nightmare. She clung to him, allowing his high body heat to chase away the cold dread lodged in her heart. In spite of his comforting, she was terrified she would one day soon lose him.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 27
