A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Ignoring the protest, she pressed the poultice of sweet clover, bilberry, leopard’s bane and witch hazel to his back. It was icy―why he objected. Every day she sent his squires up to the top of Ben Shane, where snow never melted, to fetch back buckets of packed snow. She alternated between icy poultices and very hot ones, working to heal the deep bruising sustained in the combat.

  “Bessa spake I can stop after this night.” Tamlyn leaned over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

  “I think Auld Bessa enjoys my torments. I refuse to drink any more of that foul stuff she gives me.”

  “You have not sickened,” she pointed out.

  He turned to glare over his shoulder at her. “No, but it has other…adverse…reactions upon my body.”

  She chuckled, suppressing her smile. “Bessa did mention that was a…side effect, but that it wouldst see you rest quietly until you healed. It makes one sleepy.”

  “Sleepy? Bloody Hell, makes one positively limp―as you are aware. You dare smirk at my condition each night when you say goodnight, Challon. I think you let her dose me as punishment for fighting Pendegast.”

  Tamlyn put her hand to his back, stroking him. “Julian...promise me, never again will you fight. The sight, the sounds...they linger vividly in my mind.”

  He reached around, pulled off the large poultice on his spine and tossed it across the room to hit the wall. Rolling over, he took her upper arms and pulled her across his chest.

  “Your back, Julian―”

  “Is fine. I keep telling you. You have mothered me until I am nearly raving with madness. ’Tis bloody boring, Tamlyn.”

  “Very well, I shall tell Bessa to cease with the tansies and no more poultices.”

  He reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “Thank you for the small mercies, but I fare well, Tamlyn. I have fought harder and come away in worse condition, and then back to my duties within a day or two. It felt soothing to have you fussing over me. No one ever cared enough to do that before. But please, stop fretting. I fare well. I do not like you worrying so.”

  “I do no’ want you to fight again, Julian,” she insisted.

  He regarded her with a crooked smile. “Why is it when you want something from me I am Julian? When you want to ignore me and do as you please, it is aye, Challon, or no, Challon? I am on to your sly ways, lass.”

  “I do seek to gain your indulgence. I want you to promise never to fight again. I cannot go through that another time. Watching you mauled...” Tamlyn’s sob escaped and she flung her head to his chest, holding him tightly.

  Julian stroked her long hair, letting her cry out the horrors of watching him fight, the fears of what might have been. “Tamlyn, I am a warrior. I have known little else my whole life. If the time comes when I have to fight to protect you or Glenrogha, I shall. You have to accept what I am, who I am.

  ♦◊♦

  Julian was tired and ready to seek his bed. Despite assurances to Tamlyn yestereve, his back still ached after the long day. He was older and clearly the healing was slower. Still, he had one more chore to do before going to the tower for the night.

  Night? He chuckled at this eerie pale twilight the Scots called gloaming, still unused to lacking a true nighttime. It seemed unnatural to seek your bed when it was so bright outside. The sun rose on the morrow—Midsummer’s Eve. Tamlyn warned him, as the longest day of the year there would almost be no night.

  A storm loomed, the wind ripping the trees around. It approached fast, would hit soon. Julian headed toward the barn, intending to make sure the horses were secure. Up ahead, he spotted Tamlyn on a course to the stables.

  His lass was brave. Many women would steer away from the place that held such bad memories. With a warrior’s determination, she had stated she was not about to hide from anything in her own fortress. He watched her, two barn cats trailing at her heels. Pride swelled inside him, knowing that this woman was his.

  Bansidhe was in the paddock. Tamlyn’s dapple mare came in season a few days ago, causing his chargers to kick up a fuss. Even so, he would have to return her to a stall, or Tamlyn would pitch a fit. Likely, why she was there now—not wishing the palfrey left out in the rain. She loved that stubborn mare. He pulled up when he caught her before Pagan’s stall, feeding him an object from her hand. Nodding to Gervase, who guarded her, he signaled for the young man to leave them.

  Julian strolled to where Tamlyn stood feeding Pagan a treat. “What sort of witchy magic are you working upon my charger? I suspected you slip him indulgences. He is getting fat.”

  She shrugged. “I bring him an apple each day and a handful of hazelnuts. Now the carrots have come in, I bring him a carrot, too.”

  “You will make Lasher and Dragon’s Blood jealous with these lavish attentions.”

  “They grumble, so do Bansidhe and Goblin.” She smiled and rubbed the horse’s forehead. “This harvest I shall see two barrels of apples stored just for your beastie. He shall have his apple even in the deepest of winter. He saved you, Julian. If you had not been able to rise in time, Dirk might have landed a fatal blow. Pagan did what you trained him to do―saved your life in battle.”

  “’Tis dispiriting, wife, your lack of confidence in my skills. I would have won. Two more moves and my sword would have found aim. His swing to kill me already saw me roll to the side, leaving him exposed. My sword would have slid right into the seam of his mail. Even so, I was proud Pagan took matters into his keeping.” He patted the horse.

  There was a whinny from the paddock where Bansidhe pranced around, excited. Pagan instantly answered her call. Tamlyn’s eyes shifted between the two horses, then she lifted the wooden bolt from its seat on the stall and slid it back. She swung the door wide. Pagan stuck his head out, bright-eyed and glancing about. He murmured a question in his throat, as if not believing she had turned him loose.

  Understanding what she was doing, Julian moved in unison with her to pull back the bar to the paddock and allow Pagan to dash out. The black stallion’s tail crooked high, as he snorted the air, calling to the mare. Bansidhe set to racing around the enclosed area, playing hard to get. The black stallion followed and fell in right behind the dappled mare.

  Julian watched Tamlyn, studying her earthy face. “I thought you did not wish me to breed her to one of my stallions?”

  She shrugged, as she leaned against the door’s frame. “She wants him, brute that he be.”

  The wind swirled around them, ruffling Tamlyn’s long hair. Typical Tamlyn, she was not dressed as the Lady Glenrogha, but in her plaid kirtle and the worn sark. Just common clothes that most of her people wore, yet her beauty burned regal. It was real. The feral quality, he had noticed from the very first, called to him.

  Lightning split the darkening skies as Pagan and Bansidhe began their mating dance of lure, rebuff, lure again, working to one conclusion. Highland magic swirled through Julian’s blood as he stared at Tamlyn.

  The want for her never lessened, only spiraled in an ever-tightening coil, overpowering all. He often found himself just watching her as she stirred about the Great Hall, wondering how his life had been so blessed to have her.

  He had made a joke about Bessa’s potion suppressing his natural urges, and that much was true. Only, he had oddly been resigned to the effect. He was still unsure if Tamlyn was ready to have him touch her in that way. Not after Dirk. She had assured him Pendegast did not rape her. Yet, some part of him feared she might be ashamed to tell him the truth.

  After Auld Bessa helped him care for Tamlyn, and the potion carried her to the blackness of sleep, he questioned the healer, hoping to settle his qualms. It little mattered to him, would make no difference in his feelings toward Tamlyn. Bessa’s response would cue how he should handle his wife, especially in regard in their lovemaking. When he queried the crone, she glared at him as if he had three heads.

  Instead of replying to his question, she answered it with one of her own. “What did the lass say?”

 
; “I have not pressed her.”

  “Then you should, Lord Challon.” Bessa snapped, exiting the room with another look of reproach. He felt a knave for asking. Now, as he stood staring at his beautiful wife, he once more judged himself a callow cur for the suspicions.

  “Julian, your eyes speak your thoughts. Why not say them aloud so they can be done with?” she asked sadly, still leaning back against the door.

  Stepping to stand next to her, he propped his lower arm on the door above her head. Though he wanted to with all his might, he did not lean against her. Instead, he just loomed over Tamlyn, absorbing the warmth of her nearness.

  “What thoughts? I pondered your change of mind about Pagan breeding Bansidhe.” Unable to meet her eyes, he looked out into the darkening paddock and the storm bearing down on them, turning the landscape dark.

  “Julian, never lie to me. You waste breath doing so. I feel your thoughts here.” She placed her palm to his heart. “Look at me.”

  Steeling himself, he turned to meet those witchy eyes. All his life he had been able to control his emotions, hide them behind his will of iron. In spite, he feared looking into those all-seeing orbs. Tamlyn held the fey ability to walk in his mind. A truth he was coming to accept.

  “Pendegast did not rape me. You came in time to prevent it.” She glanced to the two horses, prancing in their mating dance. “When my mother died in the solar, I no longer cared for the room. It provoked too many painful images in my heart, so I remained in my rooms below. Then, you came into my world, and suddenly, I rediscovered the joy, the beauty of the solar my father built from his love for my mother. You replaced sad memories with our happy ones. I thank you. So, I stand here and do not recall the terror of that ugly memory. I only see two very beautiful animals and the power of their quickening. I see the force of the coming storm. Both echo the passion within me, summoned by a very special man. Please believe me. That incident cannot compare to the horror of watching you fight a Trial by Combat. Those shards of remembrances, the sounds, seeing the mace slamming into your back, you knocked from the horse by the lance―those are the images that haunt me. Your magic drove away the sad memories of my mother’s death, my father’s madness. Wield that wizardry, again, Julian. Give me something beautiful to warm my heart, ease my fears.”

  Julian leaned to her and kissed the tears from her eyes, drinking in their saltiness. What had he done in his sad sorry life to earn Tamlyn? At one point, he wanted the peace of a home, a wife…a son, wanted it so badly any woman would have served. That was all he asked, just a small measure of life untouched by war. Now, he knew how hollow that dream had been. It was only the palest of shadows when weighed against what Tamlyn brought him.

  For the first time, he no longer walked at night in his mind. He slept. He had not relived the nightmares of Berwick, had not felt himself dying inside a little each day with the grief of Christian’s death, so heavy upon his soul. He no longer feared for his sanity. In time, he suspected she could heal him. The only thing that could destroy him―if something were to happen to her, to have her taken from him. He feared if that ever occurred, he would go stark raving mad. She asked him not to fight. He would promise her the moon, but he could not give her that pledge. He would fight for her. Would die for her.

  But he would rather live for her.

  He brushed his lips against hers, intending on deepening it. Howbeit, the minx slipped under his arm and almost skipped to the ladder, which led to the loft. Grabbing the hem of her kirtle, she pulled it up and tucked it into the leather girdle about her waist. The look she shot him was a witchy follow me. Then, she started to climb.

  Julian stood watching, enjoying how her round arse shifted with every rung. He smiled and then started after her. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Pagan cornering Bansidhe, then rearing to mount her.

  Suddenly, life felt good.

  The first thing he noticed―the hush of the loft. The piles of hay and straw muffled all sounds, giving it a unique ambience of magic. He had not been in a loft since he was a squire, but could not recall this delightful coziness.

  “Have you noticed the roof isn’t thatched, but lead? Hadrian said homes of nobles in the cities do this, emulating cathedrals. He wanted a stable that did not have thatch to cut the risk of fire. He alleged chargers were too costly to risk. He used to breed the finest horses in Scotland before my mother died. After, he did no’ have the heart.”

  “’Tis what I plan on doing here. Pagan, Lasher and Dragon’s Blood will be the fathers of my herd.”

  She took his hand, pulled him toward the corner. “The same wrights and artisans who build churches came and did the stained-glass windows for the lord’s chambers. They also did the barn. When the rain hits it is such a soothing sound.”

  She dropped down on a pile of straw, tugging his hand so he would join her. The noise on the roof sounded like the patter of marching elves. “The rain comes.”

  Julian sat, listening to the calming rhythm. “You are sure it is rain and not your Unseelie Court, trooping in a dance of well-come to Midsummer’s Eve?”

  Tamlyn lay back like a lazy cat. “I am too lethargic to go peek. I wish to lie here all night with you and listen to the rain. Scent it on the air? It always smells so fresh.”

  Julian lay back on his side, propping his head up to study her in the half-light. “When does heather bloom?”

  “Some wee patches, mostly white heather, will bloom a bit around Midsummer’s Day. Most flower in late summer into early autumn. Why?”

  “I was imagining making love to you in the midst of purple flowers.”

  She laughed aloud, the sound musical. “Och, you shan’t want to do that. Heather is not flowers, but a low growing shrubbery. The dark purple you will see growing in dry areas. In boggy lands, it is rose.”

  Julian reached over and took her hand, toying with the gold ring on her first finger. He desired her. Anytime he was near her that need would arise. Only, for this space in time, he enjoyed this solitude with Tamlyn, sharing, when all cares of the world were far away, and it was just them.

  He discovered he hungered for more than just their joining of flesh. Reaching out, his first finger traced her dark brown brow. Though she was golden, her eyelashes and brows were deep brown, as her nether hair was. The contrast intrigued him.

  “Why did you turn down all offers of marriage contracts?” he asked, suddenly curious.

  She put her hand to his chest, feeling the strong, sure thud of his heart. “Because none touched my soul the way you do.”

  “Ah, lass.” He leaned to her, brushing his lips to her soft ones, keeping the pressure light, savoring her feel, her taste.

  Their passions always burned white hot, yet this time he wanted to love her slowly, exquisitely, worship her as the treasure she was. His hand cupped the side of her face, shaking. The emotions flying through him were overwhelming.

  All he could do was kiss her full lips, reverence hers with his.

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn tried to keep still, but she felt too restless. Very carefully, she reached over, tugged Challon’s sark to her, and slipped it on over her naked form. The chill of dawn touched the air, though she had slept snug against the hot body of her husband the whole night. Rolling onto her side, she stared at his beautiful face. In sleep, he seemed much younger in the past few weeks. When he first came, the shadows of pain appeared etched into his countenance. The nightmares had stopped and he rested peacefully. She carefully traced her finger over the black brows, loving how they arched so expressively. She smiled. He was quite adept at using those brows to command those around him. With an arch of one, or a flick of the long black eye lashes she saw men nearly cower before him.

  And Julian was hers.

  Evelynour was right. She would fight to keep him. Fight to win his love.

  She wiggled her hips and smiled. Their marriage was good for him, giving his soul peace. Putting a hand to her stomach, she wondered about her suspicions. Ho
w he would react when she told him. She had missed her menses and her breasts felt heavier, sensitive. More than once, Julian had expressed his deep need for a son.

  Quite arrogantly, he assured her that she would give him a son—Challon men always bred sons. Well, he might be in for a surprise. Whilst Ogilvie women did not always have daughters, a high percentage were.

  Tamlyn’s eyes went wide and she rushed down the ladder, barely making it to the side of the barn before her stomach heaved.

  ♦◊♦

  “It seems every time I turn around we are having a festival,” Julian teased as Tamlyn and he trailed after his brothers, her sisters, Damian and Aithinne, all heading to the high tòrr where food and drink were waiting for the merrymakers of the day.

  “Our people work hard. We celebrate eight times a year―four great fire festivals—Imbolg, Beltaine, Lughnasadh and Samhaine—then Midsummer’s Eve, Yuletide and spring and autumnal equinoxes. These are all points in our cycle of harvest. A time to celebrate.”

  “Just so you do not wish to toss me on some bonfire.” Julian laughed, hanging his arm around her shoulder.

  Two giggling girls ran up to Aithinne and tugged on her hands. “Come, Aithinne, we go to gather yarrow to put under our pillows so we can dream of the man we are to marry. Do you no’ wish to see?”

  Aithinne blushed and tried not to look at Damian. He refused to let her duck, but spun about to stand before her. “Aye, Aithinne, are you not interested into glimpses of days to come?”

  She looked to Tamlyn. “Do no’ toss your sweet husband on the balefire, Tamlyn. St. Giles can be spared.”

  Damian looked back to Tamlyn. “How can your cousin so favor you, and yet, have the disposition of a shrew? Such a perplexing problem.”

  Tilting her chin up, Aithinne exaggeratedly batted her eyes at Ravenhawke, then rolled them to the sky. “Poor thing, he must have been dropped on his head as a child―repeatedly. Why else would he so favor his noble kinsman, Lord Challon, and yet have the disposition of a swine?”