A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “You need milking, eh?” Ambroise Pendegast laughed. “Never fear, Lady Challon, we shall suck your tits for you. What say, John, a milk jug for us each?”

  Digging down, Tamlyn summoned steel she did not know she had. Instead of quailing before them, she stiffened her spine and wrapped her warrior’s mein about her. She was Challon’s Lady, the wife of a warrior true, a man once the king’s champion. “Challon shall kill you and hang your guts out for the pigs.”

  “Mouthy bitch. We can knock that out of her. Or find another use for that mouth,” Ambroise promised.

  As they rounded the loch onto the Kinmarch side, both men slowed, glancing about. The other riders were gone. Tamlyn clearly read the unease within them. Walking the horses slowly, she heard Ambroise withdraw his sword from its sheath. The men’s rising fear transferred to the mounts, as they suddenly grew twitchy.

  The brothers glanced to each other, questions clear in their eyes. Ambroise’s palfrey reverberated alarm in its throat and shied, nearly unseating its rider. It took all the knight’s skill to control the sweating beast.

  “What ails him?” The man sounded as upset as his animal.

  Tamlyn smiled. “Blood, Sir Knight. Your horses are scared at the scent of blood.”

  “Where are our soldiery, John?” Ambroise demanded in a querulous tone.

  John surveyed the landscape, finding neither beast nor man. “They are here somewhere. Just waiting until they make sure it is us.”

  Ambroise, pointed. “Look!”

  The scarlet standard with the golden eagle lay on the grass. In this half-light, it almost resembled blood spilling over the earth. Just beyond, there were figures of men on the ground, clearly dead.

  “John…” Ambroise’s voice trembled. “What happened? They are dead! All dead!”

  The elder Pendegast barked, “Shut up!”

  “Challon. Challon happened,” Tamlyn stated in a surprisingly strong voice. “If you put me down now and flee, you might escape with your lives.”

  “John―” Ambroise was panicking.

  “I told you to shut up, you fool,” John snarled fighting to keep his stallion under control.

  Tamlyn took in the thickening fog. Nearing the mouth of the passes, they would have to ride by it to go out of Kinmarch.

  Both horses shied badly as a murder of ravens unexpectedly took to the skies. They fluttered on both sides of the passes, their cries screeching to where it was deafening. The men appeared as spooked as the beasts they rode, trying to spot what had set the birds to screaming and fighting.

  “One last chance. Let me go or you seal your death,” Tamlyn warned.

  Warmth flooded her. Challon is near, The Kenning whispered.

  The mists thickened, and then they slowly began to part, revealing the lone rider in black upon the midnight charger. Arm straight out, his sword was in his hand, the tip pointing to the ground. The heavy black mantle undulated behind him. Reaching up, he released the catch at his shoulder and the mantle fluttered away to the earth, leaving him free to fight.

  The screams of the ravens grew louder as Challon walked Pagan forward, coming right up to the Pendegasts, as if they were held spellbound by the daunting image.

  Tamlyn thought them exceedingly stupid to let Challon so near unchallenged. Only a fool would permit her warrior husband such an advantage.

  Tamlyn’s breath caught and held as she stared at his beautiful visage. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she watched him.

  These men were taller, yet he was not in the least intimidated by them. His was a raw, elemental power never measured by such menial standards. The armor plates covering upper arms and thighs, the mail habergeon, mantle and surcoat were black. All black.

  Not the severe Norman style of hair cutting, his locks—of the same unrelenting shade of pitch—were much longer since coming to Glenrogha, curling softly about his ears and flowing past the metal gorget at the back of his neck.

  Handsome—nay, beautiful—Challon was surely born of Selkie blood. The very air surrounding this dark warrior seemed to stir, as scorching energy discharged from him with the sizzle and crackle of lightning. A flick of the sooty lashes bespoke his biting disdain and temporary dismissal of the two men. Few men wielded such chilling command as Julian Challon.

  His keen attention fixed on Tamlyn. The penetrating stare sent her to trembling, but not with true foreboding. She loved this man, knew he was worth fighting for, worth dying for.

  More importantly, worth living for.

  He had eyes the color of the deep forest, shade of sacred green garnets said to adorn the Holy Grail. They were ringed with lashes so long a woman would cry envy, almost feminine, though none would dare to ascribe that trait to him. An inner searing light pulsed from the hexing eyes. Heavy ebon brows bracketed them, emphasizing their mind-piercing hue. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed. There was only this knight all in black.

  Challon.

  Life had now come full circle.

  His jaw was strong, square. The small full mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive, though touched with a trace of what might be cruelty. High cheekbones lent a balancing hint of thinness to his face, softening the arrogant planes. Glistening with a bluish cast, two jet curls fell over the hairline in a roguish air. His countenance was sinful…in ways no mere mortal man had right to be.

  The high forehead bespoke of a willful, razor-sharp intelligence. The last man Tamlyn would want to face as an adversary. Nonetheless, the only man Tamlyn would want for a lover, her husband, the father of her children.

  The man she loved more than life.

  Images possessed her, singeing her with an ancient fire…of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it felt to be kissed by this black knight. Smiling a secret smile, memories flooded her. The first time she bathed him. How he told her if she provided what he needed there would be no other women. Of them dancing before the balefire at Beltaine. Him taking her in the pagan marriage ceremony. How she held him and kissed away the tears as he spoke of Christian’s death. This English warrior was dangerously beautiful, a killer-angel with soul-stealing eyes. And she could not take her gaze from him.

  “My orders were not made clear, Tamlyn?” He arched a brow in censure, before turning his formidable attention on the two men. “Scots. Their women are jug-headed at best. Edward does extract his punishment by leg-shackling me with this trying woman for a wife. I weary beating her. I thank you for finding and fetching her back. I have been off hunting down rebel Scots and dispatching them. Every time I return, she is off dashing hither and yond. You both are a long way from home. If you will give her to me, we shall head back to my fortress. Not of the splendor worthy the Dragon of Challon, but I plan to rebuild Kinmarch castle, then dismantle this ancient holding. I offer you a hot meal, a soothing bath and a good night’s rest after your long ride.” Challon rested the sword across his lap as if he had nothing to fear from these men.

  She would almost believe his words, if he had not made the comment about being leg-shackled to her.

  Apprehension rippled through the guilt-ridden men. She saw Ambroise look to John, silently asking what to do. Weighing options, the elder brother was caught off guard by Challon’s offer of food and bed. Just as she felt his grasp on her waist ease, as if he might accept the offer and live to fight another day, a score of riders came galloping up the knoll. Riders under the pennon of the golden eagle.

  Ambroise smirked and sat up straighter in the saddle, buoyed by reinforcements. John finally spoke. “Challon, we are not here to accept your hospitality. We came for precisely this. Despite your bit of mummery, we hear you set great store in your Celtic heiress. Whilst we should seek revenge for the loss of our dear brother, we devised a better means. Lady Challon rides with us. In five days’ time, come alone to Castlerock Keep. With you have the charter for the fief of Torqmond and two chests of gold.”

  Challon smiled. “Ah, there be a pric
e on brotherly love after all. I do so hope my brothers wouldst place a higher value on my life.”

  “If you do not come in the allotted period…” John smiled, sliding his hand up to squeeze her breast. “Well, you get the idea, Dragon. We shall return what be left of her on the sixth.”

  Challon did not blink, his emotions shuttered behind that will of iron. “I learned to speak the Scots tongue well during this last year. Is leam fhèin an gleann, ‘s gach ni ta ann. Do you know what that means?”

  “Why shouldst we care, Challon?” Ambroise snapped, as the riders drew closer. “You heard our terms.”

  Challon went on as if Ambroise had not spoken. “The words mean this glen is mine and all that is in it. ’Tis an old Scots saying do not touch what is mine. Your imbecile brother erred in daring the temerity to touch my lady wife. Dirk is dead. Just as you two shall be.”

  “You are an arrogant bastard, Challon. It is two-to-one.” Ambroise watched their riders slow and fan out as they approached. “Make that a score against one.”

  “You forget Pagan.” Julian patted the side of his steed’s neck. “He already dispatched one Pendegast.” The Sacred Mists parted as Destain, Guillaume and Damian seemed to materialize out of the fog of the passes. “Well, the odds just shifted to my favor. Four Dragons of Challon. Darian shall be sorry he missed this. We shall slice up a score of scum and feed the leavings to the pigs without breaking a sweat. It wouldst not matter if it were a hundred to one odds, John. You are dead. No man lays a hand to my lady and lives.”

  Julian moved so fast neither man had a chance to react. His knee signals sent Pagan slamming into Ambroise’s horse. The palfrey snarled deep in his throat as his teeth ripped into the neck of the roan, blood gushing from the wound. The precise instant Pagan moved, Challon brought up the hilt of the sword, slamming the rounded pommel into the jaw of John Pendegast.

  Tamlyn wiggled, trying to break free, but Dirk’s brother held on tightly, as he fought to control his steed. Damian, Destain and Guillaume spurred past him, whilst Challon swung Pagan around to face Ambroise. Urging the black destrier forward, both man and animal went into action. Pagan flew at Ambroise’s mount again, as Challon’s great sword came down, clanging against the blade of the younger Pendegast.

  Determined to give Challon time to handle Ambroise without John coming at him, she grabbed his sword arm, wrapping both of hers around it and hanging on, rocking in the saddle to topple them. His fist slammed into her shoulder. Her vision darkened as pain lanced through her body. Even so, she held on, buying her husband time.

  Challon spun Pagan on his rear hooves as Ambroise spurred his steed. At first, she thought the man meant to flee, but he yanked the reins, abruptly reversing the horse’s direction, then came headlong at Challon.

  Tamlyn kicked John’s horse, causing it to rear. Whilst they were off balance, she shoved back, forcing them rearward over the horse. Her head connected with John’s chin. Already hurt from Challon’s pommel slamming into it, he cried out.

  Slamming to the ground, the air was knocked from her lungs, but she struggled to her knees. Only, John was on his feet. Coal-black eyes narrowed on her. Reptilian in their fury, not a dram of mercy was in their stygian depths, as he backhanded her and grabbed her long hair.

  He yanked her head back against his stomach, as he placed a dagger blade to her throat. Tamlyn’s eyes searched for Challon and Ambroise. Their swords rang out as they met, but Challon caught Ambroise with the sweet spot of his sword―where all the power of the blow moved into the opponent. It had hit wrong so all the vibration of the swords meeting transferred into the man’s muscles, making it nearly impossible for him to keep his grip on the hilt. Ambroise’s teeth gritted as be absorbed the blunt of Challon’s blow.

  Challon kneed Pagan into a spinning turn and he came back at Pendegast. Ambroise tried to position himself to meet Challon. It was too late. Challon’s broadsword sliced downward between his opponent’s head and neck, going deep. Limp, Ambroise lifelessly slipped from his mount to the ground.

  Most of Pendegast’s men were down. A handful galloped away. Thankfully, Destain and Guillaume were still seated and unharmed. Damian had been unhorsed, but now remounted his grey steed. Challon jumped from Pagan and walked to where John held her on the ground, the sharp knife tip now pointed to her throat―same as she once had held her sgian dubh to his brother. Remembering the knife in her boot, she carefully shifted to get her hand around it.

  Her action was slow as John held her up, spine nearly bowed. The blade permitted her no movement. Shaking fingers brushed the top of the knife. Stretching, her trembling hand closed about the hilt.

  “Unhand her, John,” Challon commanded softly. “We were not friends, but I respected you as a knight of honor. Never thought you would hide behind a woman’s skirts.”

  “It little matters what I do, Challon. You plan to kill me. The only way I get out of here alive is with your witch.”

  Challon’s long lashes flicked. The movement was so slight no one else could have read him. He was getting ready to move, and flashed her a warning. Tamlyn’s hand under her mantle flexed about the sgian dubh.

  “You are not taking her, John.”

  She felt the man’s muscles tense, as he yanked harder on her hair, stretching and exposing her throat to the long knife blade.

  “Then, we both die here, Lord Dragon.”

  Tamlyn jabbed her small knife into his booted foot. At the same instant, Challon lashed out with his sword, catching the man at his throat. His body stayed upright for a moment, his blood spraying onto her hair. Then, he fell back to the earth.

  With a cry, Tamlyn leapt into Challon’s arms, squeezing him tight, but not as tightly as he held her. He rained kisses over her face and then took her mouth, kissing her hard, kissing her slow, cherishing her. He broke away, his labored breath panting against her hair. “You ever scare me like that again—not once, but twice, I shall beat you. On the loch—oh, Tamlyn, I thought you would drown. I wanted to walk into those icy waters, follow you to your watery grave. Then, to see Pendegast held you…”

  “Poor man.” She laughed through the tears.

  Challon reared back and stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Poor man?”

  “Aye, when you rode up so calmly and invited him to supper and a bath I do no’ think he knew what to expect. You almost had me believing until you mentioned about beating me.”

  He flashed his teeth in a predatory smile. “That part was true. I plan to put my hand to your bottom so you will not be able to sit for a week. Then, the next time you say, aye, Challon, you shall mean it.”

  “You may put a hand to my bottom any time you wish, my lord husband, and I might not be able to stand for a week, but it will not be because you beat me. You would never hit the mother of your two beautiful children.” She glanced down at the milk forming stains on her sark. “Speaking of children, can you please take me home, Julian? I am so tired, and need to feed our bairns.”

  “Aye, wife, I shall take you home.” He helped her to her feet as Pagan pushed against his back with his nose.

  Tamlyn kissed the destrier’s velvety nose and stroked his forehead. “Thank you, mighty steed, for once again protecting our Challon.”

  Julian mounted in the saddle, and then kicked out of the stirrup for her, offering his hand to help her up. He settled her crosswise on his lap. Accepting a mantle from Destain, he hung it about his shoulders and then wrapped the heaviness around them both. He nudged Pagan with his knees to take them home, his brothers and cousin falling in behind them.

  The terror of the moment was catching up with Julian. He was the Dragon of Challon and had done what was necessary to save his lady. And she loved him so. But now, she felt the faint tremors in his muscles.

  “Wife, I love you, but if you ever disobey me―” he began.

  She let out with a small squeal, and shifted on his lap to face him. Wrapping her arms about his waist, she hugged him. “Oh,
Julian!”

  “Stop your wiggling before you unseat us both, Òinnseach.”

  “Do no’ distract me by calling me a fool. You said you loved me!” The smile faded as she searched the green garnet eyes. “Do you mean it, Julian?”

  He leaned forward and ever so gently kissed the corner of her mouth. “I love you, Tamlyn. How could you not know it? I think I have always loved you…always will.”

  “But you never told me.”

  He chuckled, then exhaled a deep sigh. “Have you told me, wife, that you love me?”

  “No, but―”

  “Och, Tamlyn fair, has golden hair. She won my heart from the start―”

  “Julian, that be dreadful.”

  “Some things need no words, Tamlyn. I am a warrior, not a silly bard prancing around using words like love to where they have no value. I show you my love each time I take you into my arms, every time I look at you. Still, if you want me to recite dread rhymes―”

  “No, rhyme, Julian, just three words.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “I love you, Tamlyn Challon.”

  Epilogue

  Cha laigh na siantan anns na speuran.

  (The Storm rest no’ in the Skies.)

  Mar as luaithe a’ ghailleann,‘s ann as cruaidhe a’ ghailleann.

  (The swifter the storm, the stronger the storm.)

  Mar cleas, mar sin bithidh e.

  (As foreseen, so shall be.)

  — Auld Scots Adages

  High atop Dunstrathraven Tòrr, Julian finally found the object of his search. He paused before the breathtaking panorama, looking far out into their valley and the two beyond. Lands of Kinmarch, lands his sons―and daughter―would one-day rule. Tamlyn had heard his approach. The Kenning likely alerted her to his near silent steps. But then, Tamlyn needed no fey craft, since she sensed his nearness at all times. She turned her head in a fleeting glance over her shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.