RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  RavenHawke

  Deborah Macgillivray

  Chapter One

  May Day night, 1296 - Glen Shane, Scotland

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  RavenHawke

  Dragons of Challon – Book Two

  by

  Deborah Macgillivray

  RavenHawke

  COPYRIGHT © 2007, 2017 by Deborah Macgillivray

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Printing: August 2007

  Reprint of Original Novel: 2017

  For

  the late Dawn Thompson

  Monika Wolmarans

  and the GEMs (Green-Eyed Men)

  and

  Sandi!

  and

  Candy

  Rave Reviews for A Restless Knight

  "Deborah magically takes you to stand amidst the heather & mist of another time...breathtaking beautiful, award-caliber writing." —NY Times Best-selling Author, Lynsay Sands

  "This IS historical romance. If any among us need a poster child for the genre. A RESTLESS KNIGHT is IT!” — Dawn Thompson, bestselling author of The Ravencliff Bride

  "Like a bard of old, MacGillivray spins a tale of knights and ladies, battles of will and trials by combat, myth and magic and sexual tension..." — Kathe Robins, Romantic Times

  "With lyrical prose and fascinating characterization, Ms. Macgillivray transports the willing reader to a time and place that is filled with magical superstitions, pagan rituals and a deep love of a land long coveted by the English." ― Deborah Kimpton - Romance Junkies

  "If readers are looking for a beautifully written story full of passion and love, set against the brilliant backdrop of the medieval Scottish highlands, then A Restless Knight by Deborah MacGillivray is bound to be a winner." — Kelly Hartsell, CK2S Kwips and Kritiques,

  "With a deft touch that seems blessed by the ancient bards themselves, the author pens a brilliant, breathtaking novel that sweeps you off into the untamed and magical world of the Scots, and more over a man and a woman who refused to bow to suppression."

  — Charissa Dionne, Coffee Time Romance

  Best Historical of the Year! A Restless Knight is one of the best books I have read this year. It is a totally beautiful and amazing book and a must read for fans of Scottish and Medieval historical romance. ―Beverly Meier, Beverly Romance Reviews

  Author Deborah MacGillivray does this period with a style and grace befitting the noble Knights and Clans of Yore. The author seemed to breathe life into her characters! Highly recommended reading! ―Detra Fitch, The Huntress Reviews

  Deborah Macgillivray is very familiar with this time and place as her biography will attest, and she weaves an engrossing tale of conquest and romance that had me scarcely aware of my modern-day surroundings. Kudos, Ms. Macgillivray, for a most rewarding read. ―Donna Hauf, Cata-Romance Reviews

  The haunting, almost poetical writing is spellbinding as Deborah MacGillivray demonstrates that she is truly a gifted storyteller!―Debbie Wiley, Ck2s Kwips and Kritiques

  Chapter One

  Her flashing eyes, her flame-red hair! -

  How did this Lady of power and delight,

  Choose to start her spells that night?

  — B Badger

  May Day night, 1296 - Glen Shane, Scotland

  “You leave the Beltaine festivities, Damian?” Guillaume Challon asked.

  “The smoke from the fire…sees my head spin. I feel…unwell.” Damian St. Giles had not actually uttered a lie to his cousin.

  He was sick.

  Not a typical ailment that might afflict a warrior who had lived with a sword in his hand for too many years. This disease rotted his soul. Devoured his heart. Had he been born a man of lesser character, he could easily have considered murder as a means of curing his sickness. A shame he had scruples. Murder would simplify the situation. But alas, he was a man with principals.

  Little noticing the joyful May Day celebration about him, Damian turned away from the balefire. With mixed emotions, he paused and glanced over his shoulder at his cousin, Julian Challon. Taller than most of these Scots, strong, black-haired, a sinfully handsome man, Challon―the feared Black Dragon, once the king’s champion―was now the new earl of Glenrogha, lord of this valley and beyond.

  At age five, Damian had been sent to serve as a page for Michael Challon at Castle Challon in Normandy. Three years younger, Damian worshipped Julian. Later, he stayed to train as squire, then knight under the hand of Julian’s lord father. With his black hair and green eyes so like the Challon sons, everyone assumed Damian another bastard dragon in Earl Michael’s litter.

  Riches and glory had come to Julian, his birthright as the Challon heir. Damian truly loved his cousin, honored him above all others; not once had he ever begrudged Julian any of the accolades which had fallen to him. Over the decades their bond had only strengthened. It was a privilege to serve Julian, to stand at his side in battle, along with Guillaume, Destain and Darian―Julian’s bastard half-brothers, and their cousins Noel de Servian and Redam Maignart. The Dragons of Challon, folk whispered. Men feared them. Women wanted them. Too many times to tally, they had saved each other’s lives.

  All these years, he’d been proud to stand in his cousin’s shadow and not see the specter of envy. Never had he envisaged anything could come between them.

  Sighing, he closed his eyelids and struggled against the overwhelming despair washing through him. Because he did care for Julian, these circumstances were so difficult to bear. Sucking in a ragged breath to fortify himself, he opened his eyes and looked at his cousin. Though he tried not to, he also searched the throng circling the balefire, seeking Tamlyn MacShane, lady of Glenrogha.

  Tamlyn.

  The woman who should have been his.

  When he failed to locate her, he glanced once more to Julian, words rising up within him. Futile words. Words he wouldst never speak. Had there been even a crumb of hope to change his cousin’s mind, Damian would humble himself before all, go down on his knees in a plea to Julian, and beg him to release Tamlyn from their betrothal.

  He knew it would serve naught. His cousin wanted Tamlyn beyond reason.

  Aye, their King Edward decreed that his Dragon wed one of the Earl Kinmarch’s daughters. Julian had chosen the youngest, Tamlyn. A royal edict had naught to do with why Julian planned to take the Lady Tamlyn to wife. His cousin burned for her, craved to possess her with a driving need that was
frightening. And in a sad way, Damian was happy for Challon. Too long, Julian’s soul had suffered in torment. The fey Tamlyn had the power to heal him, make him whole once more. Save him. And clear to all—Tamlyn was in love with Julian.

  Damian knew Julian treasured the brotherly bond they shared. Only, no man would come between Challon and his bride-to-be. Without hesitation, he would kill to own Tamlyn. He had already warned Damian of this.

  In frustration, he bit back words that would merely turn his cousin’s favor from him. Drowning his sorrow in mead was the only course that could see him through this night.

  Tilting up the leather horn, he cursed to find it empty. Strange, he did not recall imbibing that much. He started to fling it away, when a huge man knocked against him.

  Reeling, dizzy from the drink, he first assumed he had walked into a small mountain. His eyes traveled up the wall of unmoving flesh, and gawked, his mind trying to come to grips with what he beheld. Tall, of Norse blood, the stranger stood in a defensive position before three young lads.

  Damian conceded he had drunk too much, but then, it was not the first time. Still, never before had he experienced double vision―nay—triple vision.

  The three young men appeared exactly alike, except for clothing. Same light red hair, narrow, effeminate countenances, same hazelnut eyes. They were dressed too finely to be anything but highborn. When he peered at their features he could hardly tell one from the other. Triplets? What Devil’s work was this?

  Mayhap the Scots put something more into mead than just honey? He blinked thrice, hoping to see only one smiling face, yet when he opened his eyelids they remained. Grinning at him, their countenances beamed delight for some unknown reason. Damn unnerving!

  Damian’s attention was pulled away as the Culdee―priest of the Auld Celtic Church―tossed dried herbs into the bonfire. The smoke thickened and spiraled outward, the scent heady, intoxicating. Sweat beaded on his brow.

  The one in the middle held out his hand. “Hugh Ogilvie.”

  Still puzzled, Damian accepted it. “Damian St. Giles, Lord RavenHawke.”

  Hugh nudged his look-alike to the left, who nudged back, then Hugh poked the brother on the right. That one sniggered, earning him a thump from the elbow, too, this time sharper, meant to silence him.

  The one to the right offered him a cup. “I am Lewis. Try this, kind Sir. ’Tis a special brew. Made of heather, ale of the Picts.”

  A feral war-scream jerked Damian’s attention back to the celebration.

  A man soared over the flames of the sunken fire, almost seeming to split the smoke. Clad in doeskin breeches, they molded to his legs by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh. He wore naught else, though a mask with antlers of a large buck sat upon his head. He executed high leaps, kicking to fly through the air, then with the grace of a cat, landed before Challon.

  “Drink,” Lewis urged, “and all your wishes shall come true.”

  “Wishes, bah,” Damian scoffed. “Wishes are for fools. I just need to drink ’til I forget what cannot be mine.”

  Hugh pushed his elbow. “It shall do that, aye. Mayhap more…even grant all your deepest desires.”

  Nothing to lose, Damian shrugged and downed the contents of the tin cup, its fire spreading through his body. “I hope it does. This night I have need of it.”

  The last triplet refilled his cup, his words sounding as if they ran together. “I am Deward, come, drink your fill, it shall give your thoughts ease. You are not from hereabouts, Lord Damian, you travel far?”

  “Nay, I come northward on a mission for Edward Longshanks.”

  “Then you do not stay at Glenrogha to serve your lord brother?” Lewis inquired.

  “Challon is not my brother. I am but a mere cousin. I merely tarry to see him settled here, then I move on to claim the holding of my grandfather.”

  The three men looked to each other, then grinned. “Cousin, you say? You look like him enough to be his mirror. Such as we are.”

  Feeling the effects of the strange brew, his mood suddenly lightened. All the pageantry around the balefire receded to darkness as Damian laughed. “I am taller…and prettier.”

  The three idiots’ smiles grew even wider, with Deward―at least Damian thought it was Deward―concurring in his run on fashion. “Oh, aye, muckle prettier, I think, do you not agree, Brothers, near perfect, just what is needed, seems the hand of Fate, eh?”

  The heads of the other two bobbed their agreement. “Oh, aye. Perfect, indeed.”

  The melody lowered, pulling Damian’s attention to a lone piper, playing a haunting refrain. The notes floated on the warm night air, swirled around him and filled his brain. The music sparked a deep, sexual throb within his blood, consuming his will. Hushed whispers descended over the gathering, followed by the crowd sucking in a collective breath.

  Then Damian saw her.

  Tamlyn.

  Stepping into the glow of the balefire, her hands took hold of the long veil she wore. Drawing them up, she raised them skyward. Everyone seemed unable to breathe whilst she remained in that position of supplication, then gradually, she allowed the netting to snake down her arms.

  Bathed in amber firelight, Tamlyn’s kirtle was gold, spun from Highland magic. It clung to her body, with splits up both her thighs. A chaplet of apple blooms crowned her unbound, honey-colored hair, rippling in the soft breeze. A heavy gold torque was about her neck and matching cuffs on her wrists, the only thing on her bare arms.

  A Pictish princess conjured from timeless Scottish mists.

  And Damian wanted her more than he ever wanted anything in life.

  A second piper joined the first, playing the haunting tune, as Tamlyn rose up on her bare toes and swayed, rocking to the accent of the drum. The throbbing beat of the bodhran provided cadence for the wanton roll of her hips. When the music swelled, bagpipers joined in. Her body undulated in a dance so carnal, so profane, that a blinding wave of lust seized Damian. The wall of desire slamming into him, through him, proved nearly crippling.

  Tamlyn circled the fire. Her lithe, feline movements gained force, matching the power of the melody as she kicked her legs out and spun. She flung the net about, trailing it behind her like wings.

  Held spellbound, the pounding of his heart echoed the drum, his blood thickening until he was lightheaded. He felt sick. This woman was not his. Would never be his. Unable to take his eyes from her, he watched as she danced on air, lifted by the strange music. A tune that had a life, a magic, all its own.

  Only she danced for Julian. Just Julian.

  Damian reeled from the sense of loss, a pain so deep his heart almost ceased to beat. For years, that face had haunted his dreams, the woman who would be his. Instead, she danced for his cousin. How could his visions―which had never failed him before―be so wrong in this?

  Hugh filled his cup again. “Come, fair stranger, drink your fill. Forget what pains you.”

  Damian did as they encouraged, eager to embrace anything that might hold the power to see him not remember. This time the effect seemed even stronger, burning a path to his stomach, the fever of the brew coursing through him. Glancing back to the fire, he saw Julian now danced with Tamlyn. The dance a prelude to mating. With a blistering anguish, he knew his cousin would take Tamlyn this night, and make her his. The people of Glenrogha viewed this as the grand rite, a mating of the Lord of the Glen and the Queen of May. A good omen for Clan Shane and Clan Ogilvie.

  Closing his eyes, he swayed, sickened to the bottom of his soul. Everything about him swirled until he feared he would pass out.

  “Kind sir, you appear wan. Come, drink,” Hugh encouraged, once again refilling his cup. “Let it soothe what ails your troubled soul.”

  His warrior’s mind warned mayhap they offered a drugged potion, though he knew not why. It little mattered. He glanced to see Julian kissing Tamlyn before the balefire. Nothing mattered anymore. Not giving a bloody damn, Damian eyed the cup, flecks of herbs floating on the
liquid’s surface, then lifted it to his mouth and downed it in one swallow.

  ♦◊♦

  “Your brothers have returned, rode hard to get back to Lyonglen.” The old woman pressed, “You must hurry. The night wanes.”

  Aithinne Ogilvie nodded, glaring at the goblet in her hand. Specks of herbs swirled and danced on the cider’s surface. “You are sure?”

  The healer smiled. “Now you ask that question. Thought you were set on this path and naught could deter you.”

  Lightheaded, stomach nervous, Aithinne watched the pattern of the powder on the liquid shift in the cup. “Then, it was talk. Now―”

  Oonanne cackled, slowly circling her. “Now, you have a braw man, naked as the day he was born, chained to the bed in the tower. Soon he awakens. Delay not. Drink the potion. Do the deed. You must lie with him for the seven nights of the waxing moon, and more than once a night. As many times as he will take you. I cast the Runes. They speak your path.”

  “Och, you and those Norse ways. You are a Scot, Cailleach.”

  “Hold the insults, Aithinne Ogilvie. I may be an old woman, but I am not the Crone Goddess. This night is our Beltaine. Great magic rises. It touches your cousin Tamlyn at Glenrogha, and like the reflection of a mirror, it affects your life, as well. Omens bespeak of a great coming. Tides of change ride on the mounting wind. ’Tis the will of the Auld Ones.”

  “Still…” Now the time had come to act, she hesitated to take this final step.

  Oonanne smiled, her amber eyes reflecting aspects of a cat’s. “Kenning your brothers and their soft ways, they did well fetching this one back for you. Any woman still drawing breath would want him in her bed. Ooooo, he be a bonnie man that stands out amongst many.”