A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Read online

  Julian’s hand holding the cloth dropped slowly, as he studied the reaction to his words. “By Edward’s command, they dismantle the castle as we speak. Naught shall be left standing, but a pile of fine Scottish stones.”

  “And the earl?” Tears formed in the large eyes, threatening to spill.

  There was a strange pressure in his chest, as he watched her fighting her fears. What was it about those damnable gold eyes that had such power to reach him? Julian found it hard to look away from them. “So, you care for the earl.” No question, just a flat statement of his inference.

  “Please,” she beseeched.

  Ah, the puzzle was unriddled—she was the Lord Hadrian’s lover. Foreign sensations invaded his body, increasing as he recognized he resented her feelings for the earl of Kinmarch. He was jealous! Why now, why summoned by this fey Scots lass, a stranger who for some proof did not feel like a stranger?

  Naught felt the same since coming into this pagan glen.

  “He lives.” Wishing the man did not, he informed her, “Edward ordered him made prisoner and transported to York. The governor shall hold him there until the king crosses back over the River Tweed and onto English soil. The Earl Hadrian and the Lord Douglas, former governor of Berwick Castle, shall be carried to Westminster to stand trial, accused of lèse-majesté. Edward intends to make examples of all nobles foolish enough to support Balliol in his blear-witted rebellion.”

  She forgot about clutching the torn sark. Folding her hands together, she dropped to her knees. Her lips moved in a singsong chant, but his Scots was too limited to understand this dark tongue.

  Julian observed her Madonna pose for several breaths, until he could abide it no longer. Sensations burned as quicklime, eating at his innards. Never had he known jealousy was physical as well as a plague of the mind. Damn the bones of saints and sinners! He little liked this queer possessing madness, a distemper that made a stranger of himself. Unable to endure watching her shed tears for another man Julian stalked off.

  Weary of it all, he leaned back against the trunk of a silver birch tree. By the Rood, he wished matters done. He was so bloody tired of war, fed up to the gills with Edward’s insatiable greed and uncontrollable rages.

  Julian knew he had lost the warrior’s edge. The taste of battle was now rancid, and with each day’s passing grew more unpalatable. There had been too many wars, too many friends or relations gone for vague, tenuous causes, dead, food for ravens on some foreign field of battle. Their lifeless faces still haunted his memory.

  Then, there were the poignant eyes of his brother Christian...pleading. He squeezed his eyelids tight to block out the crippling image.

  This strange disease of spirit was killing him from within, slowly. Agonizingly. Atrophying his very soul. After decades of unquestioning allegiance to Edward, never once raising word whether his king was right, the cause just, Julian could endure the charnel house of war no more.

  Wales had been bad enough. Only, it grew worse. In his unreasoning hatred of the Scots, Longshanks was poisoned. His virulent Angevin temper—rivaling that of Henry II—had changed into a black malignancy, as if he were an apostate of Satan. No telling where it would all end.

  Julian wished his eyes had been closed at Berwick. Instead, it served as an epiphany.

  War should be honorable, but all Round Table chivalry had been put asunder. What the Plantagenet charged his host to do in the sack of Berwick held no laurels for bards to laud. Sights, sounds and smells lingered vividly, unwanted within Julian’s tormented memory. Hideous visions persecuted his infrequent sleep. His dreams were made Hell.

  If Julian could find some measure of peace in this mist-shrouded land, he would ask for naught more and count himself favored indeed. Let Edward be done with Balliol, depart this North Country. Hurry to challenge the will of France, go far away...forget Julian Challon exists.

  Allow the legend of the Dragon of Challon to fade into fable.

  When someone now addressed him as the Black Dragon he almost laughed. Nonetheless, it was a shield, a mask he would don to reach simple goals. The mere name Challon had panicked the garrison at Lochshane to surrender. If in luck’s fickle regard he remained, he would soon see same at Kinloch and Glenrogha. After securing the holdings, he would use the legend to scare off those who might try to take any part of his new lands. Only a fool would dare the temerity to reive cattle from the great Black Dragon.

  Relief filled him when Lochshane came over without the first arrow being loosed. None were hurt. His occupation was bloodless. If the two sister demesnes followed suit, in time he might be able to sleep once again.

  Guillaume and Destain galloped up. He smiled at his father’s sons. More importantly, they were his friends—something he did not call many men. Born to his lord father’s leman before his own birth, neither was able to inherit lands or titles due to their bastardy. Julian was protective of both men. No man dared insult the openly acknowledged brothers of the Dragon of Challon—and live to boast. Ever steadfast at his side, they stood against all, shielding his back so he fought with no fear. Never had either gainsaid him nor permitted their bastard birth to embitter them.

  For their loyalty, he would reward one with Lochshane, the other Kinloch. Julian’s plans were to claim Glenrogha for himself, unite the holding with the lands of Kinmarch, and take the Countess Tamlyn MacShane as lady-wife—twisted spine, hairy mole and all. Anything for peace!

  No more Edward and his spiraling greed for bigger kingdoms and greater glories for the First Knight of Christendom. No court intrigues and dark machinations. No more war. Julian’s time had finally come.

  “Your tent awaits, Lord Brother,” Destain informed him with a grin, leading the two stallions to the water’s edge beside Lasher.

  His expression the opposite, Guillaume frowned. “You should seek rest, Julian. Your head aches when you push hard as you have this fortnight past.”

  He was tired, mentally more than physically. “We may all take rest. Time enough before my next move.”

  Pushing away from the tree, he strode to the kneeling woman and lightly touched her shoulder, hoping not to startle her. Her skin burned like a brand through the thin baize. In desperate hunger, he wanted to pull her to him, absorb that heat into his being. He had been cold for so long.

  Despite his care, she flinched, the large cat-eyes widening in alarm. Julian’s mouth pressed into a hard line, not caring for her reaction to him. In a soft voice, he commanded, “Arise, my fool,” and offered his hand to her.

  Since she no longer clutched the front of the torn sark, it gaped, affording Julian a tantalizing glimpse of the curves of her breasts. His gut clenched painfully in response. Desire rolled through his entire body like thunder.

  He was surprised she accepted his hand to help rise on unsteady feet. She wobbled. He caught her upper arms to lend balance. The haunting amber eyes slowly lifted, and in an instant frozen in time’s fabric, they locked with his, ensorcelling him with pulsing, ambient power. A witch’s power. A dark fire that burned straight to his soul.

  Affixed by her cat-eyes, he was lured with the fathomless depths. So many extremes eddied there...almost as if echoes from the distant past. Julian felt time suspend and bend in on itself, and the world narrowed to only this woman before him. All he could hear was the erratic pounding of his heart, the rhythm echoed by hers, and the cool air stirring gently through the new leaves of the silver birch trees. It hurt to draw breath. Lightheaded, he felt the whole world spin out of control.

  He tried to resist the peculiar spell she cast by apologizing. “I regret the harm inflicted by my knights. They were under orders not to touch the females in this glen. Sadly, when nations make war women oft suffer most. Rest assured, they shall be punished for disobeying.”

  The woman nodded. She seemed perplexed that the great Dragon of Challon apologized. He supposed dragons were not thought to act contrite. Suddenly, he could almost hear her thoughts: They roared and breathed fire. No matt
er how breathtakingly beautiful, dragons were...dragons.

  Chapter Four

  Chan e sealbh na foatainn.

  (The finding of a thing, be no’ the owning of it.)

  — Auld Scottish Adage

  Julian had his captive sequestered within his tent and a guard placed outside the entrance, whilst he strolled about conferring with his soldiery and knights. The front flaps had been tied back so all could observe her movements. And move she did, pacing with the restlessness of a catamount trapped in a cage.

  With feigned innocence, she glided to the far corner, checking if she could slip under the edge without detection. He raised his hand and signaling the guardsman on station. The man leaned in and cautioned her back to the middle. Julian choked back a laugh as she stuck out her tongue at him, then flopped down with a frustrated thud upon a large chest.

  Julian admired her inner steel. Most women would be cowered given her situation. Not this female. She met their eyes with that witchy direct stare, not flinching, never backing down. A woman of fire.

  Jealous, he felt certain she was the Earl Hadrian’s leman. What man would not covet her, kill to own her...protect her with his very life?

  At English Court two years past, he had been introduced to the flamboyant laird of Clan Shane. A strikingly handsome Scotsman with arresting ice-green eyes, he appeared much younger than his seven and two score years. His wife—countess in her own right—had died nearly a decade past, affixing him as objet of the husband hunts. He seemed disinterested in acquiring another mate, and oddly, the laird displayed the same unhurried attitude in arranging marriages for his lady daughters. Balladeers sang how his marriage to the Lady Deporadh Ogilvie of Glenrogha was a great love-match. Julian found it hard to believe this man—one could almost call beautiful rather than handsome―old enough to have sired three grown daughters.

  The Shane’s daughters drew the interest of hordes of suitors. Worse for them, they had become an obsession with the English monarch. Zealous to see them leg-shackled to staunchly loyal English nobles, Edward smugly jested it was his Seeding of Scotland campaign. Longshanks found he was sorely vexed in dealings with Hadrian MacShane and his lady daughters. In the king’s eyes, they became a symbol of all that was wrong with Scotland.

  ’Twas most unnatural, these females held titles and lands through ancient Pict matriarchal lineage. The earl exhibited a disinclination to go against their archaic laws, which permitted their females the right to select their husbands. Time after time, the daughters refused all alliances proposed by the Plantagenet. Peculiar circumstances that provided fodder for court gossip and fuel for Edward’s volcanic rages. Pursuit of the three continued as they aged, with them showing no inclination to accept any offer—most especial those advanced by the English monarch.

  Eventually, the earl saw the twins wed to Scottish barons, though both were now widowed. Baroness Kinloch lost her husband to a bout of lung fever, whilst the Lady Lochshane’s spouse died quite mysteriously several seasons past. Scandal whispered speculation that the woman had a hand in the man’s untimely departure from this world. Having witnessed the baroness’ poise upon the rampart, such rumors fell within Julian’s belief.

  These Scots females were such a strong breed, unlike any he had encountered. It did not bode well for him in his upcoming dealings with them. It little mattered if they were tiresome and unrepentant. His will was the one that would rule.

  The striking coloring of his fool repeatedly pulled his attention. The shimmering bronze tresses made a man yearn to fist his hands in the silken mass. This fey lass drew him, fascinated him in dark ways that he scarcely understood. He studied his captive, only half listening to his brother’s words, detailing their next move against Glenrogha.

  Julian was average height for a Norman, still she reached to the level of his nose. ’Twas disconcerting. He was used to shorter, frailer women, not one who carried a knife in her boot, or rode a horse astride with chivalric skills. Sir Geoffrey commented she was a superior rider, that had her mount been an equal to their powerful Frisian Warm-Bloods she would have lost them in the chase.

  She jumped up and, once more, took up the agitated prowling. He could watch her do that all night, the graceful sway of those curves. Not only was she taller than most females at court, her hips were wider, rounder. Conceivably, why these Scots numbers seemed endless—their women were formed to cradle a babe with ease. A man’s seed would find fertile purchase within their strong bodies.

  As she paced, Julian envisioned his fool’s belly swollen, heavy from his life within her. She would wear motherhood well, breeding second nature to this sturdy Scots lass. A surge of hot possessiveness spiked in his warrior’s blood, overwhelming him with a yearning to see her carrying his seed, breeding him strong sons.

  Mayhap Julian would claim her as his mistress. He would plant his child deep in her belly, then she would forget to shed tears for the Red Laird of Clan Shane. His lower body pulsed in agreement.

  It would be intriguing to see a child resulting from the mix of their bloods. Which traits would dominate? Was the golden coloring of his fool strong enough to influence the black hair and green eyes that so marked the Challons, when no woman before had altered their ancient line? Heat clawed under his skin as he contemplated if she coupled with a man as fiercely as she had fought his knights.

  Admiration filled him when he first saw her, kneeling, but not humbled. She looked his men in the eye with the strength and power of a warrior. Those poignant gold eyes were so fierce...so vulnerable, though trying not to show it.

  Could that intensity be bent, turned into another violent emotion—passion? His blood quickened as these questions possessed his mind. Julian forced himself to glance away, shaking the overpowering lust raking his thoughts. Or rather, miming pretense he did. He little cared for this lack of control. No woman before held the power to bind his senses so.

  “Guillaume, place a second guard outside my tent. Have drink and food sent.” He paused, the long fingers of his right hand stroking his chin. “Make known—under threat of losing heads—that none save me touches the Scottish demoiselle.”

  Guillaume grinned. “Growing territorial, are we?”

  “We?” Julian shrugged, his sangfroid a mask to cover the fact that Guillaume’s well-aimed arrow found mark. “Glenrogha be mine. All of it.”

  “What say you, Lord Brother?” Destain called Julian’s wayward concentration back to the drawings scratched in the dirt. “Six men should see it done.”

  “’Tis sound. I shall send forth a messenger in the middle of the night when exhaustion dulls their minds. At the gates, he shall inquire about the Lady Tamlyn. Whilst attention focuses to the fore of the fortress, they shan’t spot men flanking their lochside. You remain of mind to attempt this, Destain?”

  “Attempt? There be naught I rise to more than a good stiff challenge. Makes one’s blood surge.” His smile salacious, Destain’s meadow-green eyes flashed in a smirk. “Amongst other things.”

  Inclining his head, Julian altered, “Choose three and ten. I want none harmed in this—especial you, Destain.”

  “Fear not, Julian. Those flanks are the weakness. The Picts were renowned for pegging the best defensive locations. Foolishly, they trust the cliffs. Chances of the lochside being scaled likely never entered their heads. Show certitude, my Lord Brother, and you shall warm your boots in Glenrogha’s Great Hall before dawnbreak,” assured Destain, the Challon reckless streak showing.

  Finding pretext to linger around campfire, Julian spoke to his squires to prolong time’s passage before withdrawing to his tent. Truth be confessed: he avoided her. Julian was undecided—the obdurate warrior’s mind in diametric conflict with primitive mating instincts—over how he planned to handle his Scottish fool. He craved her, and claim her he would since it was his right. First, he needed to ferret out something other to call her. A smart man simply did not command, “Fool, you shall warm my bed.” Not with reasonable expectations of c
ompliance! Women liked to think they had a choice, and rarely did any appreciate being called a fool.

  When he could conjure no further excuses to procrastinate, he slowly treaded toward the tent and the arousing, yet perplexing problem housed there...feeling as if his soul were being placed in the balance.

  Chapter Five

  She cannot fight a craft so strong,

  nor wouldst her mind cipher to resist...

  So she surrenders.

  — Adrian Ogilvie-Macgillivray

  His squire Moffet set coals in the brazier, to dispel the biting Highland chill. Working to get the flames to catch, he pretended to ignore the pacing woman.

  She stopped and put her hands on her hips, then gave him the sharp edge of her tongue. “Och, why not just ask the bloody Dragon to breathe fire on them?”

  An eager lad, he would never dare speak to a prisoner without Julian passing leave. Julian saw Moffet suppress a smile. Clear in his eyes, the lad liked her and admired her feisty spirit.

  But then, so did Julian. After what she had been through, one might expect her to be trembling and cowering in the corner. Not this Scots lass. She was born of fire and had a spine of steel.

  Moffet, poor boy, was at that awkward stage of growth—age four and ten. Long and lanky, nearly as tall as Julian now, he was transmuting from child-to-man within the passings of a few moons. One could almost hear bones creaking. Rushing about to please his liege, he oft tripped, unused to his new larger feet. Kinsman, he was bastard son of Julian’s second-cousin, Damian St. Giles.

  His Challon blood—from his father’s side—showed in his midnight hair and vivid green eyes. At times, it pained Julian to stare upon Moffet. He was the living image of Julian’s youngest brother, Christian. Blest with a rare and gentle nature, Moffet could conjure a smile from him even when Julian’s mind was in the blackest of malaise. Since Christian’s death, he found smiling difficult, thus he treasured these moments of respite with the lad, and was glad Damian had sent him for training.