Chapter One

"…that something in thyne dominion, heed it be a dragon…"

— the Mabinogion

Highlands of Scotland, April 1296

"My lady! My lady!"

The shrill cry rent the stillness of the remote Highland glen. Startled, scores of ravens took wing, blotting out the sky. Their cacophony echoed the call… my lady, my lady . For a peculiar instant, the world held its breath as the heavens were turned black.

Tamlyn MacShane paused from picking the first violets of spring. Straightening from the stooped-over position, she arched her shoulders to relieve the crick in her back. Loch winds were lifting, sweeping up the steep incline. They swirled about her with ghostly, playful hands, tugging wisps of her honey-colored hair from the simple braid hanging down her back. Whilst the heavy mass had nary a curl, 'twas imbued with a will all its own.

Brushing stray strands from her face, her eyes followed the spiraling path of the noisy blackbirds.

An ill omen, The Kenning whispered to her mind.

A frisson of disquiet snaked up her spine. Her fey gift to sense things, and the strange behavior of the birds, summoned fragments of the lingering nightmare that had awakened her this morn. Vague, just at the edge of her thoughts...something about screaming ravens and a coming storm. She shivered.

"‘ Blackbirds fleeing before noontidesun, fate changes before the day be done . '" She repeated the augury in a hushed tone.

When the lad topped the crest of the tòrr, he screamed once more, "My lady! He comes!"

Shaking the somber fit of mind, Tamlyn smiled at the boy tumbling to a stop at her feet. " Och , Connor Og , catch a breath before you turn the shade of these violets."

"My garron tossed me. Ye needs must come, my lady," he gasped, "so they can bar the gates."

"Pray tell, who cometh that we needs must close Glenrogha's gates? You ken our portcullis remains open to all men of honor."

" Him ...the one heard tell about." The words were whispered in fear, as if speaking of him would conjure his presence. "Riders...from Dun Lochshane...with word—Kinmarch was put to siege by the English king—the dread Edward Longshanks. Raised the dragon standard, they did. Yer Da...be afeard dead." Tears streaked down his dusty face.

Hadrian of Kinmarch dead? Nonsense! With the power of The Kenning , she would have felt that. "The laird is no' dead, paiste . I'd ken it here." Her fisted hand clenched at the center of her chest.

A frown crossed the lad's face at her calling him child. After all, he'd see three and ten years, come May. His expression softened. "Mayhap it be so. Ye were touched by the blood of the Sidhe . Still, he comes. His standards were sighted on the road from Lochshane...already near the Sacred Passes —the green dragon on the field of black!"

"The Dragon of Challon―Edward's fist! He comes?" For an instant laughter bubbled up in her throat. Was this a jest? A dragon coming on St. George's Day? Her heart jumped as if she had taken a pinch too much foxglove.

Since Longshanks' quest to control Scotland had begun, all on this side of the Marches feared the legendary Dragon of Challon. Tales of the Dragon's prowess in Wales brought a cold dread even to hard-bitten warriors. Rumors spread as wildfires through the Highlands this sennight past about the sack of Berwick, tales too ugly for Tamlyn to contemplate.

"Hie, Connor Og , catch your garron. I shall fetch my palfrey. Speed haste to Glenrogha. Do no' look back."

Forgetting the basket of harvested violets, Tamlyn rushed to the far side of the knoll where she had hobbled the dapple-grey. Content munching grass, Bansidhe ignored her, as she knelt to unfasten the leather bands around its fetlocks. Pushing her mantle over her shoulders, she gathered the reins and attempted to mount.

Wishing to remain and eat her fill of the spring faerygrass , the horse jerked the lead from her hands. Elders spake few animals could partake of the blades touched by the feet of the Unseelie Court — Trooping Faeries who danced on the high tors by light of the new moon.

"I care no' if the Wee Ones think you especial. Do not fash me, or speak I shall to the tanner about lining my new mantle with a dapple pelt. You ken, you silly beastie?"

The mare's head snapped up with the recoil of a whip, its whole body stiffening. Taking advantage, Tamlyn scrambled up on its back whilst the animal's attention affixed to the distance. The palfrey ignored her heels kicking against its barrel, as it issued a shrill whinny.

A queer rumble came in the distance, deep as thunder from a summer storm, only steady, persistent. The sound sent a shiver up her spine, the eerie noise preternatural—almost with the portent of the Bansidhe's wail. Once more, dark impressions rose of the nightmare that had broken her slumber at dawn. Dismissing the queer feeling, Tamlyn assumed a storm must be amassing on the other side of the passes. She turned to scrutinize the hills ringing Glen Shane. The morning sky near Dun Kinmarch was strangely grey.

First the ravens, now the coming storm. Coldness streaked with icy fingers through her soul...as if someone of great power had just crossed through the Sacred Passes.

Finally, the horse obeyed the tug on the reins. Tamlyn felt driven to reach Glenrogha. Her mantle flying behind, she leaned forward and encouraged her mount to a swifter pace. Once they had covered the flatland, she glanced over her shoulder. The skyline above Kinmarch was blacker. The Kenning keened warning: no storm filled the heavens with this spreading shadow.

Topping the rise, Tamlyn spotted warriors mounted upon heavy horses of war, pouring into the glen. Normans! The Mists of Warding that had shielded the Sacred Passes of Glen Shane for centuries now failed to hide their vale! How could this be?

A vanguard emerged from the stand of ancient evergreens. Breaking away, several riders traveled at a swift clip. Their monstrous horses chewed up the turf with broad strides. At first, she thought they had not spotted her. Their shouts told otherwise. Slapping the reins against her horse's neck, Tamlyn chose a path into the grove, where it curved around the tòrr , and then along the steepening cliffs of Loch Shane Mòhr . She used the narrow trail to wind through dense oaks, limes and elms.

The horsemen were compelled to pick their way through the undergrowth of rose briars, honeysuckle vines, and woodbine. Smaller framed, her horse wove like a needle, threading passage through the forest. She breathed easier as the pursuers lagged behind.

Her best hope was to flank the knights, then double back to Glenrogha. By using the old sea caves that connected to the original Pict broch, she could come up within the safety of her fortress. Breaking free of the weald, she urged Bansidhe onward.

Five riders cleared the trees on the edge of Glenrogha's dead-angle. The fear provoking warhorses churned soft dirt clants high in the air.

Tamlyn's mantle flew into her face, tangling about her arms and the bridle, costing precious time she could ill-afford. It forced her to abandon plans of using the tidal caves. Had she reached them, she would only reveal their existence to the knights following. That path was now blocked. The only option left was to head for her other sister's fief of Dun Kinloch.

Her lips pressed thin as she felt the palfrey's straining exertion. If she could reach the forest of Kinloch, escape would be within grasp. Suddenly, the mare's hoof hit a depression in the rain-soaked earth, sending Tamlyn and the horse flying heels over head. Impact of slamming into the ground pushed her toward blacking out. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, and then nearly fell as searing pain shot up her right leg.

Three warriors were upon her before the dizziness lifted. Shaking, she warily faced the enemy whilst they dismounted. With the twisted ankle, she could not run. In cornered animal panic, she tried to shove past them. Laughing, taunting, they propelled her from one to the other—pack dogs tormenting their helpless prey. The fine surcoats were the green and black of the Dragon of Challon, the dragon rampant emblazoned upon their chests.

"Comely wench," one avowed. He shoved the mail hood off his head.

Tamlyn knew she was tall for a Scots lass, yet she was forced to look up at these Norman warriors. With helms off, their sable hair gleamed, a match to their piercing onyx eyes.

"If all wenches in this heathen land be so winsome, mayhap the move northward offers sport," one said. "Come, give us a kiss, wench."

"I'd rather kiss a bloody leper!" Tamlyn spat the words. Never would she allow them to see she tasted fear.

"No lepers here, howbeit, you may lavish kisses upon my pet snake ." The others laughed when the knight lowered his dark brown head to hers.

Tamlyn flinched as the meaning behind the Norman words registered. Widening, her eyes stared in revulsion. She shoved against his covered breastplate, sending him backward against the blood-bay warhorse.

The younger warrior stepped to box her in. He used a soothing voice one would affect to calm an untrained hawk or horse. "No need to fear us, sweetling. We be a damn sight cleaner than your filthy, skirt-clad countrymen."

Tamlyn swallowed the lump in her throat, The Kenning seeing into their dark thoughts. These vile dogs of Edward Longshanks intended to rape her! Forcing back the mind-numbing dread, she focused on reaching the sgian dubh in her boot. Beginning a Spell of Warding, her lips barely mouthing the ancient words of empowerment, " Adhnadhe anthroxs oothras beytharde dethiale deindhe ―" She paused, dread spreading through her as she realized the ancient enchantment of protection summoned the breath of the dragon!

Wrapped up in casting the charm, Tamlyn was caught off guard. The youngest knight seized her about the waist, then spun her around, pushing her back against another man.

Two more mounted warriors cantered up, Edward's mercenaries who wore the colors of the Plantagenet scarlet and gold. Three faded golden leopards were on their surcoats. One called, "Might knowed Sir Dirk would flush out a bit of quim."

Tamlyn pushed this knight as she had the other. Solid, immovable, he towered over her. Hard eyes of polished jet roamed over her peasant's sark .

Placing a hand on either shoulder, Sir Dirk slid them up her throat, a bizarre gesture of threat and sensuality that paralyzed her. "Prove you a surprise. Warned we were that Scots females be sisters to swine, and had blue scales upon their bellies and breasts."

Her blood vibrated. "Take your filthy hands off me, you Sasunnach tailed dog."

"These prideful Scots be raised with tongues too free. Once under English rule, we'll stomp the sass out of them. Let them learn the force of Edward's Peace ," the second warrior growled, "startin' with this bitch."

She tried to push away from the dark knight. Repulsed, Tamlyn watched as his hands splayed over her flesh. An angelic smile curved his hatefully pretty face, as he clutched the bodice in his fists and ripped it down the middle. The thin woolen-baize offered little resistance. Cheeks burning bright, her hands flew up, trying to cover her full breasts.

"Wha' color are her nipples?" a mercenary growled, rapaciously licking his cracked lips.

Sword-calloused hands took hold of her wrists. Bending them back, the knight compelled Tamlyn to release the grip on the torn sark. He leaned toward her and lowered his mouth to the slope of her pale breast. Her twisting against his hold only elicited an evil grin. Foul darkness possessed this man's soul.

"Truly, Dirk of Pendegast deserves his name. Finest swordsman of the Black Dragon be he," one laughed.

The knight nudged the material of the ripped sark with his nose until her left breast was exposed. Leering, he proclaimed, "The colors, Sir Knights—milky white breast tipped by a nipple of dusky sand, crowned with a berry pink. No scale of any shade."

Seething humiliation and rage, her body arched as his hot lips latched around her areola and sucked painfully hard. A whimper, a wounded animal sound shuddered through her. Tears scalded her eyes. Again, she commenced the Charm of Making , this time to draw within herself, bespell her mind far away where it could not be touched, tainted by the ugliness of their crude brutality.

"Want us to hold her down for ye?" a warrior offered.

The tall knight bore her down to the ground with the weight of his body. His muscular thigh pushed through the split in the long mail hauberk, shoving roughly between her legs. Swallowing bile, Tamlyn nearly strangled on the bitter, hot taste. She was terrified she might vomit, fearful she would drown in it as they raped her.

Her shaking fingers brushed the top of the knife. As Sir Dirk raised up slightly, to fumble with the lacings on his chausses , her trembling hand closed about the hilt.

One man heralded a warning. "Knife!" Too late .

"Get up!" Tamlyn wedged the razor-honed blade against her attacker's throat, forcing him to rise. "Else I shall split your gullet and watch your blood water the earth." Pearls of blood beaded from the pressure of the knife.

Another knight came up behind her. His calloused hands wrapped around her wrist. The sudden movement jerked the knife tip to gouge into Sir Dirk's flesh in a shallow tear along his jaw.

"Leave go, bitch, else I'll snap your wrist like a pigeon bone," Sir Geoffrey threatened. He squeezed until the knife fell from her grip.

Sir Dirk's countenance soured as his hand traced over his jaw, dragging his long fingers through the oozing blood. Coal-black eyes narrowed on her. Reptilian in their fury, not a dram of mercy was in their empty stygian depths. He roughly smeared his blood across her right breast. "Mayhap I shall kill the whore, then swive her."

He backhanded Tamlyn so hard her ears rang. Blinding pain drove her down on one knee. Blood filled one nostril. More pooled at the back of her throat, tasting coppery. Weak, forced to remain kneeling, her trembling hand pathetically clutched the front of her torn sark. Swallowing fear, Tamlyn tilted her trembling chin up in a display of defiance. She flashed daggers of hatred through unwanted tears, awaiting his next blow. Resigned, she braced herself as he drew back his arm.

"Hold fast!"

A lone rider drove a magnificent black stallion across the dead-angle , bearing down on them, then reined the animal to a halt. The Friesian reared high, so powerful its hooves slashed the air. The warrior dismounted with an inherent grace and the recoiled power of a panther.

Apprehensive, all five knights swung around to face him.

Dropping the other knee, Tamlyn combated flashes before her eyes, her head too heavy to hold up. Hindered by their shifting positions, she saw only glimpses of the sixth man. 'Twas no rush to espy this new knight. No aid or mercy would she expect from one more of their breed. Just another dog from an English king, another man to rape her.

Dread rippled through the group. The immediate posture of the five was that of abject obeisance, evident this warrior held high rank. They parted in deference as a man of medium height strode regally into their center. Though a hand's width shorter than the others, he was not in the least intimidated by the taller men. His was a raw, elemental power never measured by such menial standards, the likes Tamlyn had never encountered. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at him. He moved with élan, belying weight of the metal accoutrements . The armour plates covering his upper arms and thighs, the mail habergeon, mantle and surcoat were black. All black.

He removed the conical helm and pushed back the mail coif. His locks of the same unrelenting shade of pitch were not the severe Norman style of hair-cutting, but long, curling softly about his ears and brushing the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck. Handsome— nay, beautiful —he surely must be born of Selkie blood. Scorching energy discharged from this dark warrior with the sizzle and crackle of lightning. It stirred the air surrounding him.

Tamlyn's breath caught and held.

He handed the helm to Sir Geoffrey, with no more regard than he would afford a lowly squire. With deft precision, he slowly removed the black leathern gauntlets. He passed them off as well. A flick of the sooty lashes bespoke his biting disdain and temporary dismissal. With an arch of a black brow, he conveyed scorn for the other men.

His keen attention fixed on Tamlyn. Even paces away, the penetrating stare sent her to tremble with foreboding. Heads bowed, the others permitted him through to her without one word uttered. Few men wielded such chilling command. Elegant fingers captured her chin, lifting it, forcing her to meet his stare.

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 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.

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 the face, softening the arrogant planes. Glistening with a bluish cast, two jet curls fell over the high forehead, a countenance sinful in ways no mere mortal man had right to be.

Tamlyn sensed a willful, razor-sharp intelligence within this warrior. The last man she would want to face as an adversary.

Images possessed her, singeing her with an ancient fire...of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it would feel to be kissed by this dark knight. Shocked, she nearly reeled back from him. By what means of conjury did he put these visions in her mind? The Sasunnach warrior was dangerously beautiful, a killer-angel with soul-stealing eyes. She trembled with dread, yet could not take her gaze from him.

"My orders were not made clear, hmm?" He rotated to frown at the group, yet never wholly shifting his focus from her. Angry green eyes encountered only down turned, evasive ones.

Skewered by the blistering glare, a mercenary blurted, "Bloody wench pulled a blade on Sir Dirk—cut him, she did." He flipped the knife tip first into the soil at the commander's booted feet.

"After he so chivalrously thought to rape her, eh?" His voice was smooth as black velvet, compelling as the night. He smiled, warmth even flickered in the spellcasting eyes as if he found the situation mirthful. Tamlyn sensed he was far from pleased by their actions. Had he been a cat, his tail would be snapping. "So, a mere Scots wench armed with a small knife held off five— five —of Edward's warriors? I cannot envision you dare the temerity to disobey my command. Not after warned you were to handle these villeins softly."

"We...she..." Sir Dirk's words died under the glower of his liege.

"She be naught but a common wench." The second mercenary spit on the ground. "A castle worker or some swine girl from a croft."

Contempt flashed in the commander's eyes, then they returned to rove over Tamlyn's curves, in a way that declared he missed few details. Nonetheless, it was impossible to scry reactions or emotions there. He kept them shuttered behind a will of iron, a master of the game .

"What's your name, lass?" his husky voice coaxed with a sorcerer's cant, though little masking impatience. He glanced to Bansidhe , grazing not far from them. "No serving wench has a mare of such quality. Howbeit, your clothes are worn, shabby. You work at Glenrogha, demoiselle ?"

Aspects of this warrior set Tamlyn to quaking, more than the others combined. " Bansidhe be mine, my lord."

"How many soldiery be within Glenrogha's curtain wall?" he demanded. His sanguine air conveyed he was used to all obeying him.

"I be a simple lass, my lord. These are men's matters." Tamlyn felt sick considering how few of the guard remained within the bastion. Hadrian had stripped all three of the daughters' holdings of fighting age men for the Scottish King, John Balliol.

A faint lift of his brow signaled his doubt over the humble mien ringing true. "Simple? Not with that unyielding audacity in those gold eyes. You grasp our language." The man observed too much. Grabbing her free wrist, he examined her palm. "Not the hand of a highborn lady—nor a commoner, either. How long can the dun hold against siege?"

"I ken no', my lord. Winter just passed. Supplies should be hard pressed." No truth in her words, the fortress was well stocked and could last many moon's passings.

His lips spread into a smile, slightly lopsided. Totally disarming. Tamlyn suspected this beautiful warrior anticipated no revelations to Glenrogha's strengths or weaknesses. Rather, he tested to descry her responses, judging her .

"I repeat—how be you called?' His soft voice belied a steel underneath. A voice, that if he so chose, could promise dark lures.

" òinnseach ," she replied in private jest, foreseeing this Southron commander could not understand her godforsaken tongue.

Green eyes bore into her for several breaths, then he burst into a peal of laughter. " Fool? Your name is fool?"

Tamlyn's eyes batted, unable to guise astonishment. Likely, she was more startled than he had been when she spoke French.

"Yea, cat-eyes, I comprehend enough of your guttural patter to keep my throat from getting split." He released the grip on her wrist. Bending down on his right knee, he extracted the weapon from the ground, and then wiped the blade on the side of his thigh. "This be a sgian dubh— black knife."

Turning over the elegant weapon, the dark warrior studied the exquisite handle of blackened horn, ending in the carving of a cat's head. Runes covered the base of the ringed knuckle-guard, and an inlay of amber adorned the hilt.

As she struggled to rise, he lifted the hem of her faded kirtle. The hidden sheath for the fancy dagger was lashed inside the edge of the right boot.

"Leave go, Southron ," she hissed, skittish at being touched. Strange, this man did not repulse her the way the others had, but terrified her in a manner she could not understand.

Tucking her knife under his belt, he eyed her in appraisal. "You conjure riddles, my fool . I might presume you be leman to the lord here, only it seems the Earl Hadrian grants the demesnes of Lochshane, Kinloch and Glenrogha to his three lady daughters to hold. In this backward land, men commit the unnatural folly of allowing women to rule fortresses."

"Hadrian MacShane be laird to the lands of Clan Shane, but he gives no power to his lady daughters. They hold titles and fiefs in their own right, as females have for centuries through Clan Ogilvie. Our Rite of Line guarantees this."

"Blatherskite," he scoffed, raising a chuckle from his men, "women thinking they can control a stronghold."

Tamlyn glowered. "Alba breeds women with strength and intelligence. No ease will you discover in the taking of the honours of the Ogilvies."

His sensual mouth lifted at the right corner. "Already I claimed Dun Lochshane, my fool . We met nary resistance."

Clinging to aloof pride, Tamlyn stood her ground whilst he rose, nearly pressing his body against hers. Blood thundered within her as heat from his body buffeted her senses. In spite, she refused to be bullyragged by a man only half a head taller than she. Unblinking, she met his warlock eyes, as his breath fanned across her face.

"Lochshane was taken unawares. Riders reached Glenrogha. You shall find no haste in this undertaking."

"We shall see. We...shall...see." With an arch of his brow, he swung back to the soldiers. "I find little taste for discovering my men acting like a pack of rutting beasts. I shall deal with your disobedience after we take the fortresses. Place her on Lasher. Fetch the palfrey. We rejoin the main thrust of my host."

Fires of Bel! Tamlyn faced the terrible Black Dragon! She should have guessed by the midnight armour, mail and mantle. She oft had pondered why the English called this lord the Black Dragon when his standard was a green wyvern on a field of deepest black. One glimpse of the imposing warrior and she knew. 'Twas not the colors of heraldry to which they referred, but the man himself. Awe filled her as she stared at him, trying not to gape.

Tales of Welsh villages set to torch under the Dragon's command were whispered so they did not carry to the ears of bairns. Worse were the rumors of the sack of Berwick, nearly a moon's passing. Scots feared thousands upon thousands score perished in a nightmare of slaughter and flames.

As she fumbled with the sark's drawstring, tightening it to close the ripped front, her eyes strayed to the imposing figure of the knight in black. She felt torn, unable to believe this man with such an angelic countenance could be the commander of Edward's dragon standard , to slaughter all in England's path, putting them to the sword, and scorching the very earth.

She jumped when hands took hold of her arms. Sir Dirk's glower turned Tamlyn's blood to ice as he did his liege's bidding. He shoved her toward the midnight charger of the Dragon.

The ornate black selle d'guerre— high cantle and pommel war saddle—rested upon material of darkest green edged black, covering the destrier from withers to flanks. Recoiling, she knew her fears were correct. This man was no ordinary commander, but the king's champion—Julian Challon, Earl of Challon and Torqmond.

The earl mounted in lionesque grace, seating himself against the high square back of the creaking saddle to leave room for her. Resisting for an instant, her heels dug into the soft ground. The stallion reared slightly, bouncing upon its hooves.

"Beware, fool. Lasher is unaccustomed to another's weight and squirmings. I hold no desire to see you trampled under his shod feet. Quite the killer be he," the earl cautioned .

The knight picked her up and deposited her atop the horse. From above the knee, her legs were bare due to sitting astride. Worse, she rested against the leathern and metal covered thighs of this Norman. She blushed hotly at the intimate position.

Tamlyn turned partially in the saddle. He was so close. Too close. His warm breath feathered across her cheek. Even so, she challenged and held his eyes. Dark, arcane eyes.

The most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

"Like his master?" she challenged.

"Aye, a truth you do well to recall at all times, demoiselle ." A strange, almost poignant light flickered within those mysterious depths, then vanished as if it never had been, displaced by the fierce determination announced by the set of his jaw.

The Dragon spurred the stallion to rear, throwing her back against his armoured chest. He placed his hand on her waist to anchor her. In reaction, her belly tightened under the pressure. She could not seem to breathe.

Tamlyn looked down to see his thumb rested on the bare skin just above her waist exposed by the rip in the sark. That thumb burned, a brand on her flesh.

She was still dizzy from the fall. That little compared to the way this warrior's touch sent her blood to thrumming. She tilted her head to study his face, see if he reacted to their contact. No emotions played in those green eyes. So aloof, yet their force rocked her to the core.

"To Glenrogha!" he called.

Reaching the road, Tamlyn viewed the full extent of the great Dragon's host.

Knights—so many knights! Mounted upon Heavy Horses and armed with lances, they were a terrifying sight. Outnumbering them two-to-one came Hobelars ―lightly armed and protected cavalry, used for quick flanking maneuvers. Welsh archers were equipped with deadly longbows and protected by pavises —shields as tall as a man. Infantry were comprised of Southron mercenaries, while conscripted Kerns from Ireland marched under the Harp Pennon , trailing behind foot soldiery belonging to Edward's war-seasoned troops from Flanders.

She breathed in dread. So many. Too many.

Helplessness reared to life within every fiber of her being. Despair was an emotion Tamlyn had never faced. Her world had always been safe, secure. She feared there would be no standing in the path of this ruthless earl.

What was to become of Glenrogha? Of her?

Lightheaded, she slumped, her spine hitting the metal of the Dragon's chestplate. His strong fingers flexed on her waist, a reminder of his control. Looking down, she saw the gait of the horse caused her breasts to sway perilously close to that invading thumb.

Tamlyn shut her eyes, trying to will it all away.