Chapter Fourteen

Bha siud an dan da

('Twas fated for him.)

— Auld Scots Adage

Tamlyn watched from the top of the lord's tower as Challon commanded the garrison below. Her men-at-arms stirred to his orders with a swiftness that caused her astonishment. For the most part, Glenrogha's soldiery always obeyed her with nary a gainsay. Still, a few voiced complaint that she was a woman and needed to marry so Glenrogha had a man to lead them. She observed as the Scots complied with the Dragon's bidding, clear they recognized Julian Challon was lord here now. A warrior-true, one they could respect. One they would follow. 'Twas unsettling. Tamping down on the errant emotions, she stood by and silently allowed the Black Dragon authority over her stronghold.

She felt sure Auld Bessa had spread the tides that months ago her lord father had fixed upon the Earl Challon as a good husband for his youngest daughter, and had sought an augury from their seer to confirm this. None doubted Evelynour's visions. Her pronouncement that the Dragon's coming was the will of the Auld Ones, and that he was Hadrian's choice, saw Glenrogha's people resigned to fate. Already, they accepted him as earl here.

Challon strode along the boulevard, mouthing words to reassure the men. His air said he was unconcerned, as if he expected her people to obey him without question—even if there might be Scots on the other side of the wall. The innate authority he exuded, this sense of control, saw soldiers moved to his word without pause. They drew on his calm, his strength. He patted a squire on the arm, lending his praise and assurance. The young man smiled at his lord, adoration clear upon his countenance.

Julian Challon stood out amongst the men. This power, this force within him drew her.

As if sensing her eyes were upon him, he rotated and looked to the top of the tower. Locating her solitary form, he stared up at her for several heartbeats. Their eyes locked, as dizziness spun through her. He inclined his head faintly in recognition, and then turned back, focusing his attention to the fore of the curtain.

On alert, all men tautly waited as riders emerged from the shelter of the oaks and approached the fortress. The riders on horseback appeared hard-pressed, as if straight from combat. She grasped Challon feared these might be Scots fleeing the battle at Dunbar, desperate to evade pursuit from the Earl Warenne. In truth, this would be a test for the force at Glenrogha. They would have to choose to obey the Black Dragon when it meant they held the gates against their countrymen.

Tamlyn's eyes tracked the horsemen crossing the dead angle. English. About two score. Even from this distance, she saw many were injured.

She shivered. 'Twas the second time in a sennight the passes had revealed themselves to outcomers. Tamlyn had no idea what that bode. Mayhap, they were like a woman―once breached she no longer be a virgin. She almost chuckled at the image, and yet, it did little to push the disquiet away from her mind. The passes of Glen Shane had always shielded them before. Why was the ancient spell no longer a veil for the valley?

The cavalry pulled up when they saw the gates barred, halting at the edge of arrow range. Both men and animals labored for breath. One armored knight, mounted upon a dapple-grey destrier, continued alone to the curtain.

"Open the gates in the king's name!" he shouted.

Challon stepped to the edge of the battlement, looking down from the crenel to the solitary horseman. "And what king be that? Plantagenet or Balliol?"

"Hail, Lord Dragon, has it been so long you fail to recognize your kinsman?" the other man laughed, and removed his helm to reveal his face.

A face obviously of the line of Challon.

The earl flicked his first two fingers to the side, a command for the gates to open. The faint gesture set off a flurry of activity. He headed down the steps to greet the newcomers, as the bailey filled with mounts lathered in sweat. The riders appeared in worse shape. Arrows protruded from the shoulders of three men and another had two in his thigh. Several more appeared to have slash wounds across the front of their surcoats from a sword.

Since wounds required tending, Tamlyn rushed back into the tower proper. Barely reaching the ground level, she called out for Janet and Roselynne to set the pages to help the servants boil water and fetch the basket of bandages from the stillroom. Pausing by the kitchen, she issued orders for cook to move up the noontide meal, as these men would need food and drink. Not once did she stop to consider they were English. They were just men needing succor. The whole fortress was astir.

She returned to the front of the tower in time to see the Dragon embrace the leader. She blinked thrice. It was startling how much this knight resembled Challon. He stood a shade taller, mayhap a bit longer through the trunk of the body. Even up close, the two might be mistaken for twins, though Tamlyn had no trouble telling them apart. This man did not provoke that frisson of alarm as she drew nearer. The Kenning remained silent within her.

"What happened, Damian? Are you all right?" Challon stepped back, running his worried eyes over his kinsman to assess his state.

The other tucked his helm in the curve of his arm. "Hell happened, Julian. And yes, I be fine, though I fear half my men did not fare so well. They be sorely in need of a healer afore the arrows poison their blood."

The injured men were aided to dismount and helped inside. Rushing ahead, Tamlyn hurriedly instructed that pallets be put down for them. The ones with arrows imbedded were weakened from blood loss, and if not removed immediately, they would die as wound-poisoning spread through their bodies. No amount of herbs or craft would turn the tide. She was a good healer, learning from the Three Wise Ones of the Woo d . Even so, she had never dealt with this sort of damage, nor with so many needing help at once. Relief flooded her to see Auld Bessa already standing in the Great Hall , waiting.

???

Julian's eyes kept returning to Tamlyn whilst she settled Damian's cadre. She moved so graceful, confident in handling her workers, and keeping them moving with purpose and speed. No word of plaint these men were English, she simply did what was necessary. He could not help but feel pride in this woman who would soon be his wife.

"After learning I am dispatched to take up the honours of Lyonglen, Warenne charged me to pursue the Scots fleeing Dunbar." Damian St. Giles set his helm down on the trestle table, and removed his dark grey mantle from about his shoulders. Exhausted, he dropped it on the bench.

"Edward invests you with your grandsire's title?" Julian asked in surprise.

His eyes clouding, Damian nodded. "Tides reach the king that Lyonglen grows frail, his health wanes. Thus, Edward is desirous for a staunchly loyal man put in his stead, not one nearly four score in age. Since the borders touch Glen Shane, he ciphers that you and I shall anchor the passage southward against the Highlanders. He released me and my troops after Dunbar and sent us north. Warenne deemed since we traveled this way, my knights could press the remains of clans that rallied to the Comyn standard. He spake 'twas killing two Scots birds with one English stone toss."

"What happened? You were attacked?"

"Aye. On a field of battle, an English host has a clear and decisive advantage. At Spottsmuir this was proven. We were outnumbered four-to-one, yet with controlled thrusts and a countercharge, the untrained Scots ranks broke and fled. In these heathen hills..." He shook his head sideways. "No matter the numbers, in stealth combat the Scots always will hold the high ground. They know every league of the terrain, and could travel through it blindfolded and in the darkest night. 'Twas a trap. They caught us coming through a howe . Waiting, they lined both sides of the steep hills. Worse, they were armed with English crossbows, Julian. They meant to kill, not defend. "

"Who do they serve? What pennon?"

"No banners I could see. A ragged looking lot. They pinned us. A rear guard was coming up fast. I feared all was lost. Only, a heavy fog rolled down from the beanntan , so thick you could not see. We were able to slip away before their mounted riders could move in to finish the black deed. Glenrogha was closer than Lyonglen, so we came for your safety. In the damnable haar , I was scared we would not find the final pass into Glen Shane. No matter how hard we searched, we could not locate the entrance. The fog was so thick, 'twas unnatural. Then suddenly, as quickly as it had come, the mists parted revealing that my horse stood at the mouth of high cliffs."

Julian suppressed a smile. "I be familiar with the fog and the passes. Did the ravens greet you?"

Damian accepted the goblet of wine from the serving girl, and sat down in a large chair. "Aye, the horses were spooked, but not as much as my men. 'Twas damn eerie, Julian. The Scots cavalry was bearing down on our heels. But then, the wall of fog almost slammed behind us. I heard their shouts, but they could not discover the way to follow."

"'Tis spake the ravens and the fog be part of some ancient spell for protection." Julian signaled the servant to fetch wine for his cousin. "Word of the battle reached us. Was the rout as bad as the messenger said? Did many perish?"

"Outside of clans who supported the English side—most of their nobles were killed or made prisoner to Edward. Mayhap six score knights, the earls of Atholl, Ross and Menteith, son of John Comyn of Badenoch, the Morays, and possibly a dozen magnates are all being transported south. Buchan's army was destroyed." Damian sat in the chair. "I am not sure when I've been more weary."

"Then, it is done. Edward will soon go back to England." Julian pronounced with relief. "Has your grandsire been told you assume the title as lord of Lyonglen?"

"With the current state of the country—who can tell? My guess―Edward sent no word, so they shan't expect me. Still, news travels on swift wings through the Highlands." Damian leaned back in the chair, clearly tired. "I hear conflicting tales about his condition. Some speak he be too ill to rise to Balliol's standard. Others carry tides he remains home because he be too busy swiving his young bride. "

Julian arched his brow as he sat in a chair, facing his cousin. "Sounds as if you be cut from the same cloth as the old lord, eh?"

"Soon enough I shall see. Though I shall have trouble calling a woman grandmother when she is younger than I." He rubbed his forehead, pain clouding his countenance. "For now, I pass on the offer of food. I would appreciate a place where I can remove my accoutrements and wash, then a nice soft bed so I may sleep half the day away. Mayhap a pretty serving wench to soothe my... brow. I owe you a boon if you send that one my way."

Julian started to laugh, until he saw Damian's eyes targeted Tamlyn. Rage erupted through him, nearly blinding his reason. It now struck him odd, how easily he had demanded Tamlyn help him bathe on the first morn. It was his right. As visiting nobility, Damian should be afforded the same honor. Only, Julian knew, though he loved his cousin as a brother, he would kill him if he touched her.

"Tamlyn," Julian called, summoning her to his side.

Damian's pale green-grey eyes glittered with desire, his smile widening. "Now that be a woman, Julian, to spend your life making babes with."

Tamlyn hesitated, her eyes casting about to assure all the injured had received care, only then did she answer Julian's summons. She stopped by the arm of his chair. "My lord, the wounded be treated and resting. Auld Bessa says all shall make a full recovery."

"Tamlyn, I present Damian St. Giles, Lord Ravenhawke, my second-cousin." Julian possessively took her hand in his. "Damian, this be Tamlyn MacShane, Countess Glenrogha—my betrothed. After banns are proclaimed we shall wed."

Ravenhawke's face blanked in shock. "Forgive me. This aching head and a two-day ride without sleep slow me. Beg pardon, Lord Cousin, if I erred."

Julian glared at him resolutely. "Yes, you did."

Damian had come to the Challon household as a page, and stayed for training as squire, then knight to Julian's father. So like his brothers and him, everyone assumed Damian another dragon in Michael's litter. Julian loved Damian and never treated him as anything but a brother. Still, the tone of the reproof saw Damian take measure. His cousin's eyes shifted to Tamlyn in reassessment .

Jealousy burned within Julian, as he knew what his cousin saw. Tamlyn's kirtle was simple. She wore no jewelry, no ribbons in her hair. Yet, her coloring would see her stand out in any crowd and always draw a man's eyes. Her sensuality would hit them like a fist to the heart.

Damian was a playful rogue. He loved females. They fascinated him endlessly. Even so, none could lure him into making them his lady wife. As he watched his cousin stare at Tamlyn, the hot sensation flared bright within him. Julian had the odd feeling Tamlyn might have been the woman to change that, for his cousin stared at her with the same longing Julian knew was in his own heart.

"Well-come to Glenrogha, Lord Ravenhawke," Tamlyn spake, then gave him a smile.

Damian stared at her with a sadness that had her glancing in question to Julian.

"I give thanks to you for your hospitality and for the care of my men, Lady Tamlyn, and offer you felicitations on your upcoming nuptials." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "I am sure you shall make all Julian's dreams come true. He is a lucky man."

Resentment scalding his mind, Julian barely heard Tamlyn's reply, or when she mumbled a few words, before hurrying away to see the meal was ready for those wanting it. His eyes followed her departure, lingering on her with pride. Burning with the need to claim her as his.

"I fear there be need for me to explain, cousin. I am not so usually clubfooted in situations of this sort. 'Tis only…"

Julian swung back to Damian. "Only what?—before I drag you out on the quatrain and use you for a practice dummy."

"No female has ever before held the power to make me care, because I have seen this vision of a woman before my mind's eye. That fey voice I oft ignore— and regret doing so —brings images to me. Flashes. Dreams. Whatever you wish to call them. 'Tis the Scots blood from my mother. Usually, these shards of farsight prove on target."

"And?" Julian suddenly suspected what his cousin would say.

"The face in my mind—the face of the woman I felt was fated to be my bride—'tis the face of Lady Tamlyn." Damian's countenance was etched with deep regret.

"Over your dead body." Julian said quietly with an arched brow, but true menace threaded through the words .

Unsettled, Damian nodded. "Of that, I have no doubt."

???

Exhausted, Tamlyn brooded, whilst checking wounds of St. Giles' soldiery one last time. The day had been long, filled with caring for Ravenhawke's men. She blinked, fighting to stay awake. At the top of her concerns: how to proceed this night. Did she just go to the bedchamber with Challon as if all was settled? Should she demand they discuss matters first? Of course, she could seize the excuse she needed to stay and keep an eye on the injured, but all rested peaceful under Bessa's potions, even the ones who had the arrows removed. No coward, she would not wrap herself in that lie.

Challon seemed engaged before the fire, talking quietly with his squires and two knights. Once, she had passed close enough to overhear that they planned to ride on the morrow to rid the area of the Scots who attacked Lord Ravenhawke's party. Why their words were lowly spoken. The Dragon was unsure how the Scots now under his command would react to these tides.

Checking the wounded one final time, she sucked in her stubborn bent, and girded herself to face Julian Challon before the others.

He slouched in the lord's chair, feet crossed at the ankles. The gold spurs gleamed by the firelight, matching the glint in his eyes as he tracked her every move. She had felt him staring all evening as she tended chores. Oh, he haughtily feigned being unaware of that curious sentience, carrying on discussions and issuing orders. Only, his focus constantly brushed against her mind, causing bumps to slither up her spine.

She realized how she approached retiring this eve was important to this proud man. He was not going to force the issue, fearful her Pict temper would flare, and they would end up clashing before his men and her people. His pride was strong, as strong as hers. Yet, in some ways, he had more to lose. A simple point in their lives―her wanting to retire and unsure how to proceed. A small choice, yes, but one that could have repercussions—for them, for their people.

Well, she was no child to blanch before the unknown. She must use all her cleverness and craft to ensure life traveled a path to where she could find some happiness .

Sucking in a deep breath, she approached the Black Dragon.

A tangible pall filled the air. Everyone pretended naught of import was about to occur. Howbeit, 'twas little doubt all waited to see how Glenrogha's lady proceeded.

This was the third time today for them to play this game.

As the noon meal was served, Challon came to escort her to the table. She knew it was more than courtly manners. He wanted Glenrogha's people to witness her at his side, accepting her role as his lady. She escaped that concession by insisting she needed to care for his cousin's men. Challon nodded, letting her have that space. He settled his cousin in a room abovestairs, and then went on patrol with his guard.

The second time came as supper had been placed upon the trestle tables. The same worried hush had descended earlier when he appeared at her elbow and took her hand, saying it was time for the evening meal. Her jaw ached from the tenseness, but she reined in her erratic emotions and complied. Her turn to give in. Squaring her shoulders, she allowed him to lead her to the lord's table. Though he did naught to flaunt the small victory, the people within Glenrogha sensed his will ruled. She was at his side, a signal of her acceptance of his new role here.

Her stomach muscles tightened again, remembering what that small acquiescence symbolized. Well, she was no gooseberry fool. The path was clear. 'Twas not her place to challenge the will of the Auld Ones. Even her lord father had recognized the Black Dragon had a place in her life.

She desired Challon. Never one for games, 'twas silly to try and pretend otherwise. No man affected her as he did. Not his brothers. Nor the near mirror image Damian St. Giles.

'Twas only natural, she had to admit upon first sight the striking resemblance gave her pause. The visions foretold of the coming of a lord whose color was that of the ravens. Damian St. Giles was so very much like his powerful cousin, and part of his device was a raven. Could there not be a mistake in understanding Evelynour's foretelling?

She had only to stand before the two men to hear The Kenning's answer. She found Baron St. Giles attractive. He bore the clear stamp of the beautiful men of Challon—same black hair and green eyes. Another man who would draw all females' gazes. Any faint response she felt toward the cousin came because he was a reflection of Challon, enough to be his twin. Even with eyes closed, she'd ken the difference between the two. There was only one man to touch her emotions in such a disturbing manner.

It was up to her to gird her pride and learn to deal with the vexing warlord.

Mayhap, giving into him would not be so easy had she not glimpsed the pain inside the man, the hunger for some measure of peace here. Desires so strong, the empathy disarmed her. That longing was a tool in her hands. She was a smart woman. She had the power to offer him what he craved.

Straightening her spine, she crossed the room and approached the earl. Tamlyn tried to hide the quaking inside. 'Twas not precisely fear. Each time she was near him a strange vibration filled her, as though dozens of ravens fluttered their wings inside her chest. The sensation made it hard to draw breath. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist to prevent him from seeing she trembled.

Challon sat almost sideways in the chair, with one leg hanging over the arm, a careless pose, as he sat drinking from the goblet of mead. A short time ago, he had been speaking with his squires, Gervase and Vincent, but they had withdrawn. Ever since, he had been staring intently into the fire, as though he concentrated his thoughts upon a problem. He glanced up as she stopped before him. It was hard to read his feelings, because her inner turmoil rattled her focus of The Kenning . The firelight played over his handsome face, making her nearly forget why she came.

"Your cousin's men will heal. They rest peaceful with Bessa's tansy soothing their pains." She nearly stammered out.

When he just stared at her with that irritating mask of sangfroid, she wanted to kick his booted feet. His stillness was unnerving. He made no move to reply, and it goaded her temper that he kept her standing there. Everyone watching. She kenned what he did: letting all take note that she came to him. When he continued to watch her, unmoving and saying not a word, she gave a nod and started to turn away.

"My lady," he called, halting her. He waited until Tamlyn turned back. When she did, he held out his hand for her to take .

"'Tis been a long day. I wish to retire," she explained. What she truly wished, was to touch him. She could so easily envision her hand reaching out to caress the side of his face , to brush the curls off his forehead.

Her amber eyes flashed a banked anger, telling him she knew precisely what he was doing. Also, warning there was a limit, and he was fast approaching that point. It took every thread of her resolve to remain placid in the face of his need to demonstrate his dominance. Her inner voice spake this was not only a show before their people, but a test between them. Julian Challon was a master at hiding his emotions. Nonetheless, even in this short space of being around him, she had started to sense the workings of his mind. Challon wanted a clear display of her compliance, so none mistook the import of her bowing to him as lord of Glenrogha.

Defiance flared white-hot within her. Not even her lord father would dare such a spectacle of controlling her will. For once, she used her mind, not her pride to react. Very well, she bestowed this yielding. She sensed tension in Julian, fear she would be too willful to make compromise. That eased when she took the steps back to him, and placed her hand in his upturned one.

"You worked hard to see Damian's men at ease and tended. I give thanks." His long fingers tightened about hers, and he used the hold to pull her nearer so she stood, her knee brushing against the side of his outstretched thigh. "You fare well?"

"Aye, just a wee bit exhausted...so I wish to retire and seek my slumber."

His glittering green eyes bespelled Tamlyn. They roved over her face, and then down her body and back. She nearly smiled when the cool disdain shifted to heat at the idea of her going to bed. Yes, she was coming to see there were ways to control a man.

"'Tis well you do so. Bid my squire to bank the fire in our chambers. I shall join you shortly." Once again, he used his hold to tug her close, so his mouth could brush the knuckles of her fingers.

At the touch of his lips, a deep shiver crawled over Tamlyn's skin. Oh, aye, there were means to control a man. But she had to ponder if there were not ways to control a woman as well.

?? ?

Unbuckling his belt, Julian pretended not to notice Tamlyn. She shifted, restless in the far corner of the bed, the tartan drawn to her chest. Pretending ignorance of Tamlyn was not an easy task. She watched him undress and then slide into bed. He felt her eyes roving over his naked form. Knew what she found in him pleased her.

This night was different between them. She knew it. He knew it.

No longer confined to the room by the presence of guards standing watch, she was no longer a prisoner. Yea, Moffet's pallet rested just outside, but 'twas hardly the same. This night was the first time she had a choice. She came to his bed and stayed. Easily, Tamlyn could have put forth excuse she needed to stay belowstairs and care for the injured men. He smiled, pleased, she had elected not to hide behind that lie.

He was coming to see many things to admire in Tamlyn. She had the spirit of a warrior. While that vexed him in his dealings with her currently, 'twas a trait that would breed strong sons. He sensed she had little use for games, and possessed a bone deep honesty he had rarely seen in women at court. There was an openness to her emotions, which permitted him to be so in tune with her mind's workings. As they came to know each other, built a life together, this bond would strengthen.

Lying back, he smiled in the darkness. How could one woman affect his senses, his hopes so much? Still, there would be obstacles to cross.

"Tamlyn," he snapped, tucking one hand behind his head, "lie down and stop hiding in the corner like I am going to eat you in one bite."

She huffed. "Is that not what dragons do to fair maids? Eat them in one bite?"

He groaned at the choice of words. He doubted Tamlyn understood the torment they conjured, the jest setting a different image in his mind. His body throbbed to life, screaming a plaint of how much he needed to find a physical release with this woman.

Nevertheless, he was determined to do this right. Even if it killed him .

He would grant her time to adjust to him becoming her lord husband. He was a stranger, the invader, the man who had made prisoner of a father she adored. No matter how painful holding back would be, he was determined to do it for her sake .

Mayhap upon their wedding night, his lady would look upon him with wanting, not just compliance. The priest had spake he would perform the ceremony a fortnight after May Day . He and Tamlyn could use the time to speak to each other's minds.

Provided it did not drive him insane.

She wiggled again.

"Tamlyn..." he growled warning.

"Challon, are you all right? You sound in pain." She scooted over to place her ice-cold hand on his upper abdomen.

His body jumped in reaction―from her touch on him when he burned with fever for her―but more so from that icy hand. "God's teeth, woman, your hand—"

"Beg pardon, my lord, my hands get cold when I be uneasy." She did not remove it though. Instead, her fingers slowly caressed the ripple of muscles that corded his belly.

His groin bucked hard in reaction. "Really? Never would I have guessed such." He closed his eyes, struggling against the overwhelming power surging within him.

"Touching you is touching fire," she whispered in awe.

Even in the dimness, he could see tears in her eyes. He reached up and swiped one away as it fell. Instead of dropping his hand, he held it there, his thumb brushing the softness of her cheek. Feeling…he was not sure how to reason what filled his heart. It was a haunting sense of something new and precious found, and yet, as if the gesture was one he had done before. This odd stirring unsettled him, confused him.

Under other circumstances, he would have relished her putting her hands―even cold ones―on his body. While it took the last shreds of his reason to keep from flipping her over onto her back, and thrusting his body into hers―showing her just how hot he could burn―he sensed Tamlyn needed more. She needed reassurance. She needed to know he honored her.

"Lie down, wench." Oh please, lie down before I get up and pound my head against the stone wall.

She did, but her hand remained on him. For a breath, he thought he could control the driving urge, but then she wiggled again, scooting closer.

"My hand feels so warm touching you. When I get cold like this, 'tis hard to rid the iciness. I shiver half the night. Would you mind if I put my other hand―"

Julian moved so fast Tamlyn barely had time to blink. He rolled over on his bent elbow and yanked her down on the bed next to him. Giving her a stern frown, he pulled the wool cover over them. "Not another word. Be still. Try to sleep. Or I shall have your maidservant come in here and sew us in."

"But I―" The words were muffled since he had pulled the cover up to her nose.

"Wench, close your mouth or I shall stuff my glove in it." His chest vibrated with the suppressed chuckle.

She poked her face above the covers, then rose up on an elbow to judge his expression. "You always bark orders."

He sat back up to glare at her, almost nose-to-nose. "And you disobey them." Putting a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back to the bed. "Now obey me and sleep, before I get angry."

Silence filled the chambers. She did not stir again. Thankfully. Gritting his teeth, he battled his frustrated mating drive. His heart thundered out a tattoo of need that increased more with each breath, each ghostly caress of her special scent. If they would just remain still, mayhap his body would cool and listen to his mind. Possibly…in a hundred years.

As he thought reason might rule again, she moved. First one foot, accidentally brushing against his calf as she straightened out her leg. God's breath, her foot was as cold as her hands! Liking her personal foot warmer, she slowly—in hopes not to draw his notice—slid the other one under his calves, too. Then, she tried to roll so she was not lying on her left arm. She shifted again, then again, seeking the comfortable place to put it between them. Next came her hips, brushing against the side of his. Damn female, did she not understand the ordeal she inflicted upon him?

"Tamlyn, if you place value on having a sane man for a husband… stop wiggling !" he snarled, but a laugh exploded on the end of the statement.

"The Dragon be a grouchy beastie. Mayhap you have a toothache."

Frustration shredded control to the very pale. "Aye, I have an ache, but 'tis much lower. "

"You do seem to be running a fever..." She rubbed her face against his bare upper arm.

"Fever? Oh, aye, I have a fever."

Tamlyn sprang up on her knees. "Have you a wound? Fever comes if the pus rises."

"Something rises, Tamlyn—'tis not pus."

Sheer agony wracked him, as Tamlyn leaned over him to check his body for a wound he did not have. By damn, there was only so much he could stand! He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to face him. For several breaths, their eyes locked―his in the heat of his thwarted need to take her, her golden ones in surprise.

"Do not move nor wiggle," he ordered. Her mead-sweetened breath fanned out in short gaspy sighs, nearly sending him over the edge. "Here is what we shall do. Lie down. No squirmings. You will close your cat-eyes and go to sleep or―"

"Or what, Challon?" She blinked in curiosity.

"Or we shan't sleep a'tall," he threatened. Nay, promised.

" Ohhhhh ..." she whispered, understanding sinking in.

His mouth eased into a half smile. "One way to phrase it."

Comprehension became a query, her eyes probing. 'Twas almost as if she were trying to see into his mind. The sensation made him uncomfortable.

"Why, Challon?"

"You need time," he stated simply. "There be much still unsettled between us. I know you have not accustomed your mind and will to this change. I would give you time to know me before pushing the marriage. Howbeit, Edward shan't grant us that grace. So I bestow you the space until the wedding, honor you in this fashion."

There was a connection between them, a bond so strong it caused so many—too many—feelings. They threatened to swamp him. After Christian's death he merely existed. He felt nothing, just a sense of emptiness. In some ways, he welcomed that hollowness inside him. It was easier to function day-to-day, not caring beyond the basic needs to survive. With spring's return, something intangible stirred inside him, as if his emotions had hibernated through the cold dead of winter. Now, it was time to leave that shell. To live again . As his spirit awakened, it called out, starving for these lackings so devoid in his life .

Perchance it came hand-in-hand with his growing old. He was no longer a young man with his whole life ahead of him. The time had come for him to build a future, leave something of himself to survive his passing. He wanted it with a mind-devouring hunger.

Julian had seen the face of hunger. Men or women so long without food, with big eyes and gaunt bodies. If offered a feast they would have gorged themselves, only to find they sickened. Their bellies had shriveled from famine and could not stretch enough to accommodate the meal.

Julian feared his heart was similarly shriveled. Tamlyn brought feelings to him, filling his heart to overfull. Though it tried to expand to create room for all these new emotions, 'twas almost too raw for him to endure. He, too, needed time.

"Go to sleep, Tamlyn, before I truss you up and put my glove to use." When she sat staring at him with those haunting eyes, he stirred, catching Tamlyn off guard. Tucking her under the blanket, this time he turned on his side with his back to her.

Tamlyn must have believed his threat. She remained quiet. The peat fire died to a smolder in the solar, and coolness crept into the room. He forced his breathing to slow, pretending he had fallen asleep.

As the chill increased, Tamlyn scooted close in soft movements, trying not to awaken him. Her hands were cold again. So were her feet. Silly female, so cold it was uncomfortable. It took all his warrior's will to continue the sham of slumber when she placed them on him. One hand against his back the other on his waist. Then those ice chunks of feet pushed between his calves. When he did not stir, she shifted even closer, until he felt the full of her body, spooned against his.

Slowly, her shivering lessened. She seemed to settle now that she stole his body heat. With a yawn and a sigh, she mumbled, "A dragon be better than a warming pan."

"Go to sleep, Tamlyn."

Her head nestled against his shoulder. "Aye, Challon."