Chapter Eighteen

Mar gum biodh an air do chraiceann.

(As if the fire be on your skin.)

— Auld Scots Adage

In the pink and purple gloaming, Challon joined his brothers and cousin to watch the lighting of the balefire of Beltaine . The Scots considered this a sacred fire, he had learned. Within Glenrogha every candle, each fire had been extinguished, and they would be relit from this blaze come dawn.

Men and women formed seven rings, dancing around the great fire, the pit cut deep into the loam. In opposing directions, each circle revolved about the balefire, its pitch-fed flames shooting high into the night sky. Their pagan invocation to the God Bel, Lord of Light.

"'Tis difficult to tell the women from the men." Damian laughed, referring to the Scots males wearing their feile-beag ―kilts.

Arms folded across his chest, Julian's eyes took in the spectacle, but shifted to judge his

cousin. Once more, he grew uneasy with the bent of his cousin's mind. Damian downed his second tankard of mead, as if he sought escape from some inner demon. Julian feared the trouble stemmed from Damian's growing preoccupation with Tamlyn. It was impossible not to see how Damian's eyes followed her every move when she was near.

Julian gave him a half smile. "Sorry, to hear you are so sorely afflicted, cousin. Fortunately, I do not suffer the same problem."

Guillaume laughed, "A first―Damian having troubles differing betwixt males and females. Mayhap, you indulged in too much mead? It addles your vision?"

"Normans," Tamlyn huffed, coming to stand next to Julian. Her amber eyes glowed in the orange-yellow cast from the bonfire as she smiled up at him. "In the Highlands 'tis spoken any man can appear manly in trewes and chausses. Only a real man can wear the plaide . Lasses ken him very virile."

Julian leaned to the side to breathe the words against Tamlyn's hair, meant for her ear only. "Then, mayhap I shall wear one for you... sometime."

Her blood thrummed, visible in her neck. Julian felt the same pulse beat within him.

A playful grin formed her small mouth. "You wouldst be bonnie in one, my lord."

"Bah, the fool thing be too drafty in winter," Damian almost snarled. The mead seeing his guard down, his eyes flashed in jealousy. "A man could die of… exposure." Then, realizing his jest, he laughed a bit too loudly.

Destain was sitting on a chair they had fetched for him, since his leg was still healing. Behind his cousin's back, Destain pantomimed the motion of downing cups. His brother's arched brows asked Julian if he knew the reason why. They all recognized this sort of behavior was so unlike Damian.

Julian shrugged, ignoring Damian's troubled spirit. He placed his hand on the small of Tamlyn's back, reminding his cousin of realities.

Noticing the heavy gold torque about Tamlyn's neck, he ran his thumb over the intricate design. The workmanship was strong, with subtle artistry, bordering on the mysterious. The flattened torque would fetch a king's ransom on any market. The gold's patina spoke it was not new. Ancient gold had a deeper luster, it shimmered—just as the woman who wore it did.

"Romans wrote about the Picts, and the walls built to hold them back. They spoke about their customs and their abilities to craft in gold and silver. Yet, so little is truly known about your race. Only spoken memories. What happened to your ancestors, Tamlyn? Where did the Picts go?" Julian asked, hungry to know all about this woman who would soon be his wife.

"Go? Why nowhere, my lord. They remain here in the blood of their children." Pride flared in her eyes, her words containing a small barb. "What generally happens when invaders come. The Irish―called Scoti ―came, forming a kingdom on the southern shores of Alba called Dalriada . Then, Kenneth of Alpin used his mother's Pict blood to claim the double crown. He rose and slaughtered all the royal houses of the Picts, uniting Alba under one Scottish Crown."

"Speak to my curiosity. Why are holdings of Glen Shane then still passed through the distaff side? Why did they not go to Sir Malcolm?"

Tamlyn swallowed hard, distracted, as he continued to slide his finger along the figure of a wildcat etched into the heavy metal about her neck. "A special charter granted by Malcolm Canmore―in return for another Lady Glenrogha saving his life. The grant honors our Pict blood and sees the three holdings remain matriarchal, so long as there be a female in the direct the line of Ogilvie blood."

"Beg pardon, my lord." A small girl with curly red hair bobbed an awkward curtsey, trembling before the Dragon of Challon. Holding up the basket of small cakes, she smiled. "For you—a May Day Cake ."

Julian studied the small oatcake, and then glanced to Tamlyn. "'Tis some custom concerning this?"

"Everyone gets a May Day Cake . We used to bake one large one and hand out slices, but there are so many people 'tis easier to bake small ones."

When he reached for one in the basket, the child almost squealed, "Oh, no' that one!"

His brows lifted, "No?"

"I…I touched that one. The one to the right, my lord—'tis a grand cake." Her green eyes were wide and full of mischief as she kept glancing from Tamlyn to him.

Suspicion tingled, but Julian read no change in Tamlyn's expression, so he took the one the child suggested. The small cake was still faintly warm and smelled deliciously of spices and honey. Biting down, his teeth grated against a solid object. "Christ's blood! What affront be this? 'Tis a piece of metal in the cake." Anger―and oddly, hurt―exploded within him. "Someone shall pay for this insult."

Tamlyn grabbed his arm, as he went to fling the cake away. "Wait, Julian."

Her using his given name reached through the ire as nothing else could. He paused, his chest rising and falling in umbrage, fighting against the odd feeling of his heart being wounded. He could not say why the incident upset him so much. Mayhap 'twas this morn had lulled him into thinking he could actually belong here, these people could come to accept him as their lord. "Something was purposely put into the cake?"

"Aye, I suspect 'twas." She took the cake from him and broke it apart. As the cake crumbled, she revealed a small gold ring, a twisted weave design, similar to one on her torque. " Beltaine cakes all are the same—save two. One cake be created for a man. One for a female. Inside each is a ring. 'Tis how the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen are chosen each turn of the Wheel. This time, I think Lady Chance had a bit of earthly help from a wee Pixie." She winked at the child. "My people honor you, Julian."

"And what happens to the chosen lord? Clan Ogilvie tosses him onto the balefire, a sacrifice to your Auld Gods ?" he asked with edged sarcasm.

"Mayhap, long ago in darker times, when crops failed such happened," she replied with a dram of humor. "For the next four seasons, the May Queen and her Lord of the Glen are treated as royalty. If peat be needed for winter fires, then all the men pitch in, cut and stack it for them. If the roof needs thatching, he does not work alone. Women sew him a beautiful wardrobe, bake bread and brew heather ale for him. The tanner makes him fine boots. The farrier shoes his horses, and they receive extra oats and apples from the Sacred Grove , even in winter. His fields are plowed and reaped with help of the whole clan, and he gets the second portion of everyone's harvest. Come spring, they clip his sheep, and his cattle are driven to shielings ―high pastures in the mountains―and then, back to the glen come autumn."

One side of his mouth twitched, the tension in him easing. "Ah, I see. For a year and a day, this man shall be treated as a king. What happens after the calf is fatted for four seasons? Then, you toss him on the bonfire next Beltaine ?"

She laughed, actually laughed. It was the first time Julian had seen her do so, and he was entranced by the pulsing vibrancy rising off this beautiful woman. His lady. No resentment, anger or pain clouded her heart. She scintillated with awareness of him. And the power of that was a punch to his gut.

Action born of compulsion, his left hand touched her face, stroking the soft slope of her high cheekbone. Some might consider this a weakness in a man. He did not care who saw. He had to touch her.

Reaching up and taking that the hand, Tamlyn slid the gold ring onto his pinkie finger, her eyes almost shy in meeting his. "There, Julian. Aon a thaghadh —our chosen one . You be our Lord of the Glen for a year and a day."

"Answer me, Tamlyn, what happens after a year?" he pressed, his voice huskily, asking for more than just the meaning of the ceremony.

"The rites come from the dark times. They cared for the human king-god symbol, felt if he prospered so did the clan. When the harvest thrived, then he remained safe. If famine gripped the land, they made the more horrible sacrifice to the Wicker Man . Those days are gone from memory. Now, 'tis only a privilege. My people worry about this coming year, Julian. The May Queen chosen last year ran off with a lad from a clan three glens away. 'Twas viewed as a bad omen for us. The coming of the Dragon of Challon changes many things. My people are saying they grant you a year and a day to prove yourself a good lord to Glen Shane."

"And what of their lady?" Julian pressed his advantage. When she blushed and lowered her lashes, he lifted her chin, forcing her gold eyes to meet his. "Does she grant me a year and a day to prove I can be a fit lord and husband?"

Tamlyn smiled almost sadly. "You ken what I ask in compromise."

"I granted you the right to be wed in the traditions of your people. I shall honor that. As for the Red Laird, I will do what I can, Tamlyn." Julian watched her face register relief, swallowing the bad taste in his mouth. He knew it to be a promise that held little hope. Edward would hear no plea from him for leniency for the Earl Kinmarch. "As for the third condition, I told you what you must do to insure I comply."

Even in the firelight, he saw her blush, recalling how they greeted the dawn in the solar. Heat exploded in his blood, and he leaned toward her planning on kissing her.

Raven whirled to a stop before them as the frantic dancing halted, long enough to give everyone a chance to regain their breath. "The May Queen , Lord Challon, be revered in the same fashion as the Lord of the Glen . All her weaving and spinning be done, new ramients made for her. That thrills Tamlyn. You shall find Tamlyn hates those chores. She reigns as May Queen this night—because that mooncalf Jenna ran away with Ian Campbell. Special gifts of sweets and apples be left at her door. She gets the first ration of every-one's harvest. Of course, 'tis a very special blessing for the clan if the Lord of the Glen begets a bairn upon the May Queen . 'Tis thought the child is favored by the Auld Gods . Tamlyn be such a chosen one."

Her blush turning a deeper shade of crimson, Tamlyn glared at her sister. "Raven usually be my quiet sister. Mayhap it would behoove her to recall that."

"That sounds like a threat, sister dear," Raven teased.

Julian gently rubbed his left hand at the small of Tamlyn's back, wanting to maintain the nearness. "Seems some of your pagan customs contain fine sense."

Another young girl—this time toe-headed and covered with freckles, and carrying a different basket—bobbed before them. "A cake for a queen," she announced happily.

"Thank you, young Meggie." Raven's grey eyes flashed with mischief, as she plucked one off the top. "Your turn, Sister," she insisted, before biting into hers.

Tamlyn reached for one to the side. Instantly, the child jumped back two steps so the cake she had been about to grasp was beyond her fingers. Frowning, Tamlyn reached for it again.

" Och , Tamlyn of Glenrogha, you'll no' be wantin' that one. Auld Maudie touched it. You ken how dirty her fingers be." Meggie giggled.

"Sage advice, eh, Tamlyn, since 'tis likely none of us has e'er seen Maudie's skin under the four score years of grime." Raven explained, "'Tis a standing joke amongst the men. Each year they threaten, when we hold the Floating of the Sheep, to toss Auld Maudie in along with the sheep, for 'tis the only way they will see her clean."

Tamlyn lifted her hand to reach for the next one, watching the eyes of the freckled faced girl for a reaction. When she shook her head, Tamlyn said, " Och , no' that one either? I suppose she touched it as well?"

"Aye, I be certain she did." The child chuckled, enjoying the game.

Sighing, she moved to near the back. "This one, wee Meggie, shall I select it, or has Maudie ruined it as well?"

" Och , 'tis a muckle fine one, methinks." Meggie grinned triumphantly.

Tamlyn carefully bit down and chewed, clearly surprised and disappointed she did not find the ring after the little game. By the third bite, Julian feared Meggie erred in her game of biscuit-switching.

She bit down once again, her tooth clunking against something hard. " Och , what a surprise," she announced dryly, "I think I found the queen's ring. Wonders shall never cease, eh?" She broke apart the remaining treat to reveal the golden ring of Pictish design.

Raven laughed musically, snatching up a cake. Going to Sir Destain who rested in a chair, due to his leg wound, she gifted him with the small treat. "Dare any of us doubt the workings and wisdoms of the Auld Ones ?"

"You be getting up in years, dear Sister." Tamlyn pulled a face at Raven. "Only, I wouldst hardly call you ancient."

Julian took the band from Tamlyn's fingers, eager to see it on her hand―a visible sign of her bond to him. Feeling contrite, he should have gifted her with a ring before now, showered her with a queen's ransom in jewels. Yet somehow, the simple woven-strand ring seemed perfect for this special woman.

Her eyes lifted to his, and then back to her trembling fingers, as he slid the ring on the first finger of her left hand. The woven circle matched his, but was more feminine. Possession and need swelled within him to where he wanted to crush her hand to his heart. Instead, he raised it to his lips reverently and placed a kiss, a promise, to the soft skin on the back of her hand. Their eyes locked, speaking in a language that needed no words. Words were too pale to convey the power that rose between them.

Rowanne rushed up and whispered into Raven's ear. Both she and Raven linked arms with Tamlyn. "Apologies, Lord Challon. We needs must spirit our Tamlyn away. We promise you shall see her again anon," Rowanne called over her shoulder to him, and the twins lead Tamlyn from the gathering.

As Julian watched the three beautiful women rush off, he twisted the Pictish ring around on his finger. The gold band moved easily, but when he tried to tug it off, he found resistance. It came over his knuckle, but only with a little effort. Easily, it slid back with ease. The golden band seemed made for him.

The breeze swirled around him, causing the balefire to shoot sparks high in the night air. On that playful wind were whispers that once more called to him, telling Julian this was where he belonged.

?? ?

"Has anyone see where our ladies vanished?" Julian asked of his brothers.

He searched the massive gathering, trying to locate the three women. Hungry for Tamlyn's presence, he wanted to share this magical night with her and fretted at the prolonged separation. His eyes skimmed along the dark hill ridge, alert for any movement. Still concerned about the rebel Scots, he did not like Tamlyn being out of sight.

The priest, Sir Malcolm, strolled up. The handsome man smiled; the glint in his eyes mysterious, almost as if he could read Julian's thoughts. "Draw an easy breath, Lord Challon. You shall see Tamlyn anon. First, enjoy the pageantry."

Julian nodded. "With the attack on my cousin's cadre, I remain at attention for any dangers that might melt from the shadows."

Malcolm patted his arm. "Oh, aye, 'tis surely what causes your... ah. .. tension."

The music changed, oddly haunting, the pipes sending small bumps to crawl up Julian's spine. Not the usual tunes of war, but a low, slow droning that mesmerized. A hush descended over the area as the people settled down to wait.

The music wrapped around Julian and held him in thrall. His eyes followed the Culdee as he walked to the bonfire.

From a pouch hanging about the man's waist, Malcolm removed something, molding his fist around it. Raising his arm straight out at shoulder level before him, he chanted some words that failed to carry. Then, the priest spoke out so all could hear, "Lo! Behold how it has been from the dawn of time—since the Daughters of Anne formed our clan."

Finished with the heralding, Malcolm released his fingers and flung gritty powder into the bonfire. Flames jumped, sizzled and hissed, flaring white-hot for an instant, before settling down to a blue flame, which sent out a curl of thick fog. Instead of rising up as smoke usually did, it spiraled outward, rotating around the balefire in an ever-widening circle to snake across the grounds.

Unease rose in Julian as he felt almost alone in the strange fog. A foreboding? Guillaume either sensed Julian's warrior disquiet or shared it for he stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. Glancing over to check on Destain where he sat in the chair, his eyes were drawn past his brother.

Damian stood off to the side, talking with four strangers. Having accepted the oath of every villein and serf of Glen Shane and Kinmarch, Julian knew they were not of his holding. He blinked twice for the small group was more than passing odd. One, obviously of Norse descent—judging by the white blonde hair—stood a head taller than any man present. He was not someone you would ever forget. Clearly a warrior, he took up a position of deference and protector behind the three younger, slighter men. Dressed too fine to be anything but high born, all three were the exact image of the other, same pale red hair and narrow faces…triplets. Not something you saw often. In earnest conversation with his cousin, the middle one offered Damian a horn of drink.

Julian had not partaken of the mead being offered, for fearing losing his head around Tamlyn. Mayhap, the herbs the priest tossed upon the fire affected him similar to the mind-bending potions oft used in the Holy Land. Yet, after he blinked thrice trying to rid the strange image, the trio remained with their pet giant.

Suddenly, a feral war-scream split the night's revelry, jerking Julian's attention back to the balefire. A man soared over the flames of the sunken fire and through the smoke, making it appear as if he materialized from the blue fog. Clad in doeskin breeches, molded to his body by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh, he wore nothing else, though upon his head was a half-mask with antlers of a large buck.

The man-stag executed several high leaps, kicking gracefully to fly through the air, then spinning from leap to leap, until he came to a stop before Julian. Oddly, he stood perfectly still, barely more than an arm's length away. Vivid lavender eyes glowed behind the animal mask, locking with Julian. Then, with a magician's pass, he extended his hand. Held between his thumb and first finger was a single fresh-picked violet. Julian glanced down at the purple flower, a shade similar to the eyes of the masked man, unsure of the significance. Julian sensed this was a test—that he was supposed to take it. So he did.

"Your first gift as Lord of the Glen ." Malcolm materialized, once again, just behind Julian's shoulder. "On the first violets of spring, one may maketh a wish and it shall come true. Wish carefully, my lord. What will you wish for?"

Julian warily lifted the flower to his nose. There was no scent. The delicacy belied the endurance of the plant.

What should he wish for? Images of Tamlyn rose in his mind, of him touching her, her scent, her heat. He wanted to plant his seed within her body, for them to create a son. That need, that hunger, was crippling.

"Wish, Lord Challon. It shall be so." The stag-man said with a small half-smile, touched with a hint of wickedness. Then, he spun in a circle and vaulted away from Julian.

He continued to leap, capering around the bonfire with a vertiginous force, the jumps rising higher and higher, almost gathering power from the bluish smoke. His bare chest glistened with sweat. His arms flung open and closed with each revolution; his head snapped about as he spotted his turns to keep from getting dizzy. Julian saw with each rotation, the lavender eyes fixed on him. Again and again.

So absorbed by the athletic display, Julian failed to notice four men stepping out of the shadows. Unlike the leaper, they were dressed in the green garb of hunters.

They began a hypnotic mime of the four hunters chasing the male stag, pursuing, spinning and leaping through the smoke. The hunters drew closer, closer, miming shooting arrows at the man-stag from bows. Finally, the man-stag was brought down from the invisible arrows. He staggered and fell to the ground, representing death. So bound by the performers, the crowd groaned in agonized empathy, as the male-stag suffered death-throws. The four hunters bent down, each taking a leg or arm, and in solemn respect made a full tour about the balefire. The blue smoke grew thicker, until it swallowed the hunters and their fallen prey, whilst the pipes wailed in a dirge. Then, a lone skirl of the bagpipes tore through the hush, as suddenly, a man leaped through the flames to the exaltations of the people of the clan.

Malcolm explained, "The stag has been reborn— the young Highlander now be Lord of the Forest."

No longer clothed in the leathern chausses or wearing the animal mask, he was dressed in a plaide of black and green. He carried an ornate claymore, the sword nearly as long as the man's height. Instead of performing the high leaps and spins, he moved in fluid motion, demonstrating the skill of a man and the Highland great-sword being one. He slashed the air and parried with power, force and control as Julian had never seen, turning the weapon into an extension of his body.

Before, Julian had sneered at the Scots' claymore as too long and clumsy. He now saw the fluid swings, thrust and parries meant for offense and defense were anything but cumbersome. With a magical skill, the warrior almost seemed carried by the drums, pipes and flutes. The magnificent sword seemed a part of the warrior, his artistry one Julian envied. Mesmerized, he watched and memorized the sinuous, elegant movements of the young, muscular Scotsman, and knew on the morrow he would seek him out to learn this mastery.

The volume of the melody slowed and lowered, stilling until it was only two pipers playing a low haunting refrain. A whispered hush descended over the whole gathering. Everyone held their collective breaths while all focus left the braw Highlander, and shifted to the opposite side of the hill.

Then, Julian saw what drew them.

In long robes and bearing torches, two men approached from the south entrance to the tòrr , solemnly promenading down the long avenue of trees, in front of a figure covered completely in a net of spun gold. Two female attendants trailed in her wake—Raven and Rowanne—each holding a corner of the gold netting train. The procession had the feel of a mock wedding march. The veiled figure came to a stop, as the robed escorts stepped to the side.

Taking hold of the veil, she drew her arms out before her and then raised them skyward. She stayed in that position, in supplication, then slowly allowed the net to slide back, revealing Tamlyn, standing there in the flickering torchlight. She wore a kirtle of gold, spun from Highland magic, molding over her curvaceous body, with splits up to both her thighs. The heavy golden torque was about her neck. A chaplet of apple blooms crowned her unbound, honey-colored hair, which fell in waves down to her hips. Wide gold cuff surrounded her wrists, and reflected the torchlight. The only thing on her bare arms.

A Pictish Princess conjured from the Scottish mists.

Two tin pipes played a slow, haunting tune as Tamlyn rose up on her bare toes. She swayed, rocking to the accent of the drum, the heavy, throbbing beat of the bodhrán, providing cadence for the wanton roll of her hips. When the music swelled, the bagpipes joined in. Her body undulated in a dance so carnal, so profane, that a crippling wave of lust seized Julian's whole being. Flames of desire roared through him. The pain tripled as Tamlyn began her dance, circling the fire, her lithe. Her sensual movements gained force, matching the power of the melody, as she kicked her legs out, spun, arched and leaped. She flung the net about, trailing behind her so it appeared she had wings.

Julian stared. Awestruck. Entranced. The pounding of his heart echoed the bodhrán; his blood thickening until the drum set the rhythm of his heart. She held him spellbound, breathless. He was unable to take his eyes from her as she danced on air, lifted by the strange music. A music that had a life all its own.

The tall Highlander stepped back into the light, swinging the claymore again. Tamlyn spun around him, and almost in pantomime he followed her, his circle turning inside of hers until they finally came face-to-face. The music lowered as the pair slowly began to move in unison, the sword and the net symbolically working as counterpoints in the blatantly sexual dance. Tension of the watchers rose, the crowd drinking in the wantonness exuded by the athletic pair. The very air was laden, thrummed with the erotic heat conjured by the earthy man and woman. The dancing drew them closer, Tamlyn's body arching toward the Highlander, each feeding off the radiant sexuality of the other. Voices here and there began to hum the music, adding to the potent brew of this magical spell.

A fine sheen of perspiration coated Tamlyn's golden skin. She glowed with an inner light.

And the force with which Julian wanted her nearly drove him to his knees.

Julian's possessiveness howled. No man should dare dance in such a manner with his lady. He took a step toward them, but Guillaume grabbed his arm to stay him. Shaking his head, his brother silently saying, do not interfere .

Once again, the music lowered, and three other couples entered the circle of light, their sinuous movements mimicking Tamlyn and the Highlander. All eight pranced around the fire, swaying, almost touching at times, only to have the females twirl away playfully, taunting the males to follow their lead. Three more pairs joined the mating dance―for Julian could call it nothing else—provoking the whole crowd to feast off the high intensity of sexual emotion created by the enthralling dancers.

They revolved around and around the fire, yet almost seemed a part of it. The whole scene binding his senses.

Julian could only see Tamlyn.

The other dancers were vague, faceless figures, mere shadows moving about Tamlyn's golden presence. He burned for her. Jealousy ripped through him with talons every time the Highlander accidentally brushed his arm against hers. Each time Tamlyn looked into the man's eyes. Julian would have marched over, claimed the woman that was his. Only, Guillaume's cautioning hold bid him not to interfere. Emotions were so violent within him it nearly saw him nauseous, kept only at bay by the overpowering lust, lust so ravenous he never felt the like before.

Each time the pairs circled, three more joined the swaying and spinning, until they numbered three circles of thirteen couples. They wove, first the men around the women, then the females circling the males. Teasing. Luring.

And it was slowly killing Julian

The music rose, driving the dancers onward. Then, it would fall again and slow as the couples drew closer together.

Rage and lust surged through him to the point of blindness. He flung Guillaume's hand away and stalked into the circle of blue light.

???

The music dropped and then swelled to crest again, sending Tamlyn spiraling away from the man who was their living king-god. The tune lifted Tamlyn, carrying her along, but some element was not right. Still she danced, feverishly, sensually, obeying the refrain and the pulse of the bodhrán . Still, her body pined for something , demanded of her.

She had danced as the May Queen before. Never had it affected her in this manner. Her body throbbed with need, the pressure increasing. With dizzying force she twirled, casting the netting behind her as a warrior's pennon.

Suddenly, the netting seemed to catch. A hard jerk yanked her around, causing her to

slam into the hard wall of a body. Disorientated, barely able to breathe, she stared into the chest covered in black. Slowly her eyes lifted to the burning green eyes .

Challon.

Her chest rose and fell, heaving from the exertion, but also from his nearness.

Yes...oh, yes…this is what her body craved.

Then she knew. The Kenning spoke she danced for him this night. Ached for him to come out and join in her as the true Lord of the Glen . Pressure within her increased, in her breasts, in the part of her a husband would claim. She blinked several times at the power exuded by this dark warrior, wondering which emotions were the strongest in him. Anger? Jealousy? Desire? Did his need match what pulsed in her? Would that control his actions? Would Challon dance with her and summon the powers of this special night?

Her mouth crooked at the right corner. She decided to test if the Dragon would play. She took two steps preparing to spin away, but Challon used his hold on the netting to reel her back, forcing her to arch into him. Their bodies so close, their mouths almost touching so they shared each other's breaths, she began to rock to and fro, seeing if he picked up the rhythm.

Slowly, he did. Tentative at first, but his hips rocked against her with surer movements, as the bodhrán spoke to his blood. She turned, walking around him so they nearly touched, rubbing her back against his. He followed, woodenly the first time, his eyes never leaving her. As they continued dancing circles around the other, he soon mirrored her steps—as if he had done this a hundred times before. The music rose, pushing them onward, their sexual need grinding harder as their bodies rocked together. Their movements matched, he followed her making it a true mating dance.

Voices joined with the music's crescendo in near exaltation, proclaiming the rightness of what they were witnessing—the clan seeing their May Queen accepting the Lord of the Glen in rites that meant life, meant the clan would endure strong and healthy.

The melody slowed, but the voices rose, chanting, some male murmuring yea…yea…oh yea, while others were a mere feminine sigh … as Challon swung the net around her and used it to drag her closer, until she was hard against him. The deep breaths pushed her breasts against his chest. The thinness of her kirtle did little to shield her from his arousal. Releasing his hold on the netting, his hands slid up and down her hips .

Unexpectedly, Challon seized her about the waist, lifted her high, spinning around and around, carried on the music and the elation of the people watching. He gradually slowed, the dizziness paled to the windswept emotions storming through Tamlyn. Challon let her slide against his body, down to the ground, the friction both agony and ecstasy.

Tamlyn never felt stronger, more empowered. Never felt weaker. She wanted to provoke him. She wanted to surrender. She wanted their bodies joined as one.

Had the music stopped, or had she just ceased to hear it? All she could do was stare into the dragon green eyes. Drown in them. This man was her destiny. Nothing else mattered. He removed the netting from her grasp and then dropped it.

Shaking, Challon took her face in both hands. The hunger in his eyes rippled, tangible. So strong, it nearly robbed her of breath. With a need, tempered with reverence, he took her mouth with his. Lightly at first. Then deeper, more desperate, more demanding. The primitive male need to mate unleashed. Beneath it all was his need for her. In ways, she knew he did not begin to understand.

She smiled. He would.

Lost in the power, Tamlyn was not aware of the hundreds of other people around them or their celebrating. To her the world stood still, narrowed, until there was nothing but the star-filled night.

And Challon.

The cries of people from both clans filled the night air, and their dancing around them grew more frantic, expressing the joy at the bonding of these two people. A good omen for the glen. Some whispered they witnessed something very rare—of a love that was timeless, a love that had been before. How ages ago, another woman and a warrior danced on this high tòrr before the Beltaine balefire on a night such as this. The Elders recognized their coming again.