Chapter Nineteen

Run do chridhe air do chuisle!

(May your pulse beat as your heart wisheth)

— Auld Scots Adage

Julian trailed after Tamlyn, allowing her to lead.

He was like a cat: drop him and he would always land on his feet. Yet, as Tamlyn took his hand in hers, he followed until his sense of which direction completely disappeared. She guided him away from the gathering on the tòrr . Their path spiraled down the hillside, the music growing softer, fainter, as did the laughter echoing through the dark night. For a bit, he thought she was taking him back to Glenrogha, but then she turned the opposite way, and headed deeper into the darkness. It was only when they paused, and the heady scent of apple blossoms filled his head, did he realize she had drawn him back to the orchard of the Silver Bough .

She paused, leaning against him as if seeking his warmth.

"Here—" He reached up with his free hand to the catch on his mantle, "you must feel the night's chill."

Tamlyn's laughter was low, so faint it seemed to drift away on the warm breeze. "Nay, the night be soft, my lord." The tug of her hand spoke she wanted him to come.

As the air swirled around him, he suddenly felt the difference. It was much warmer here, much warmer. Julian glanced up to see they stood under the natural arch formed by the two ancient apple trees, the entrance to the Sacred Grove. He hesitated. Too clearly, he recalled how the grove had not welcomed his presence this morn. The orchard had held him outside the entrance, reminding him he was male and thus not a part of this female bastion.

He studied the lay of the land, how the hills rose sharply on either side of this mound. He wondered, when this grove was created ages ago was it laid out on purpose, or had the power of the land moved Tamlyn's ancestors to plant the two apple trees at this precise spot. Their limbs intertwined through the centuries becoming as one to create the arch into the Grove of the Silver Bough . The entrance to the body of the glen.

The balmy draft stirred through the apple trees, and like a living being rushed out to welcome him. For as he felt warded from entering this morn, he now sensed the grove embraced him, opened itself to his male presence. Maybe it was this strange night affecting his thoughts, but he now grasped the Scots beliefs in the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen . There was something very feminine about the dawn, the gentleness of morn with its pale colors, but then the night came, and with it the dark sensuality of the male side of nature. The grove offered him acceptance now, because he had opened himself to be a part of the force of life, part of the balance.

How odd. In this moment, England and Wales felt very far away, as if none of that mattered to him any longer. He was no longer a part of that world. He allowed the sweet, redolent scent and the warm air swirl to around him, intoxicating him with this sense of belonging to this land. In a spinning sense—a blend of reality or fantasy—the ritual of the stag-man played through his mind. He understood the connection. Why the Scotsman had stood before him. As the images rolled through his thoughts, Julian saw the man jumping through flames, reborn. Only this time, it was with his own face.

As he moved under the arch of the apple trees, he felt the whole world shift. Mayhap it was the moorings on his sanity rocking loose, but suddenly, the night, the land, the orchard, Tamlyn and he were in sum more than the individual parts.

As if all this played out before.

"Come…" she whispered.

Julian smiled. Now that they were away from the great fire, his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. In spite of her drawing him deeper into the grove, his vision was stronger...his eyes drinking in the image of her in the golden gown that was nearly see-through in the moonlight. Tamlyn was a golden witch ensnarling his mind .

"Where are you taking me," he asked, not really caring. Not following her never entered his mind.

"You will see."

Apple petals fluttered in the breeze, raining down upon them. Off in the distance, he heard the light tinkling of bells. Just as he had this morn. Every element felt mystical, as if some power rose from this spot in the earth. All in his life now seemed naught but guideposts leading him to Tamlyn and Glenrogha. He drank in the scent of the earth and the apple blossoms, he felt the force moving through him, renewing, healing.

Glenrogha. He knew glen meant valley. "Tamlyn, what does rogha mean?"

She paused, and looked back at him, smiling in the moonlight. "Choice...best, if you prefer."

He had heard her people speak of Tamlyn as the Chosen Daughter of Glenrogha―the chosen valley. The best valley.

The warrior in him should feel exposed, moving away from the crowd and into the darkness. The hills still might harbor some of the lingerers from Clan Comyn. He had luck in that Clans Ogilvie and Shane harbored deep resentments toward the northern clan. Also, his path was made easier due to the fact this isolated glen was so far removed from the rest of the realm. Thankfully, they had never witnessed the horrors of war. So far, the people of the two glens seemed to accept him, welcomed his presences in Tamlyn's life. Nonetheless, he knew it only took one or two malcontents to cause trouble.

In spite of the normal wariness of his warrior mien, he sensed peace and safety in this grove, and was pleased Tamlyn had brought him.

He tugged on her hand to slow her down. "Why have you led me here, Tamlyn?"

She turned back, the shadows wrapping around her. "To show you my tree. This way."

"Your tree?" he echoed.

"Aye, my lady mother planted the seed for my tree on May Day a score and six years ago."

She paused, going to a nearby tree. Putting her arms around the silver trunk, she hugged it. "This be her tree―planted on the day she was conceived. Sadly, it no longer produces apples, but Hadrian will no' let it be marked for sacrifice. The blossoms stopped flowering after she died. My father tells he took her under its boughs on Beltaine , and the passing of nine moons later, I arrived."

Once more, she took his hand and drew him farther into the orchard, finally coming to a stop near the end of one row.

"This is your tree?" he asked.

"Aye, planted by my lady mother. As I planted one earlier this day."

Julian's body pulsed in a dull throb. The music from the tòrr filtered down to the orchard, making him recall how she had danced with him before the balefire. The low pounding beat of the bodhrán throbbed in his blood. "I should be wary of us being away from the crowd. Stragglers that attacked Damian and his men might still lurk near. Yet..."

"Yet?"

"'Tis most peculiar." He reached for the words to make her understand his confusion. "I feel protected here within this grove."

"You are safe in this orchard."

He pulled on her to make her stop. "You sound very sure of this. Why is that?"

"None shall find their way into Glen Shane this night. The Sacred Mists will strengthen and protect us."

"What mean you? I have heard others speak of the mists protecting this valley."

Tamlyn hesitated, and then finally spoke. "I wonder if you and your Norman beliefs will truly understand. The mists of Glen Shane were a warding set long ago by the Daughter of Anne , the first Lady of the Glen. They protect us. Our passes remain hidden by the fog so none may see the entrance. For centuries, no invaders put foot on the soil in this valley." Unable to meet his questioning stare, she turned away.

Julian granted her no quarter. He had heard the whispers. Grabbing her upper arm, he gently pulled her back to face him. "I saw the passes."

She stared up into his face, her answer barely a whisper. "The Auld Ones willed it so."

"Your gods allowed me into come to valley?" Julian paused, wanted her to admit it. "I saw the mists swirl, then lift so the passes were revealed to my eyes."

"The skeins of life spinning, weaving our fates. "

"I felt...my heart felt...a sense of coming home." In a soft voice, he queried, "How can that be? All that has come before seems so distant...as if nothing else matters, that I belong to this land. A land I have never seen before. How, Tamlyn?"

A tear glistened in her eye, but he would not permit her retreat. He still held her, just above the elbow. The first finger of his right hand curled under her chin and lifted it, so she was forced to meet his eyes. "How, Tamlyn. Tell me?"

Her lip quivered, as she drew in a shaky breath. "Your mind be guided by the kirk. You will no' wish to hear our heathen ways."

"Tell me. This night I find myself believing in many things." He reached out to cup the side of her head.

"You have been here before… long ago ―"

"Nay, I would remember if I came to Glen Shane before. Never could I have met you and forgotten." He took a step closer, compelled by the glittering tears in those haunting eyes.

A weak smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You have forgotten me, Julian. My mind...my dreams...recalls you. You came, riding on a black steed. You wore black mail―"

"Never. I say never." His thumb traced over her chin, feeling the hint of a clef. "Never could I forget you, Tamlyn."

"'Tis so. Why think you the people of the glen accept you so readily? They are brave. They would fight for their lands, their home."

"My troops are too many―"

"My people be Scots. Not mooncalf enough to face your English might on a field of battle, they would come from the mists, strike at your weakest points, your flanks, pick at your troops like a carrion bird on a carcass. When you gave chase, they would vanish into the fog and shroud themselves from your eyes. Instead, they accept your coming. My lord father recognized you. He sought Evelynour's foretellings and she spake you were him come again."

"I have heard some of these rumors. I assumed Auld Bessa spread these tales to help you."

"Not tales...a prophecy. A dark warrior came to this valley. His name was Fitheach —Raven—a warrior-king. He took the Daughter of Anne to wife. 'Tis why the Auld Ones showed you the way into our valley."

He felt the fine tremors wracking her body. He stepped closer, not in intimidation, but in succor. " Shhh... why do you tremble so, Tamlyn?" His reason told him this was naught more than a dream spun of Highland mists, but one he could use to bind her to him.

Then why did his soul hunger to believe her words?

His mind cast back, how his scouts had hunted for the entrance from Kinmarch, which led into Glen Shane, searching for nearly half a day. Finally, he had grown exasperated with their failure. He had spurred Lasher away from the troops. No sooner than he had ridden a few rods, the mist became so thick that it swallowed his soldiers and heavy horse behind him. For a space, time seemed to bend in upon itself, and he seemed so alone.

Except for the cries of ravens .

Their cacophony grew louder, almost deafening, causing Lasher to shy. He had trouble making the charger move forward. The horse refused to obey the signals of his knees, and was sweating and showing clear signs of fear.

Suddenly, the mist swirled and slowly lifted, showing he stood at the mouth of the passes to Glen Shane.

He leaned toward her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. "If your gods will it, who am I―a mere mortal―to defy them? By the same token, my lady, you must be bound by their will as well."

A tear slipped over her cheek and he caught it with his lips, drinking in the healing nectar.

Tamlyn trembled against him. Her hands grasping his upper arms, her fingers digging into his muscles. He had an idea she had brought him here for more than to show him her tree. Yet, the skittishness told him she was still frightened of being with him.

He forced himself to pull back and set her from him. "We need to go back to the tòrr, Tamlyn."

Her face reflected her confusion in the moonlight. "I…I thought―"

"Tamlyn, soon we will wed. Then, as your lord husband I shall claim you. 'Tis not that I do not want you. You know I do. But I told you, I grant you the time until the wedding."

She lowered her head shyly, but then reached out to touch his chest lightly with her fingertips. "What if I do not want to wait, Julian? Some things are just meant to be."

The breeze shifted, carrying notes of the pagan music, floating down to them. The throb of the drum beat out a tattoo that seized his heart, almost beating for it. Tamlyn tossed back her hair, a feline smile curving her small, full mouth. Picking up the beat of the bodhrán , she rolled her hips, her whole body rocking to the sensual melody.

Tamlyn swayed toward him, brushing her body against his, rubbing with a friction that sent heat through his muscles, spreading as if Greek fire exploded within him. Breathless, held in her thrall, lust spiraled in him, seizing his body, his mind. Putting her hands on his hips, she swayed against him, encouraging him to pick up her rhythm. Arching on her toes, she brought her mouth to his in a slow, light kiss, dragging her lips over his. Vaguely, he grew aware her hands tugged at the chain across his upper chest, unhooking the fastener so his mantle fell away from his shoulders. Its inky blackness splashed across the white blossoms under the tree. He stared, again thinking of the symbolism of the two colors.

Tamlyn was right. This was meant to be. Somehow, it seemed fated that he should take Tamlyn on a bed of apple blossoms and his midnight mantle.

It registered in his mind, her hands unbuckled his baldric. As it separated, they both moved quickly to catch the sword before it hit the ground. His eyes locked with her witchy greymalkin orbs, as Tamlyn pulled back with the sheath.

As his hands remain around the pommel, an image flooded his memory of Tamlyn dancing with the Highlander. The Scotsman had driven the sword into the earth. How that act nearly crowded his mind to madness. For a long instant, they remained transfixed, the music curling around them. Sensing what she wanted of him, Julian raised and then plunged the sword into the ground beside the mantle.

Tamlyn smiled, a woman empowered. As though she was sure he was held in her spell, could not break away from her. That nothing could stop this. The questing hands moved over his chest to help pull off the surcoat. Next came the sark. Julian tossed them to the ground with little thought.

Once more, she kissed him. He tasted the sweet oatcake on her breath, yet as he sought to deepen it, she slithered down his body. The vision of this pagan princess on her knees before him set Julian's blood thundering to the point he felt faint. With nimble fingers, she undid the lacing around his boots and he kicked out of them. A heady mix of pure innocence and raw wickedness, Tamlyn's hand slid up his tensed thighs, over his groin, then her body followed the same path.

Running her hand over his chest, she kissed him lightly again, then whispered, "Dance with me, Julian."

His body seemed to know what she wanted for he began the slow rocking, his hands on her waist, mimicking the pagan rhythm they had dance before. Tamlyn rotated so her back was against his chest, her rounded derrière pressing to his hard groin. She placed her smaller hands over the top of his, sliding them up to her breasts. He swayed with her, grinding his body to hers while he squeezed her full breasts until she moaned. She took her hands from his, pulling at the golden gown until her breasts were freed.

Control suddenly slipped from his Highland enchantress. Now, he seized dominance of their dance. Her nipples were distended, hardening as he stroked them, using his thumb to circle around and around. She keened a rasping sound in the back of her throat, greedy, urging him on, encouraging him to squeeze them, roll them. Totally lost to the power that rose between them, bound them.

Suddenly, he spun her to face him. His arms went around her hips, and then lifted her. In rising hunger, his mouth feasted on her right breast. Sucking it hard, he drew on it in a rhythm that he knew would echo inside her body. Her head fell back, her long hair cascading behind her. Carefully, reverently, he lowered Tamlyn to the black cloak. Hands clutching his upper arms, she arched to him.

For an instant out of time, Julian paused to stare at the beautiful woman under him. He wanted to capture this image in his mind. When he was old and grey, he would conjure its power and recall Tamlyn, so beautiful, her golden hair pooling about her on his black mantle, the white apple blossoms raining down upon her.

Julian wanted this to last, to go slowly with her, make the beauty of this joining perfect for her. Only, she would not let him. He kissed her as he undid his leathern hose and pushed out of them and his braises, then his hands ruched up the golden gown to her hips.

He slid his fingers through the soft curls, finding them wet from her body's desire, preparing her for his invasion. He moaned as he slid a finger in her, hoping to stretch her body, then two. She was so very tight. He did not want to hurt her.

"Julian… please …" She seemed unable to gasp anything further.

Taking her hands, Julian interlaced his fingers with Tamlyn's and pushed them up beside her head, his body aligned to make them one. His erection, nudged against her opening, moistening the tip with the honey from her body. He knew virgins felt pain, but wished hurt to be no part of her memory, so he held back, kissing her breathless. Just as he flexed the muscles of his hips and slid into her, ready to breach the maidenhead, she jerked her head away from his, gasping.

"Wait…"

He blinked, nearly blind with the quickening rolling through his blood. "Wait?" came his strangled reply.

"Aye…you needs must…make a wish."

Julian echoed the words as if they were foreign. "A wish?"

"Aye, 'tis vital. Wish for what your heart desires the most, Challon." She kissed the column of his neck.

Julian forced his eyes to focus on the woman beneath him. She lay on his mantle, so black in the midst of the snow-white petals. Her golden hair spread out around her, the cat-eyes shining. He knew he belonged to this woman. Aye, she was likely a witch, but then mayhap it was a witch's charms he required to heal him, to exorcize the black miasma claiming his soul. No price was too high to own her, possess her.

Tamlyn sensed his hesitation. "Our joining be special. My people call it deas-ghnath mohr ."

"Grand rite," he repeated.

"Aye, 'tis magic. Wish for what you want most, Julian."

???

Tamlyn stared up into the face of the man who was about to claim her, and had never seen anything more rugged, more terrifying in his male power. Has never seen anything more beautiful. She hoped in her secret heart he would wish for her to love him. She knew she loved him and always would, no matter what lay ahead of them. Likely, she had loved him from the very first, when she had been kneeling and her eyes met his. She had been too unused to the ways of emotions, desire and love to understand what was happening to her. Now she knew. Their meeting was a planting of a seed of a twining vine that grew, binding them together.

"Speak your wish, Julian."

A crooked smile touched his lips. "What about you? Do you not get one as well?"

"Oh, aye, my wish is for your wish to come true." Her replying smile was all woman, mysterious, and born of the cat, confident of the man who was about to make her his.

Warmth left his face, replaced with seriousness, a yearning so deep it caused her to blink. "My wish…I want a child…a son born of your body." His hand slid down her and came to rest, his fingers splayed on her belly.

'Twas not the words she wanted to hear fall from his lips. But then a child― their child ―mayhap was a binding spell. She saw how desperately Julian desired a son. One day, she hoped he would come to desire her, love her with the same intensity.

"Then, so be it," she intoned. Tamlyn turned her head into the shadows of his neck to hide her lingering sense of disappointment. She wanted to hear Challon say he loved her. Wanted it with the same burning ache she heard in his voice when he asked for a son of her body. It was too soon. Such things would come in time. Her lip quivered so she bit down on the inside to stop it from giving her feelings away.

"Tamlyn, look at me," he commanded, his voice soft, deep. "I want to see your eyes when I take you."

She blinked, staring into his shadowy countenance. She gave a faint gasp as she felt him stretching her. Then, felt that hot, pulsing flesh push against her barrier. Her body was magic, conforming to accept him within her. Confused, she felt Challon start to pull back, but then he plunged forward. A cry escaped her lips, but he caught it, kissing her until the pain passed. She was amazed how deep he was within her, how joined their bodies were.

He raised up slightly and then moved inside her again, this time causing her to cry out her need.

He whispered against her lips, "Dance with me, Tamlyn."