Chapter Two

Ar uair a thig ur, thig lagh ur .

(When a new king comes, new laws come.)

— Auld Scottish Adage

Feeling the woman before him sag, Julian flexed his elbow and drew her back against his chest. Shock of what he had prevented must be hitting her mind. Concerned she would slip from the saddle, he held her close. Sensations evoked by her nearness intrigued him. Most odd, he experienced a deep sense of rightness at having her in his embrace.

Damn their eyes! Had he not given orders how he wanted the villeins treated? Handle them softly, he had stressed. After Berwick— especially after Berwick —no stomach had he to witness Edward's dragon standard raised before another town. The nightmare arose in his mind, of the flag bearer waving Edward's new pennon—the command that no quarter was given. It had come just before a thousand Heavy Horse hammered down the weak and rotting wooden curtain walls of the Scottish city and madness ensued.

The green dragon on a field of black was long the standard of the earls of Challon in Mortain. It sickened him the Scots now confused it with Edward's new dread banner. A terrible slur to his family's ancient and honorable name. Umbrage flared bright in his mind, but he reined in futile emotion and worked to banish the horrible memories.

Julian swallowed cold, rising bile eating at his insides. Wales had been bad enough, a festering nightmare that plagued his soul. Only, Berwick had been nothing more than senseless profane bloodlust. A demonstration to the Scots of the force of Edward's might. The whole town paid price for the Angevin savage streak that rode the Plantagenet hard as a demon demanding blood sacrifice.

Breaking the English encampment at Hutton, the king had ridden forth to the gates of Berwick, richest city in all of Scotland. There, he demanded immediate surrender. The foolish, prideful Scots jeered and called for Edward to do his worst.

He had. His very worst. A horror unimaginable!

In a wave of fire and blood, the English had rolled through the nearly defenseless town. Twenty thousand men, women and children came under Longshanks' sword in the three-day killing frenzy. So many, they would need burying in mass pits once command finally came down. Now, several sennights past, Edward's decree saw the putrid corpses remaining where they had fallen, hacked down in the streets. A reminder to the Scots what terrible consequences their defiance had wrought.

A nightmare that would haunt Julian to his dying days. He never wanted to experience the revolting likes again. Never again .

Returning to his sense of self, he realized that his arm tightly clutched the woman before him—almost as if to absorb her heat. Hoping to banish the chill within his heart? He forced his muscles to relax, not wanting to alarm her after the rough handling from his men.

Julian breathed a sigh of relief when Lochshane came over with little more than words exchanged, the first of the three fiefs within Glen Shane, controlled by the daughters of the earl of Kinmarch. When the Captain of the Guard received tides of the approaching host under standard of the Black Dragon, surrender came quickly enough. There, they informed him their lady, Rowanne MacShane, was not within the curtain, but visited Glenrogha this day.

By all, Julian would soon face that daughter of The Shane along with her younger sister, Lady Tamlyn. Then, he would deal with their fates.

Only, where did the female in front of him fit? He moved his thumb ever so gently on her bare skin, felt her stomach muscles contract in reaction. His groin tightened at her response.

Her clothes were thin, near ragged. Her wool breacon was a design similar to many found in this northland. Greens, black and a line of saffron so faded, it was nigh impossible to discern a pattern.

Fanning around her hips, her long hair was a shade rare. Julian was used to the pale blondes so favored at English Court, or the black-haired beauties of his native Normandy. This Scots' was neither. Nor was it the curly red so populating Scotland. The luster and hue of aged bronze, images of it spread across a bed as she lay beneath him flooded his mind.

Her eyes fascinated him. As a rule, Julian would be hard pressed to tell a woman's eye color—even those he had bedded. Frightfully intelligent, penetrating, hers held a power, a pull. She rarely blinked. That directness would spook most men. Julian was not most men. To him they held a challenge, one his hot warrior's blood would be driven to conquer.

When he held her knife and looked into those amber eyes, he lost sense of time. A crippling jolt of lust had wracked his body. Just heartbeats before, he had berated his knights for attacking her. Yet, had he been alone with this woman, he would have lain her down on the cool earth and taken her. Nothing and no one could have stopped him.

Despite the overpowering physical response, something elusive brushed against the back of his mind, a haunting feeling he could not place. Arcane sensations rippled up his spine as he had stared, bound by both the knife and the woman. The spinning sense of déjà vu possessed his mind. A feeling… something from long ago? With certainty, he knew when he was old and grey and memories dimmed, he would still vividly recall the vision of her kneeling, those haunting eyes staring up at him. Nearer gold than brown, they possessed aspects of a lynx having assumed human form.

Legends whispered throughout these heathen hills warned of Greymalkins or Cait Sidhe, witches royally descended from the Picts. These fey women possessed powers to transmute nine times into catamounts. He had scoffed at such superstitious drivel. Never more. One now sat in front of— and upon —him.

As his thumb stroked the soft skin just below her breasts, the corner of his mouth twitched. He pondered what it took to send this strange one to purr.

Without word one, the rows of knights shifted, allowing their liege to pass to his personal van . He ignored his brothers' glares—garnered for riding off without escort—and for several deep breaths Julian held the stallion in place, studying the fertile land stretching before him.

Some ghostly voice whispered to his soul that this pagan glen was rare, different. A jarring sense of coming home filled his heart, as if he were born of this rich black loam. The feeling of well-come had haunted him since entering the passes of Glen Shane, and seemed to increase as the approach to the fortress neared. When first viewed, the sister's demesne of Lochshane failed to touch him as strongly. The fey pull was for and to Glenrogha. Well, it now belonged to him. By the Rood , take and hold it he would, and no one could stop his course. Impatience pulsed heavy within his blood to reach the fortress that was now his.

Taking point, he raised his right hand. A flip of two fingers signaled the formed host to advance to the Scottish stronghold…and his waiting destiny.

Lasher's prancing gait shifted the woman side-to-side, her long legs creating friction on his thighs. Worse, the positions of their bodies in the deep seat of the war saddle sent his mind awhirl with dark, erotic images of them together, naked. Heat flooded his flesh with potent cravings, so sharp they were a knife to his gut. The depths of these reactions to this Scots female were disturbing. Muscles along his jaw flexed, as Julian did his best to dismiss them.

On the far tòrr a wooden cross burned. The height of seven men, its black pitch smoke curled high into the loch breeze, rising and spiraling into the Highland fog.

Julian leaned his head close against hers. His chest tightened, as all around him seemed to fade to grey. There was only her . He inhaled her haunting fragrance, fought the urge to bury his face in the bronze tresses. Blinking to resist the spell, he asked, "Pray tell, what be that, my fool?"

" Cross Tàradiach — Fiery Cross . A signal to all that Glenrogha be at peril. Even if your knights intercepted the rider dispatched to Kinloch, they espy the cross burning high atop Dunstrathraven Tòrr . So does Clan Ogilvie."

"For all it serves Glenrogha. The fortress cannot stand." Julian stated with complete assurance of success. Reining Lasher at the rise of the knoll, he stared upon the corbelled broch and the newer flanking towers surrounded by the vitrified stone walls of Glenrogha. "God's teeth, what means of bastion is that?"

"My ancestors—the Picts—built that battlement. You shan't find the parapets can be breached, nor will sapping see success. The whole fortress rests upon cliffs of solid stone. Despite the upper part being wood, ramparts are set upon solid walls the thickness of four men's lengths and half as high. Boulders, rock and sand were stabilized by huge beams of black oak and covered with massive amounts of fuel, then set afire. Burned over a fortnight, it did. Stone melted, melded, so what you see be clinkered. The Elders speak that salient has existed since the time before St. Columba came to Alba's shores. The corbelled broch is older still."

His smile held a trace of satisfaction as his eyes assessed the curtain, searching out strengths and vulnerabilities. "The gates are wood. No true defendable portcullis. A strong foundation for ramparts serves naught if the gates are pregnable."

He glanced to the banneret on his left and nodded once. The high-ranking knight put a gold spur to his steed, setting the animal to a lazy lope to the outer wall.

Stirring on the boulevard was evident. Nevertheless, the men-at-arms stayed behind the protection of the wall, fear and respect for the deadly range of the Welsh longbowmen.

The messenger rode to the wall and called for all to hear. "Who answers for Glenrogha?" Full of barely controlled spirit, his snow-colored charger pranced sideways in a flashy display, the flag-of-truce snapping in the spring breeze.

A woman wearing a plaide strode to the edge of the rampart and stepped up on the banquette. "Rowanne of Lochshane speaks for Glenrogha this day."

"A woman?" The knight gave scorn at the notion. "Where is the captain of the guard? Prefer I to confer with a man."

" Southron knave, you stand in Alba, land of the Picts. Here women can hold the honours of our birthright." Her blonde hair swirled in the breeze like a warrior's pennant.

"Then I needs must parlay with the Lady Tamlyn MacShane. I carry tides from the earl of Challon and Torqmond."

She scoffed, "'Tis spake the king's champion rides an ebony stallion, darker than your Devil's soul, named Pagan. I shall speak with the Lord Challon— not his page."

Julian shifted hands: the left one gripped the reins now also pressed against the woman's belly, leaving his right free to lightly rest on the hilt of his sword. All eyes were on them as he nudged the mount forward, guiding the pitch destrier with his knees and clicking sound of his tongue. The animal danced from the rank of the avant-garde and to the fore of the curtain wall.

"This day I ride Lasher, not his brother, Pagan. Heartfelt felicitations, Rowanne of Lochshane. We did so miss your lovely presence there yestereve," Julian taunted. He deemed the new experience of dealing with a woman being in charge of a fortress thought provoking. Long ago, he had learnt how to read men, knowing the words they said and what they thought were oft entirely different. With a female, he was not so sure.

"Why has Longshanks sent forth his mighty firedrake to this wee humble dun ? We are but a small Scottish demesne and remain peaceful in these times of troubles."

"But not thy sire at Kinmarch. The laird of Clan Shane supports the Scottish king, Balliol, in his rising. A mooncalf's choice."

"My lord father follows a mind of his own. Lochshane, Glenrogha and Kinloch remain separate from Kinmarch by Rite of Line ."

"That no longer holds truth, my lady. Bear I Writ of Attainder from Edward, king of all England, lord of Ireland, duke of Guyenne and Lord Protector of Scotland. Henceforth, all honours of the Ogilvies and Shanes of Glen Shane are forfeit by acts of lèse-majesté. I now hold charter and rule here as the new lord and earl."

"You have strayed far past the Marches . Your king holds no power here," Rowanne bit back.

"Under suzerainty, word of the Lord Paramount becomes law. Learn to accept this. Your sire foolishly rose to Balliol's standard, thus Edward decrees all lands and titles seized."

"Even if you use this so-called proclamation to claim Kinmarch, the three fortresses of the sisters do not belong to my lord father. Look around, Lord Challon. None here be in rebellion," Rowanne countered, not backing down one measure. "Daughters of The Shane rally to the standard of no man. "

"Bootless arguments aside—I needs must trade words with the Lady Tamlyn to see transfer of rule is done in peace. I hold little taste for futile spillage of Scots blood," he pressed.

Rowanne stared down at the two people on the midnight charger, seeming to make up her mind on how to answer. With a tilt to her head, she spoke in a level voice. "Our Tamlyn be no' within these walls."

"Might I suggest you permit our entry? A runner can be dispatched with call for your lady sister," Challon offered, a trace of mischief filtering through his deep voice.

" Och , you and you alone, Lord Dragon, may enter Glenrogha. Come and we shall bid you ceud mìle fàilte ." One hundred thousand welcomes.

With a lift of the black brows, he cautioned, "Judging me as a fool, Lady Rowanne, be a grave mistaking. 'Tis unwise to bait a dragon."

"I decline your generous offer, Lord Challon. Tamlyn kens your trespass. Only she may grant leave for the gates to reopen. Until she says different, you and your grand fine knights needs must remain without."

The heavy rise and fall of his armoured chest pushed against the spine of the woman before him. Impatience surged through his body. She could feel it pulse with his every breath, for she turned to look at his face. The shortness of temper reflected in his demand. "Where might the countess of Glenrogha be found?"

"I am no' certain. No one was informed where she went. Like our lord father, she has a mind of her own. And no' oft a wise one, mind." Rowanne paused, once again, her eyes studying the woman before him. "May I, Lord Dragon, beg a boon? Humbly, I appeal for release of the lass held before you. Though dressed in garb of a serf, she be of noble blood. 'Twould prove muckle difficult if anything improper happened to her."

"'Tis hard to turn down a request from so beautiful a lady. Still, I think it best this fool remain under my protection." As if emphasizing his words and possession, his arm flexed about the woman. "Naught shall threaten the demoiselle ."

The baroness's eyes flashed fire. "Even from this distance my gaze espies spoil already done under your noble care."

"Not by my hand. Ask her," he granted.

Lady Rowanne's stare remained fixed on his fool. Inclining her head slightly in reply, the woman indicated that he spoke truth.

"Naught else shall occur to her. This I so swear upon my troth as the earl of Challon."

"I warn you, Sasunnach, if the lass be harmed in any fashion, one night you shall waken with a sgian dubh cutting your Norman gullet…take that as my bond."

"Shall I send in my brother as hostage, a guarantee for her safety?" Caprice flashed through him, and he could not stop his smile from forming. He glanced to the knight immediately to his left. "Sir Guillaume of Challon would gladly offer himself as surety. Is that not so, banneret?"

His brother's eyes raked slowly over the baroness. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed, my lord. 'Twould be my pleasure to serve the Lady Rowanne."

Lady Lochshane tugged the plaide ruana snugly over her breasts, clearly rattled by his brother's arrogant stare. With a tilt of her chin, she dismissed him as beneath notice. "Gracious thanks for your grand offer, but I think the answer remains nay. I prefer all your bonnie knights remain on that side of the curtain."

"Very well. I grant you until the morrow to summon your lady sister. If she is not here to empower the gates to swing wide, I shall commence siege. The force within—so sorely depleted by your sire's call for fighting men—shan't hold against my host. Take that as my bond."

Not lingering for a reply, he spurred his stallion into a prancing trot back over the knoll to his waiting van , followed strides behind by his brother . Once Guillaume drew alongside of him, he spoke his commands. "Food and rest be needed by all. See the troops to ease. Give orders for the tents to be set and a hot meal prepared. Put the squires to care of the cattle."

With a flashing grin, his brother nodded, and then set off to see Julian's will carried out.

Clutching the high square pommel of the saddle, the woman turned to glance back at Glenrogha, clearly terrified what the future would bring now the Black Dragon had come to claim all.