Chapter Twenty

Cha duine duine ‘na aonar.

(A man alone is no man.)

— Auld Scots Adage

Sounds of jingling bells intruded on his healing slumber. Julian resisted awakening. He could not remember the last time he had rested so peacefully. As he gradually stirred, the reality of what happened last night, under the rays of the moon and showers of apple petals, spread through him. Alarmed, he tried to jerk up, but found a sleeping Tamlyn half-draped across his chest. For a heartbeat he smiled, then he leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder.

God's teeth, last night had been so good. Tamlyn burned out all memories of anyone else—there was her, and only her. Nay, she seared away the past. He felt detached from his previous existence: England no longer held meaning or importance for him. There was only his life here in this bespelled valley. Never had he known such a wondrous night. Never tasted the pleasure he found with his Scots lass. He had taken and taken, hungrily using her warmth to exorcise the chill lodged in his soul. And she and her magic had done that... and more . She blazed bright and hot as the sun, scorched him to the very core with her white-hot pagan fire.

What surprised him was his yearning to give. He had to fill her with himself—not just his flesh—but with a radiance that branded every inch of her body, her being, her mind with his complete possession. Julian wanted to own her, rule her, bend her unto his will.

Somewhere along the path, all that dominance had been ripped from his hands .

She now owned him. Possessed his very soul.

On his long journey to Glen Shane, he had passed time making plans for the future in his mind. Focusing on the days ahead was what kept him going when he had lost all hope.

And now, those dreams were becoming a reality. On the steps of the ancient kirk, he would take Tamlyn to lady wife before all of the two clans. The pomp and the circumstance would be formidable, befitting a man once a king's champion. Already, he had started arranging all the details, down to what they both would wear. Raven was sewing a dress for Tamlyn, copied from a drawing he had done.

Long ago, Julian had learned to appreciate the power of appearance. So much of what people thought, how they treated you, hinged upon how they viewed you. The lavish wedding to his virginal bride and the feast to follow would be talked about, praised and envied. Julian's possession of the lady of Glenrogha would spread throughout the Highland clans and beyond. Men feared his reputation. Precisely for that reason, he had spent many years polishing and perfecting that invisible shield. Being the Black Dragon was as strong a weapon as his lance or sword. Nothing less would be expected when the Dragon of Challon wed. Tides of his marriage would be upon the lips of bards throughout these Isles.

He intended his bonding with Tamlyn would follow that exacting creed, serving to enhance the legend of the Dragon. After they spoke their vows, they would reign jointly over the wedding feast. Such a spectacle would fuse in the minds of the people of both clans that he was now her lord husband, and she came to him willingly. In that pleasing daydream, then and only then, would he lead Tamlyn to their chambers, where he would instruct his lady wife on the pleasures of their marriage bed. On the morning after, the bloodied sheet would be hung from the window as proof of his taking of his virginal bride.

Somehow, Tamlyn had led him to losing his head, and he had taken her as a common wench on the ground 'neath the apple tree. 'Twas unfortunate, but there was no taking it back. What would Glenrogha's people think of him now? That he dishonored her? How could they not?

'Twas no way to start the marriage of the Dragon of Challon, the new earl of Glenrogha.

Feeling contrite, he slid out from under her, and quickly dressed. Fastening the buckle on his baldric, he glanced about, checking to see if anyone was lurking near. At least, no one seemed near. He finished tying the leather lacings about his boots, and then squatted.

Julian reached out to shake her. Instead, as his hand drew close to her bare back, he could not stop from caressing her. She was so rare, so precious, it caused him to feel frightened, venerable in a way he misliked. He lightly drew his thumb down the column of her spine. She shivered.

"Awake, Tamlyn. Dawning is long past."

She blinked, and wobbly pushed up on his mantle. Her gold gown was bunched up about her hips; her half-naked body caused him to suck in his breath and hold it. Dark marks were appearing on her left breast. He winced. He wanted to lean down and kiss the faint bruises his mouth had left. Only, that was a path to madness. He helped her rise, and to rearranged the twisted gown. Picking up his mantle, he shook the white blooms from it, then swung the black material around Tamlyn's shoulders. The least he could do was shield her from any prying eyes as they returned.

As he went to fasten the catch at her shoulder, she stepped close and leaned into him, lifting her face. " M adainn mhath, mo thighearn dorcha ."

Good morn, my dark lord . His ear for her language was becoming stronger. 'Twas a pretty language, especially when she spoke it. She stood before him, so close he could smell the heady apple blooms on her skin. Tamlyn wished for him to kiss her. And he truly wanted to. But if he kissed her, he feared they would not make it back to the fortress.

Instead, he reached up and tugged the cape closer around her neck, almost in a gruff fashion, intending on hurrying her back to Glenrogha. Howbeit, as he looked at her, apple blossoms scattered through her long hair, he had a hard time thinking. Oh, what a lucky man he was! Tamlyn was a gift beyond measure.

He exhaled, exasperated with himself. "Come, lass, I needs must get you back to Glenrogha. I am sure they wonder where we are."

She reached up and pulled a sprig of the blooms from his hair. "My people are not fools, Julian. They ken where we went."

He frowned. He still harbored hope they he could slip into the fortress, and hopefully, get to the lord's chamber without drawing interest. The likelihood of that possibility was fading with the Highland mists. "Come, we needs must hurry." He took her hand and turned away.

Tamlyn was rooted to the spot and refused to follow him. Her resistance was firm. Glancing back, he lifted his brows in question. The tilt of her chin was one of a woman resolute.

"Tamlyn, what is it?"

She gave him a smile. "Julian, I shall no' move from this spot 'til you wish me a good morn and kiss me. Mayhap I lack experience in these matters…" she gave him a pointed frown, "unlike some others…"

He heard the jealousy in her tone. "We have many days and nights to speak to such concerns, but now—"

"Challon..." This time he heard the edged warning in his name. He stood there in a small struggle for control. His male dominance almost pushed him to refuse her request. But she waited, wrapped in his black mantle, with apple blooms still falling about her, spotlighted by a shaft of sunlight punching a hole into the orchard. What man would not want to possess her, want to own her...die for her?

He took the steps back to her and stood looking down on her lovely face. He lifted the hand he held to his mouth and pressed his lips to the palm. "Good morrow, my lady."

Once more, he turned away. And again, she offered him resistance. "Be that was passes as a kiss in the morn for you bloody Sasunnaich?"

Giving her a sigh of exasperation, he slowly pulled her toward him. She smiled, victory flashing in her eyes. Fine, he would concede this slight skirmish to his beautiful lady. His right hand lifted so his thumb could brush that faint shadow of a clef in her chin. "So you be wantin' a kiss, eh?" He mimicked her accent.

Tamlyn looked up at him with huge, luminous eyes, the centers widening as her body picked up on the sexual magic rising between them. The corner of his mouth tugged up, reminding himself how bloody fortunate he was. He had a feeling with Tamlyn as lady wife his days would seldom be peaceful, but they would never be filled with ennui . Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers.

Just as he leaned into the embrace, he dipped his knees down, and in a move too quick for her to react, trapped her in the voluminous material. His shoulder caught her at the waist, and he hefted her up and over it .

"Challon! Put me down!" she commanded, as if he would obey.

He laughed and gave a small slap to her rump. "Quit wiggling, or I will drop you."

"This is no' amusing," she complained. "I demand you put me down."

"I shall. Once I get you inside the damn fortress. So close your mouth, wench."

"Put me down..." she demanded. After several heartbeats, she added a soft, "please."

"You wanted a kiss and you got one, wench. Now hush. We have to go passed the gate, and I would like to do so without you screaming like an alewife."

Her head popped up and she twisted, trying to see his face. "Alewife? Och, you will regret this, Challon."

"Aye, an alewife," he teased.

He pulled up as he moved from the grove and into the open land of the dead angle. Four mounted men—Vincent and Gervase, with two squires—were riding out on patrol. They reined their mounts toward them when they spotted him. He quickly flipped the material over Tamlyn's head.

"Challon—" she squeaked the protest.

He barked, smacking her on the hip again. "Hush. Remain still. Riders approach."

Gervase halted his horse before him. "Good morrow, my lord. We go to ride the ridges as you ordered."

"Fine." He replied, acting as if it were commonplace for him to wander about with a woman flung over his shoulder. He formed his face to his usual stern demeanor. "I hope all is well after the celebrations?" His chest almost moved with the stifled laughter—asking about daily life, whilst he had Tamlyn tossed over his shoulder.

"All be calm." Gervase struggled to keep his face devoid of emotion. "Except—"

Challon frowned. "Except what?"

"'Tis the Baron Ravenhawke," Gervase told him. "He has not returned."

The tides brought no alarm to his mind. Julian asked, "Are his men still here? The horses remain in the barn? Mayhap he decided to go to Lyonglen. "

Gervase shook his head to the side. "The horses remain stabled. None of his cadre has left. His personal belongings, mail and sword are still in his room."

Tamlyn wiggled again, attempting to make herself more comfortable. He had to get her into Glenrogha—quickly. "Damian be so damn pretty he likely found some wench to keep him warm last night."

Gervase exchanged glances with Vincent, who finally spoke up. "Mayhap, my lord, but Sir Guillaume saw him go off with three men. They were not of this glen."

Julian nodded. "Ride off in the direction they headed. Check around and send word back to me."

"Yes, my lord," both men said in unison, before nudging their mounts to lope away.

"Challon—" Tamlyn barked. It was not a question.

He smacked her once again. "Hush, wench. We approach the gate."

"Challon, put me down now, before I begin wailing like the Bansidhe ."

He chuckled. "Do that, and I will stuff my kerchief in your mouth."

"You wouldn't dare!" She reached back with her hand, grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged.

"Ouch!" He reached up and caught her wrist, preventing her from snatching him bald.

"Challon, put me down. Now!"

He stopped walking, as the gate came in sight, and shifted her weight. "Did I mention to you about you being stout? Oh, yes, I recall—"

"You did! You graineil peist!" She tried to bite him on his back, but her teeth could not get through the heavy material of his surcoat.

"A loathsome worm? For trying to get you into the fortress without everyone—"

" Och , of all the lackwit tomfoolery." She began wiggling. Off balanced, too easily she could fall.

Growling, he dropped his shoulder, rolled her off and caught her. He set Tamlyn on her feet, and watched as she battled to get her hair out of her face. "I merely wish to keep talk down of—"

She put her fisted hands on her hips. " Och, Challon stop being a mooncalf. All saw us walk away from the balefire. You think to hide me? A woman tossed over your shoulder like a sack of apples?"

"It was my intent—"

She glared at him, as if she were ready to use one of those fists to clot him. His rebel. Her spirit was amazing. And he thought her as beautiful, hair going in ten directions, as when she danced for him before the bonfire, or laid on his mantle under the snow of apple blossoms.

"Truly, Challon? You do not think they can tell you are dragging a woman around? You wish to hide me? My people know I led you away. They understand. They approve. You wish them to think you are carrying around some other female? Did that ever enter your cork-brain?"

He took a step forward in a move to intimidate her. "My men think what I tell them to think. If I say, what woman tossed on my shoulder?— then they bloody well shall agree naught be amiss."

Instead of being unsettled, she burst out laughing. "And you really believe that?"

He glared at her. "Tamlyn, we needs must return. We can talk more once we are in the lord's chamber."

"The Dragon huffs and puffs and blows smoke, and all in his path cower and tremble." she taunted, dancing out of grasp as he reached for her.

Another group of riders came out of the gates, drawing his attention away from the infuriating female. He turned back to her and lunged forward, catching her arm. "Come, we must—"

Tamlyn stuck her tongue out at him, and then ducked her head under the mantle, so she appeared like some headless being. The black material was meant for his height, so it almost dragged the ground.

"What are you doing?"

"Obeying the Dragon's wishes. He desires me hidden—I be hidden," came the muffled reply.

The riders slowed, giving him a nod of deference. "Good morrow, my Lord Challon. We ride to Kinloch on orders from Sir Destain. Farewell, my lord...my lady."

Julian gave a nod of deference, as Tamlyn's head popped through the opening of the cape.

"See... told you they would ken me anyway," she said in triumph.

Taking her arm, he nearly dragged her toward the gates. "You would do well to learn to be a biddable lady wife, else I might have to beat you."

"False words roll off your tongue, my Lord Dragon. Besides telling me I be stout, you also assured me that you never raise a hand to things weaker than you," she reminded, allowing him to propel her through the gates.

The guards held the open gates until they passed through, and then closed them after they passed beyond. Julian gave them a regal nod, and his stare warned them to remember their place. Once they were out of their hearing, he said, "I am coming to doubt that you are weaker than me. So, you might rethink that assurance."

???

Julian glared at the looking glass as he scraped his beard off his face with the razor-edged knife. He had to admit the soap that Tamlyn created did make the task easier on his skin, though he must remind her about creating a batch with more manly scents. Picking up a cloth, he wiped the blade on it. Overwhelmed by so many conflicting and indefinable emotions, he felt irritated with himself, edgy.

He almost winced when he thought back on their entering the stronghold. His plan had been to slip inside and go directly to the lord's chamber, and hopefully reach the rooms without passing anyone. That was foiled as Tamlyn escaped his grasp, and headed straight for the Great Hall —in her gold gown, his mantle and a basketful of apple blossoms falling from her tussled hair.

The great room was full of Glenrogha's people, breaking their fast. His brothers sat at one end of the main trestle table, across from Tamlyn's sisters. The chairs for the lord and lady were, of course, empty. Jovial chatter died as all eyes went to Tamlyn and then him.

The sisters stared at Tamlyn in reserved judgment. Rowanne glared daggers at him, but when he met her challenging stare, unflinching, she looked away. An interesting reaction. He would judge Rowanne every measure a warrior as Tamlyn, yet this was not the first time the lady of Lochshane turned away from him in a battle of wills. Something was off there. He shrugged the impression aside. He had other matters to deal with—like catching Tamlyn.

Guillaume and Destain wore bemused smiles, and faintly raised their cups in a salute .

"So, the Wee Ones did not carry you off after all." Destain jested.

Tamlyn started toward her sisters, but Julian finally snagged her upper arm and turned her to face him. Raising his brows, he advised, " May Queen , I suggest you retire to chambers and dress in a raiment more suitable."

She flashed a smile of innocence. "Very well, Lord of the Glen . I needs must fetch clothing from my old room. May I have your approval to gather my things?"

Her words were laced with a hint of mockery, her voice low, so only he could hear her. The wench! To all in the room it appeared she was deferring to him, when she was as recalcitrant as ever.

Julian reached up and plucked a twig from her dark gold locks. "Remember what I said about beating you?"

"Do hush, Challon." She gave a small shake of her head, setting the fragrant blossoms to dropping from her long hair.

Her maidservant, Roselynn rushed up. "My lady, I shall help you change."

And without a by your leave, the unmanageable female dashed up the stairs with her maid on her heels. Clearly, control had slipped from his hand, and he was going to have the Devil's own luck in bringing her to heel.

"By damn, even the Culdee was in the Great Hall," he spoke to his likeness in the polished mirror. "What am I to do with her?"

A heat spread through his blood as he recalled watching her body swaying to that pagan music, the overwhelmingly violent emotions upon seeing her dance with another man. No fool, he sensed the dance was symbolic, rites with a deeper meaning. Tamlyn had assumed the role of May Queen because another had run away to marry a man from a distant clan. In his mantle of green plaide, the strapping Scotsman had stepped forward and plunged the claymore into the dirt, before taking up the mating dance with her. For that was what it had been. A dance of mating. The meaning of sinking of the sword into Mother Earth was not lost on him. They need not explain the essence of the rite to him, not likely to any man who watched.

As Julian had stared at them, watching them swaying, the undulations of their bodies, he was furious. This was his woman. No man had the right to dance that way with his betrothed. At Court, it would have been reason enough for Julian to draw sword and demand honor be addressed. Yet, these Scots watched, cheered the dancers on, and even drew pleasure from these pagan rites. As he had been forced to observe, his blood heated to the point where he could stand it no longer. When she had twirled away from the young man, Julian found himself stepping between them, before he even realized what he was doing. Not caring if these Scots perceived his actions as an affront.

Tamlyn was his, and he claimed her.

The muscles of his body had seemed to know the sensual movements, the music flowing around them to enfold them in the erotic reverie. After that, he could recall nuances, essences more than details, her glowing amber cat-eyes, and the soft feel of her body as she danced close against him.

Before he had time to organize his thought or reactions to last night and its repercussions, the door flew open and Tamlyn practically danced in, carrying a stack of clothing and linens. Maddeningly, she hummed the same song they had danced to before she had led him off. Weaving her witch's enchantment again? She bounced on faery feet to him and brushed a faint kiss across his unresponsive lips

Damn her cat-eyes. His blasted body sprang to life from just her scent, just the light brush of the small, warm mouth.

She wore the look of a woman thoroughly loved, and not in gentleness. He had not been careful with her as he should have. She had been a virgin. Even when he broke through the maiden's veil, she had not reacted with fear or pain, but embraced his burning need.

"You seem rather joyful, wench." Still angry with himself, he intended for it to come out with a tinge of insult. Instead, the tone was playful, teasing.

She smiled saucily. "Wench? After I spent the night tuppin' with you, that be all the words of love I receive?"

Tossing down the rag, he stated, "There will be too much to arrange the ceremony for today, so we will speak vows on the morrow."

"Whyever for? 'Tis only a little over a fortnight's wait." Her brow lifted in confusion.

"I think it best amends be done whilst the damage remains fresh in people's minds."

Her good spirits wilted. "Damage? What damage be this, Challon?"

He wanted to remain gruff with her, but the corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smile. "Have you noticed when you are in good spirits with me you call me Julian? When you grow peeved, I become Challon. Blast it. I took you on the ground with no more regard than a common harlot. Honor demands the slight done you—"

Her laughter filled the chamber.

He suddenly fancied the notion of throttling her! With just the brush of her lips and the scent of her body, he wanted her with the same power, just as he wanted her under the apple tree. This could not go on. He would not permit her to befuddle his mind and emotions in this manner. No one bent the Dragon of Challon to their will, not even Edward could fully claim such. Especial no woman.

Julian's reply was interrupted by a knock on the door. He frowned at this distraction but called, "Come."

The door pushed opened and two pages brought in pails of heated water. They emptied them into the wooden tub in the corner, smiling at Julian. "Good morrow, Lord Challon. You enjoyed our May Day?" one asked.

"Hush, Connor Og ." Tamlyn winked at the lad. "Hurry. Fetch the remainder of the water before your lord grows impatient."

The two boys dashed off, chuckling, as a third came in with a tray of food.

"I ordered you a bath, Challon. You can relax in the steaming water, and I shall feed you. Then, we can discuss this damage, and why you think it necessary to move the day for our wedding." Tamlyn went to the tray and picked up a clay pot. She sat on the edge of the heavy tub, slowly poured in some sort of powder, then lazily stirred it with her hand.

"I must make amends—"

"Hush, Challon. Undress and get into the tub before you ruin my good spirits. Then, you can tell me what sort of damage you think you have wrought." She helped him undress, efficiently as a squire, then guided him into the hot water. "I think I shan't like what you have to say."

Trying to figure at what point he lost control of the situation. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Just a moment of silence, and then he would find that iron will that ruled his life.

Twice more, the boys returned with buckets. On the last trip. Connor Og sat two beside the tub for rinsing, before scurrying off again .

She waited until the door was closed before going to the stack of clothing. Picking up a simple white chemise, she said, "Let me get out of my Beltaine gown. Then, I shall assist you with the bath. Whilst I do that I shall answer your questions, and mayhap ease some of your foolish concerns."

"We should marry as soon as possible," he insisted.

The golden kirtle dropped to the floor and she stood naked before him. Julian swallowed hard, his pulse jumping. Tamlyn lifted her hair back and pulled on the chemise, so thin it did little to hide her beautiful body from his hungry gaze.

So mesmerized, he forgot what he was about to say.

Placing the tray with the food across the tub, she pulled up a stool and sat. "You soak and chew while I explain, for if I hear more nonsense about damage I might push your head under."

"Blast it, Tamlyn. Honor demands that the slight done you―"

Her laughter filled the chamber.

"You dare laugh?" He sucked in his breath trying to stare her down.

He caught her arm as she brought a slice of dried apple to his mouth. Holding her wrist, he allowed her to feed him. Chewing slowly, his eyes devoured her. "I recall another time you helped me with my bath. I believe you threatened to drown me then, too."

"Not drown you...precisely." He started to tug her toward him.

"Behave, Challon." She fed him a chunk of cheese. "I rather thought you smart enough to understand what happened last night. First, there be no affront by your taking me on Beltaine . No one here thinks less of you. There was no disrespect done me, no dishonor before my people. I told you they approve. In fact, they view our bonding as a good omen."

He tried to pull his hand away, but she caught his wrist. Being playful, he engaged in a bit of a tugging war. "I recall you speaking of some prophecy. It seems strange to me."

" Le d-thoil , allow me to explain. You heard what was spake last night about the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen . Oh, aye, there was dancing, drinking and jocularity. Underneath the festivities are traditions with meanings going back to the dawn of time."

He snorted. "I am not stupid. I understood the symbolism of the Highlander plunging the sword into the earth before you."

She smiled like a contented cat. "As you did last night before you took me. Aye, 'twas symbolic. 'Tis the opening of the spell of bonding, one to enforce the nature of the fertility ritual. Beltaine be a very sacred day to us…our ways."

"Pagan heresy," he complained, trying to rein in control that seemed beyond his grasp this morn.

"Mayhap to some..." She sighed. "I can tell you of these beliefs, but I see they hold more meaning to me, to my people, than to you and your Norman mind. Last night was special—rare, magical. My heart saddens you cannot share that wonder. Our Auld Ways— "

"Are blasphemous!" he snapped.

Two red spots flooded her cheeks, as her Pict temper flared, rising to meet his. She stamped her foot. "Only to narrow-minded, tight-arsed Normans!"

"By damn, you shall act the proper lady this morn," Julian warned. She started to drop his hand, but this time, he refused to let her go.

Her mouth opened to say something, but then it snapped shut. " Och , you bloody fool! I was the proper lady last night. If you could just shut your gob and listen—I know that be a lot to ask of the mighty Black Dragon. Howbeit, you might wish to learn that last night was considered the Grand Rite to Glenrogha's people. Our mating be viewed as a great augury. Provided you control your Norman righteousness. You will find all view you are the proper Lord, their true lord, because of that bit of heresy under the apple tree. You the Lord of the Glen —oddly enough, oft also called the Green Dragon —bonded with the lady of Glenrogha." She lifted her brows for emphasis. "Well, My Dragon, you do have green eyes. Please try to understand, the people of both clans view last night's rites as more binding than any words spoken before the kirk and priest. As the sun rose, you greeted the morn as the lord of Glenrogha, and none save some small-minded Normans will look upon it any other way. I chose you when we danced. I accepted you as lord here, Julian."

This took some of the wind out of Julian's sails of worries.

She took up the pot of soap from the tray and began to lather his back. "Our marriage before the Christian church shall unite us in your eyes. To our people, what took place last night be just as binding, if not more so. Thus, there be no need to rush forward the ceremony."

"Tamlyn, I meant no shame to your ways, but I was raised to believe an honorable man does not take his betrothed under an apple tree in the dirt. A virgin needs―"

"First, it was no' in the dirt. We had a soft cushion of blooms and your mantle. Secondly, we Scots do not value virginity the same as you Normans. In truth, the Picts consider all unmarried women virgins."

"What nonsense," he scoffed.

"No' nonsense. The Picts grant women the same degree of freedom and respect they do men."

"Blatherskite. Your people numb my mind with your peculiar laws, rites and ways. 'Tis small wonder the Gaels defeated your people."

"Like most invaders— they destroyed the royal houses by treachery." She jumped to her feet, staring down at him.

Her lip quivered. He had wounded her with his words. Tamlyn's beautiful gold eyes shimmered with the threat of forming tears. It felt like a dagger lodged in his heart.

"Tamlyn, I wanted our marriage vows to take place before all."

"And they will. Malcolm shall wed us on the steps of the old kirk, same steps where my mother and father spake their bond. There be no foolish need to push forward the ceremony. Truly, Julian, do you view what happened last night as something born of shame?"

His lips compressed in a frown, so torn by warring thoughts. "My mind is divided. Last night was beautiful...and yet, I should have never taken you."

"To be specific—you did no' take me, oh mighty Dragon— I took you ." She held up her hand, and taunting, wiggled the finger that bore the May Queen ring.

"I wanted to take my virgin wife in bed," was all he could muster as a puny rebuttal.

"A stupid male obsession with something of little value." Tamlyn took her thumb and traced it over his lips.

Bigod, the teeth of the hydra were upon him! His need to take her resonated within his blood, ignoring all his logic. She leaned toward him brushing her lips over his. All the blood left his brain.

She smiled, nipping his chin with her sharp teeth. "If you must have your Norman sensibility appeased...there be the bed, My Lord Dragon. And until we wed before the kirk, I be considered virgin by Pict ways."

"Witch." He laughed.

Julian grabbed her with a quickness, a ferocity that should have frightened her. His power, so many times stronger than hers, was now barely held in check. She should have been scared. Tamlyn―his wild Tamlyn―wasn't. She gasped as he pulled her into the tub. Her chest heaved with the quickening as he set his mouth roughly on hers, possessing hers. Water spilled over the edge of the tub, but neither of them cared as he grabbed the front of her chemise, ripped it down the middle and filled his hands with her beautiful breasts. With some awkward shifting, he finally had her sitting astride him, and with a quick flex of his hips, he was inside her. She came instantly, her internal female sheath rippled along his shaft, squeezing him, milking him. Riding the crest of this terrifying power she unleashed within him, he met the force head on, taking the raw desire and giving it back to her. Her second release made her sigh, but he gave her no measure.

Breaking the kiss, he commanded hoarsely, "Again, Tamlyn."

He pulled her head back so he could suckle her breast, drawing hard until she keened. Bucking into her, he forced Tamlyn to ride him hard, his hands roughly skimming over her wet skin, and raising her body as he drove up into her repeatedly.

Wrapping an arm around his neck, she leaned to him and gently nipped his ear. "I thought you wanted a virgin in bed, my lord."

Julian wanted it to last forever, but he knew he had no more control than he had last night under the apple trees. Every muscle tightened as the power of his violent release shattered his mind, pulling his lady to follow him into the world of blue hot ecstasy and exploding colors. Her fingernails bit into the back of his arms, as a moan shuddered through her. That soft mewing sound ripped through his mind and body. The force nearly caused him to black out.

"Oh, aye, Julian," she purred, her hips flexing on him. "Again."

???

Julian was edgy as he led Tamlyn belowstairs and to the Great Hall.

The bath had gone on until they were both wrinkled as prunes. And then he rose from the tub, with Tamlyn in his arms. Carrying her to the bed, they fell into it, laughing. At some point, they finally slept, ignoring the sounds of the castle coming alive around them.

He should have felt sated. Never had he found more pleasure in a woman. Tamlyn made him feel alive again. So alive, he wanted to take her, over and over, touch the golden fire that was his Tamlyn. Still, he had held back, concerned she might be tender after their strenuous activities.

Tamlyn was dressed in a new green kirtle that Raven had sewn for her. The neck was low and square, near her breasts, which showed off the wide Pict torque at her neck. Across her forehead was a thin gold circlet. Still the Pict princess, but this Tamlyn was a more sedate version, the true lady of Glenrogha. His lady.

Julian felt pride at having her hand on his arm as they entered the Great Hall.

Despite her assurances the people of Glen Shane would view their bonding as a great omen, he still held fear he would see glares of condemnation in their eyes, or hushed whispers about how he failed to show Tamlyn the respect due her rank. Just inside the double doors, he paused to assess the reaction. In keeping with Tamlyn's promise, he was surprised and relieved to find only bright eyes and approving nods.

Tamlyn flashed a radiant smile as they passed to the lord's table.

Julian was still perturbed at her rising poise. Tamlyn seemed so self-possessed in this new level of their relationship. As he had seen in the bedchamber, dealing with her was going to be all the harder. She was coming into her full power as a woman. He swallowed hard and tried to arrange his countenance to a calm demeanor, thinking he was glad his surcoat was long, for just watching her sent his damn tarse to throbbing.

The servants were quick to serve him, saw his plate never empty, his goblet full. It was done with grins, deferential bobs, and requests to know whether he was pleased with the food or the wine.

He reached out his hand, and closed it about Tamlyn's left one, giving it a small squeeze. In response, her eyes flashed her happiness as she silently said, see, my people accept you as I have.

As his gaze roved around the Great Hall , he found all faces were cheerful, watching Tamlyn and him preside as lady and lord. At least, until his eyes fell upon the countenance of Dirk Pendegast. The expression he saw there turned his blood cold. The man's hawkish eyes watched Tamlyn with emotions that unsettled Julian—a dangerous mix of desire, loathing and resentment. The man bore marks on his back for his affront to Tamlyn. Such a warning should serve to bring a man to heel. Only, Dirk Pendegast had a streak in him that made Julian think he would rise up against the hand that had disciplined him.

A dull thud pounded in his eyes as he watched the knight. On the morrow, he would send word to the Baron Pendegast that Sir Dirk should be recalled. 'Twas time he moved on to his own holding. He knew Pendegast hoped Julian would settle a fief on Dirk, one in Mortain. He wanted the man gone from his service. And the morrow would not be soon enough.

Wondering how Damian would react to the clear sign of Julian's possession of Tamlyn, he leaned to look down the table. Julian asked. "Damian has not returned still?"

Destain carried a piece of the roast pig to his mouth the paused. "I have not seen him since about the time the dancing started.

Guillaume shrugged. "I saw him go off with some men last night. At the time I paid little heed, but this eve I grow concerned. They were not of this valley, Julian."

"Not of this valley?" Tamlyn echoed. She looked pointedly at Julian, reminding him of the Sacred Mists warding the valley.

"No one seemed to raise concern about their presence, so I assumed they were known to the people here. Moffet said his belongings are in his room. His destrier is in the barn."

Julian pressed, a little concerned about his cousin. "I saw him with men. Three younger men that appeared the same―triplets―and hanging about them was a tall Norsemen."

To his left Tamlyn choked on a bit of food. "Three the same?" she finally managed to get out, through him patting her on the back.

"Aye, red of hair, slight build, a score or less in age. The tall man was clearly of Norse ancestry." Julian noted at his description that Tamlyn exchanged glances with Raven and Rowanne. "Who are these men? Obviously, they are known to you."

"From your description, I wouldst think them our cousins—Hugh, Deward and Lewis. The big man is a Viking. Through an ancient trust, the Norsemen send an honor guard to protect the Lady of Coinnleir Wood. Our cousin Aithinne now rules there as baroness."

Laugher erupted in Julian at her naming her cousin. "Aithinne? Firebrand? Lord save me if she is as willful as the other ladies of Clan Ogilvie."

Tamlyn laughed, and then took a drink from his goblet when he offered it. "Oh, aye. One might call our Aithinne willful. In truth, Fate smiled upon you, my lord. Edward might have sent you to claim Coinnlier Wood. My cousin be a redhead, and has quite the temper. Count your blessings, my lord, and light a candle for me and my fair hair, though willful I be."

Raven ignored the servants offering of more wine, by putting her hand over the goblet's top. "Our Aithinne has freckles and a temper that goes with them, my lord. She has had to raise the three imps of brothers after their mother died, so the men of Challon would offer her no challenge."

"Then, I breathe gladness that Coinnlier Wood is not of my holdings. Let another deal with this troublesome female with freckles. I have all the Ogilvie women I need for one lifetime." Julian raised the golden goblet in salute to the Sisters MacShane.

Rowanne turned slightly in her chair, subtly giving Guillaume the back of her shoulder. "I wouldst not worry overly about your cousin, Lord Challon, if he went off with those three. They are prankish, and love to jest, but they are quite harmless—outside of trying one's patience."

"Where is Coinnlier Wood?" Julian asked

Tamlyn touched a cloth to her mouth. "About a half-day's ride north of Lyonglen."

Julian shrugged. "Mayhap your cousins merely escorted Damian to visit his grandsire then. I shall send a messenger to Coinnleir Wood on the morrow and inquire if that be the situation."

"I am sorry, Lord Challon. I have just returned from Lyonglen. They have never heard from Lord Ravenhawke, and were not aware he traveled north to assume control of the holding," Gervase informed Julian, as he took a seat on the far end of the trestle table.

Julian considered the matter. "The three young men still might know something of his whereabouts."

Gervase gave a nod. "Vincent and I will sally forth at dawn to seek answers."

???

Tamlyn came over to where Julian sat slouched in the chair before the Great Hall's fireplace. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. Glancing up at her, he took her fingers and laced them with his. On impulse, he tugged her into his lap. She gave a small squeak, but allowed him to handle her, adjusting her so that she leaned back against his shoulder. For long moments, they just stayed there, soaking up the heat from the peat fire.

He leaned his head to the side of hers, burying his nose in her hair. The familiar scent filled his mind—heather, herbs and Tamlyn. Beneath her rounded bottom, his body throbbed to life. Agony or no, he smiled. Not due to the physical reaction to Tamlyn's nearness. It was strong, so strong it nearly overrode all within his mind. The smile was because this was one of those rare moments his soul had hungered for with such crippling desperation.

He blinked to clear the sudden haziness in his eyes. Surely, it could not be tears? The dry heat hitting his eyes was what caused them, he told himself.

Everyone around them receded to a blur, to where it felt that Tamlyn and he were alone. He little heard the men jesting over the arm wrestling contest. His knights and hers finding companionable grounds and getting to know the other. The women sat closer to the firelight to do needlework.

Julian was content, just holding her. Even when he had conjured this image in his mind, he had never realized just how peaceful it would be to simply cuddle Tamlyn, know she was his.

If the world could just go away, if the troubles of Edward's wars remained outside of the passes of Glen Shane, life would be good. Very good indeed.

Julian said a silent prayer that the king would forget the Black Dragon ever existed.