Chapter Twenty-Nine

An nì a thig leis a'ghaoith, falbhaidh e leis an uisge.

(What comes with the wind goes with the water.)

— Auld Scots Adage

An claidheamh a 'seinn ann an làmhan de ghaisgich fìor

(The sword sings in the hands of a warrior true.)

— Medieval Adage

Lightning cracked, the flash hitting so close it lit up the dark interior of Kinmarch Kirk with a blinding white light. Blinking until the flash passed, Tamlyn glanced out the stained-glass window. The Kenning caused a flutter of rising alarm within her.

Usually she loved storms. Loved the smells they brought, their vital, elemental force.

For some reason, this storm unnerved her. Also, mayhap guilt nibbled at her. She had slipped off from Glenrogha while Challon was away at Lyonglen. If he returned to find she had left Glen Shane and come to Kinmarch, she feared her backside would pay the price.

Even so, she had to come, and for a task she could not reveal to Challon. It plagued her conscience. Despite promises to him to stay within Glenrogha's walls until his return, she had kept silent about her intention to come to Kinmarch Kirk. He would have forbidden her leaving the dun . She had no aim to conceal her actions from him, and would face the repercussions after Challon learned of it. That he would learn, she had no doubt. The man seemed to see all, know all. She still pondered if her husband were a warlock. Malcolm's seven sons―Skylar, Phelan, Iain, Sean, Michael, Donnal and Jago―along with ten men from Kinmarch, were going off to join with Hadrian and Andrew de Moray.

To fight the English.

Her heart heavy for the deed, she had stolen from Challon. Tamlyn wanted them to go with the best armor and the finest mounts, and to ride as knights under the pennon of Kinmarch. She sought for them to have every advantage. The armor she filched from the barrack's tower and the fine chargers might mean the difference between them living and dying.

Malcolm finished speaking mass before the kneeling men, then anointed each with holy water. Now it was her turn to perform the adoubement ―knighting these beautiful young men. When she reached the final one―Skylar―she stared into his lavender eyes, knowing he was going into harm's way. Her heart twisted. Born the same day she was, they had been childhood friends, the two of them constantly into mischief. He had been Challon's teacher, showed him the ways of the claymore. Skills that could save her husband's life.

Her chin quivered as she lifted the sword and placed the flat of the blade on his left shoulder.

"In remembrance of oaths given and oaths received. In remembrance of your blood and obligations." She carried the Sword of Glenrogha over his head to the right shoulder tapping it, then returning to tap the left. "Walk in honor, Sir Skylar. Rise as a knight."

His head bowed in modesty. "My lady."

He stood, the last of the seventeen men of Glenrogha and Kinmarch she had knighted. Instead of giving the colée ― the buffet ―the slap to remind the knight that he should always remember his oath, she rose up on tiptoes and bestowed a kiss of peace to his forehead. "Return to us safely, Sir Skylar."

Lightning struck overhead; the clap of thunder terrifying. The stones of the ancient kirk rattled until Tamlyn feared they might clatter down around them. Outside grew strangely black. Though midday, it appeared nearly night.

"My lady!" The doors flew open and Connor Og stumbled in. "Riders…flags flying. One scarlet…mayhap Longshanks' leopards. They were too far away…to tell. They come this way! "

The men scrambled to gather their swords and mantles.

" In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi ," Malcolm intoned as he traced a cross in the air. "Go with the blessings of our Annis, goddess of the water, Evelynour of the Orchard and Bel, our lord of fire. Come back strong and whole." Arching a brow, he shrugged at Tamlyn bemused smile. "They are my sons. I want all the protection they can get."

Everyone hurried out of the church and to the side where the horses were tied. Skylar lifted Tamlyn to Goblin. "Farewell, cousin. Be sure to thank Challon for the loan of his fine steeds and all the strong English armor. Keep safe until we meet again at Beltaine ."

Her kinsman mounted the dark grey steed, then departed, all of them spurring their stallions away from the direction of the riders coming this way. They galloped northward to join her father and Moray near Avoch.

Malcolm came before her and squeezed her hands. "Those are English forces coming this way, Tamlyn. That does not bode well for Glen Shane. Something is not right. Make for the passes and protection of the Sacred Mists."

"Come with me," she entreated, handing him the claymore.

He shook his head. "I wouldst ride with my sons, but this body is too old. I remain here and will aid Challon in protecting Glen Shane, so our men have a safe haven to return to. You know as well as I, we can hide them for months if need. We must prepare for that possibility. Speed haste to Glenrogha and close the gates until your Challon comes. I ride toward Lyonglen. Your man needs to be here with Longshanks' men approaching. We have never faced war before, lass. I do not know how strong the warding of the Sacred Mists be anymore. They may not protect Glen Shane. Ride with care—you are not two months from your birthing bed."

Leaning down, Tamlyn kissed her uncle. "Travel safe." She waited until he mounted, before turning Goblin toward Glenrogha. Kicking the black mare in the sides, she cantered homeward.

As her palfrey crested the knoll, she could see the pennons of the horsemen in the distance. Her stomach dropped. It was not the golden leopards on scarlet of Edward Longshanks, but the golden eagles of Sir John Pendagast―Dirk's brother .

"Bloody bleeding hell!" she gasped.

Whilst the storm's rumble upset Goblin, spooking her, the eerie darkness worked in Tamlyn's favor. The riders had not sighted her yet. At this point, they were closer to the passes and could reach them before she did, cutting off her avenue of escape. A flash of blinding white light split across the sky, striking the tall pines nearby and ripping into one. Goblin shied. Her knees gripping its barrel, it was all she could do to stay seated.

A second bolt of the jagged lightning hit another tree, even closer. Sparks flying, the top half of the evergreen crashed down to the ground in front of her. Goblin reared, hooves slashing the air, tossing Tamlyn off the horse and slamming her into the ground.

Stunned, Tamlyn forced herself to her feet. The riders bearing down on her had spotted the rearing horse and now spurred in her direction. There was no chance she would reach the passes on foot. Lifting her skirts, she dashed into the protection of the thick stand of evergreens. Her only hope lay in reaching the footpath, which snaked around Lochshane Mòhr.

Tamlyn nearly lost her sense of direction as she ran from one tree to the next, circling, and ducking between the heavy limbs. At one point, she attempted to double back, hoping to sneak behind them. If she could, she might be able to make a run for the passes.

A rider on a white horse suddenly loomed from a turn in the path, nearly catching her. She spun away, forced to turn toward the loch again.

Out of breath, heart racing to where it was painful, she ducked under one ancient pine and hid in the low hanging branches. Shaking, she curled into a ball against the trunk as riders drew closer. Their calls carried on the rising and falling wind. One rider passed directly in front of where she was hidden. She recognized his face as one of the mercenaries that had followed Dirk around. Evidently, he had led them to Glenrogha.

"Aye, that was Challon's bitch. She cannot go far on foot, Lord Pendegast," he shouted.

Tamlyn hugged her mantle to her, pulling the hood over her head and around her face. The black wool lined with wolf fur had been Challon's Yuletide present. Rain came down, lashing the forest. Cold, penetrating. She was thankful for the warm protection of the fur-lined cape as the early April winds were chilling, as if winter refused to let go. And for a change, she was glad her husband had a penchant for black. The color now served to cloak her in this darkness.

Her breasts throbbed. She needed to get home and feed her babes. The pressure from the milk was discomforting.

Tamlyn huddled under the pine boughs, whispering prayers to Evelynour and Annis and hoping the men would pass. Off to the east, the sky turned a lighter grey, warning the storm would soon move on. No longer would she have the shelter of the preternatural darkness. As they were far enough away, she risked leaving the sanctuary of the pines, and stumbled toward the trail to Lochshane Mòhr, praying she could reach the loch before Dirk's brothers caught her.

**

Julian spurred Pagan hard. He had been uneasy since Damian, Destain, Guillaume and he had lost the tracks of the riders. A small force had been camped on the other side of Kinmarch near Lyonglen. At first, they assumed it was Scots rebels hiding out in the woods.

Ever since Wallace started raising hell in the south and Moray in the north, bands of young men were flocking to the woodlands, searching for these rebel rousers, hoping to join up. Trouble was brewing, no doubt about it. If Edward thought he was done with Scotland, he was one arrogant fool.

Moray was drawing scores of rebels to him, many from the nobility. Young men who hated to stand by while their fathers had signed the Ragman Roll or were still held prisoner. With the clear backing of the Auld Celtic Church, he wouldst be the perfect leader to unfurl banners around. Carrying ancient blood of the Picts, he was a new king in the making. One who could fashion a Scotland that might stand against the English power. Wallace drew hordes of commoners to him, enough to refashion the spine of the Scottish army so broken after Dunbar.

When the two met again Scotland would explode, and they would likely kick every Englishman out of the country. Edward would be annoyed in the extreme, as his eye was firmly affixed to France.

"This camp is fresher." Damian shook his head, and kicked at the ashes of the fire, as the first drops of rain fell. "Shod horses, more than a score. I have a bad feeling about this, Julian. Just does not—"

Julian pressed, "Does not what?"

Damian shrugged, kneeling. Picking up some spilled oats on the ground, where horses had been fed, he crumbled them between his thumb and first finger. His eyes stared off in the distance, not really looking at anything. "I cannot say. Nothing here other than a score of horses and men, some fallen oats, but―"

"Out with it, man." Julian was to the point of losing his temper.

"Just one of my fey feelings. These are not Scots, Julian. I see no signs here. I just… feel it here." He thumped his fist to his chest.

Julian nodded with a harsh glare, not meant for his cousin but the situation. "Good enough. Your feelings have borne truth before. Which way did they go?"

"Tracks show they moved away from Lyonglen, heading out of Kinmarch."

"South?"

"Southeast, but again my Scots sense tells me different than what I see with mine eyes. I get a sense they traveled off in that direction, hoping to lure us into following, farther away from where we need to be. They will split and circle back."

"Glenrogha," Julian said, fear crawling up his spine.

Damian nodded once. "We need to get back. Ride hard."

Destain called out, "A rider comes."

Whipping Pagan around, Julian drew his sword, ready to fight. So did his brothers. Oddly, he noticed Damian's sword remained sheathed.

The rider galloped up the rise, as though demons chewed on his mount's tail. He reined up abruptly, nearly causing the beast to rear as he saw he had stumbled onto horsemen. Then, as the lightning flashed and he recognized whom they were, he spurred forward. "Challon! Thank God! Riders under the pennon of the golden eagle on scarlet." He passed him the sheathed claymore.

"Pendegast," Julian hissed, frown at the long sword.

"They make for the passes. The mists might hold them from entering the glen. But something warns me the warding will not hold against them. They come with someone who already kens the way."

"Thank the gods―yours and mine―Tamlyn is within the walls of Glenrogha—" Julian's words died as he saw the priest's face. "Never mind explaining. Where is she?"

"Nay! She was at Kinmarch Kirk. Out of Glen Shane―"

"By damn! I will snatch the hair from her head." Julian set spur to his steed. "Sir Priest, speed haste to Lyonglen. Warn them to close the gates."

**

Tamlyn's foot hit a small rock embedded in the dirt, causing her to stumble. Slipping in the mud, her feet flew out from under her and she crashed hard to her knees and hands. A sharp pain racked her lower leg as her ankle twisted. She grimaced and bit her lip to keep from crying out. The deep abrasions on the palms of her hands stung.

Even so, she forced herself to her feet and onward, up the incline. She could circle Loch Shane, then use the far path to lead her back into Glen Shane. The trail was steep, rocky, but it would see her safely back into the valley.

Gasping for air, she turned to locate where the riders were. Panicked, she was not even halfway to the trail. Five English riders broke from the woods. Fanning out, they rode toward her.

Her heart nearly exploded, as she saw two more horsemen bearing down on her from the left. Shouts came. More riders appeared on the horizon to the right. The storm was still too dark to make them out. She had to act quickly or they would box her in.

The only avenue left was the loch.

Ages ago, her Pict ancestors had built an escape bridge across the loch―the last means in or out of the glen, should the passes be blocked. In the storm's half-light crossing was dangerous. She had never used the stones except in bright daylight when you could look down into the water and clearly see the path left by the Ancients. She had to enter, land on the first rock correctly, or she would plunge into the icy depths of Lochshane.

Indecision held her rooted as she tried to consider the risk. Glancing around, she realized she had no alternative. Tamlyn rushed to the water's edge, but paused. It was too dark to spot the first stone. Well, it was trust the ancient knowledge or face Dirk's brothers.

She knew they did not want her .

They wanted Challon.

She would not gift them with a weapon to use against her husband. Tamlyn lifted her skirts, took a breath and walked out into the dark water.

**

The rain stopped just as Julian spotted Tamlyn pause, glance back, then walk straight into the loch.

Hot panic filled him, as he recklessly spurred Pagan down the hillside.

Five riders were off to Tamlyn's left and closing fast. Paying no heed to them, he knew his brothers and cousin would dispatch them.

"No!" Julian screamed, dismounting his horse while it was still moving.

In a dead run, he followed after Tamlyn. Instantly, he plunged straight into the water's frigid depths. With the heavy quilted aketon, habergeon, boots and the sword with baldric, he sank like a stone. Floundering, he came up gasping for air. Blinking the water from his lashes, he tried to see.

Kicking hard to stay afloat, he spun around trying to locate her. The fog oddly rolled in, shrouding the loch. "Tamlyn!"

He batted his lashes repeatedly, not believing what he beheld. Treading water so icy it robbed his breath, he watched in utter horror as Tamlyn continued across the loch. Across the loch! The hem of her mantle dragged in the water, as she seemed to stride on through the surface. By the Rood! She walked across the deep loch! The fog thickened, swirled around her, and then, he could no longer see her.

It had not taken long for his brothers to dispatch three of the riders. The other two set spurs to their steeds, riding away as far and fast as their mounts would carry them. Julian dragged himself out of the water, teeth chattering.

Damian jumped from his grey steed and helped drag him up the bank. Behind them, Guillaume and Destain reined their stallions to a halt, leaping from the saddles and running straight for them.

Julian shoved away from Damian. "She is in the loch. Tamlyn is in the middle of that bloody lake. I saw her."

Damian finally understood Julian was fearful Tamlyn might drown. " Not in the loch. She walks upon the loch."

"What sort of madness do you speak?" Julian frowned, staring at his cousin as if he prattled in a foreign tongue. Finally, the words sank into his comprehension. "Upon the loch? Are you addled? Where is my wife? Where is Tamlyn?"

Damian grabbed Julian's neck, pulling his face around so his attention focused upon him. "She walks upon the water …as if it were ground. See." He pointed to the middle of the dark loch.

Julian saw the eddying fog, hovering close to the center. For an instant, it shifted. The ghostly veil parted to reveal the figure of Tamlyn standing there, the water sucking at her feet. Slowly, she seemed to be gliding away from the shore. Her figure faded as the Highland haar closed behind her once more.

Blood drained from him. Pulled with a siren's call, he took several steps toward the loch's edge and waded into the water.

"No, Julian, you will drown," Damian growled, yanking him around and pushing at his chest.

"Damn it! Let me go. Tamlyn… my life …is out there. I needs must―"

Destain grabbed his other arm, aiding Damian to haul him back. "Julian, listen―"

"But Tamlyn…" A sob welled up through the fury, his mind still refusing to believe, even though he knew what he witnessed. "Tamlyn walked on water!"

"We saw," Destain confirmed.

Julian shook his head. "She could only move over water by black magic."

"'Tis an old Pictish trick," Damian assured him. "I have never seen the likes before, but heard tales of such from my mother. 'Tis a water bridge."

Looking down at the soggy ground, Damian searched until he found the track left by Tamlyn's boots, and followed to the exact spot where she entered the loch. Carefully, he stepped into the dark waters. He stood, water lapping over his boots. Feeling his way, he stepped again. Then, a third time. The fourth time he nearly ended in the loch. Arms flapping he managed to keep his balance.

"The pattern moves, meandering." He called and kept going. Step- by-step, he traveled away from the shore, until he was as far as the length of five men. He stopped and looked down in amazement, a grin lighting his face.

"God's teeth, can you not see? The Picts built an escape route across the loch centuries ago. Your Tamlyn walks upon huge rocks. Just under the surface. They are black. Scots call it ashlar, what the true Stone of Destiny is made of. Smooth as glass, so they cannot be spotted in the water. One must be careful. They are slippery. The key: three stones to the right, five to the left, then seven to the right. The Picts liked odd numbers. My guess that pattern repeats. Even if someone tries to follow, if they do not see the configuration, you wouldst fall into the waters. Likely, a pursuer would be too fearful to try, thinking it was Highland witchery. I wouldst venture, dear cousin, your lady wife shall reach Glenrogha before we shall, since we have to ride all the way around the loch."

Remounting Pagan, Julian stared into the mist, hopeful for another glimpse of Tamlyn to reassure him she was all right.

Only ghosts in the fog stirred on the loch.

**

Tamlyn had to step carefully. She had never crossed using the underwater bridge in the spring. The water was icy cold and much deeper, sucking at her legs with the power of an undertow. In high summer when it was warm and the loch was down to summer pool, crossing the boulder bridge built by her ancestors was tricky, yet easily managed if you knew the secret. Smooth rocks were just under the crystalline water, the dark stones rendered invisible. You had to know the precise design, or you plummeted into the frigid liquid.

The footing was dangerous since the stones were slick and the spring pool was higher, rising higher, close to her knees in the middle as she neared the shore. The water was swifter, sucking at her legs, to where it was hard to pull her leg up. Each step was a struggle. The water fed from the snows of Ben Shane was glacial. Teeth clacking, Tamlyn pushed on.

As she dragged herself onto the bank, Tamlyn fell to her knees, so tired. Breathing hard and freezing, she knew it was vital to get to her feet and keep moving. As she sucked air, she kept telling herself that. Her body was not listening.

A snort of a horse and rattle of bridle fittings alerted her to someone's nearness. Her heart stopped. Then, boots moved into the range of her vision. Lifting her head, her eyes traveled up the legs to the hauberk, then the scarlet surcoat with the golden eagle emblazoned across his chest.

"Lady Challon, we meet again." John Pendegast smiled.

A cry of despair came with her exhale. She staggered up, nearly losing her balance and pushed back toward the loch. Prospects of crossing again loomed daunting, since his men were already waiting on the opposite shore. Still, she had to try.

He was on her before she blinked. Tamlyn struggled weakly, but the iciness of the water had sapped all her strength. She went limp as he dragged her to the horses. Dirk's other brother, Ambroise, waited there. Her body was so chilled, but suddenly her blood turned icy.

"What do…you…want?" She shivered so hard the question barely got out.

John Pendegast grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up, dropping her on her feet. "Want? You, Lady Challon, of course."

"Why?" She tried to tug her mantle around her body, as he tossed her upon his horse, and then mounted behind her.

John smiled as he set spur to the steed. "Why? Brotherly love, naturally. And all such noble reasons. One does not kill a Pendegast and get away with it."

"A destrier…ki-killed your…brother," she argued, desperately hanging onto the saddle, fearing to fall off and being trampled by the horse's feet.

"Everyone has seen Pagan in action. That horse is as deadly a weapon as the sword your husband wields."

Her breasts throbbed, painfully reminding her it was past time to feed the twins. "I must go to my children." She bit her lip, sorry the plea escaped. She would never beg before these vile men, but she was so exhausted and just wanted to be home warm and safe, holding her children.

"You need milking, eh?" Ambroise Pendegast laughed. "Never fear, Lady Challon, we shall suck your tits for you. What say, John, a milk jug for us each? "

Digging down, Tamlyn summoned steel she did not know she had. Instead of quailing before them, she stiffened her spine and wrapped her warrior's mein about her. She was Challon's Lady, the wife of a warrior true, a man once the king's champion. "Challon shall kill you and hang your guts out for the pigs."

"Mouthy bitch. We can knock that out of her. Or find another use for that mouth," Ambroise promised.

As they rounded the loch onto the Kinmarch side, both men slowed, glancing about. The other riders were gone. Tamlyn clearly read the unease within them. Walking the horses slowly, she heard Ambroise withdraw his sword from its sheath. The men's rising fear transferred to the mounts, as they suddenly grew twitchy.

The brothers glanced to each other, questions clear in their eyes. Ambroise's palfrey reverberated alarm in its throat and shied, nearly unseating its rider. It took all the knight's skill to control the sweating beast.

"What ails him?" The man sounded as upset as his animal.

Tamlyn smiled. "Blood, Sir Knight. Your horses are scared at the scent of blood."

"Where are our soldiery, John?" Ambroise demanded in a querulous tone.

John surveyed the landscape, finding neither beast nor man. "They are here somewhere. Just waiting until they make sure it is us."

Ambroise, pointed. "Look!"

The scarlet standard with the golden eagle lay on the grass. In this half-light, it almost resembled blood spilling over the earth. Just beyond, there were figures of men on the ground, clearly dead.

"John…" Ambroise's voice trembled. "What happened? They are dead! All dead!"

The elder Pendegast barked, "Shut up!"

"Challon. Challon happened ," Tamlyn stated in a surprisingly strong voice. "If you put me down now and flee, you might escape with your lives."

"John―" Ambroise was panicking.

"I told you to shut up, you fool," John snarled fighting to keep his stallion under control.

Tamlyn took in the thickening fog. Nearing the mouth of the passes, they would have to ride by it to go out of Kinmarch.

Both horses shied badly as a murder of ravens unexpectedly took to the skies. They fluttered on both sides of the passes, their cries screeching to where it was deafening. The men appeared as spooked as the beasts they rode, trying to spot what had set the birds to screaming and fighting.

"One last chance. Let me go or you seal your death," Tamlyn warned.

Warmth flooded her. Challon is near, The Kenning whispered.

The mists thickened, and then they slowly began to part, revealing the lone rider in black upon the midnight charger. Arm straight out, his sword was in his hand, the tip pointing to the ground. The heavy black mantle undulated behind him. Reaching up, he released the catch at his shoulder and the mantle fluttered away to the earth, leaving him free to fight.

The screams of the ravens grew louder as Challon walked Pagan forward, coming right up to the Pendegasts, as if they were held spellbound by the daunting image.

Tamlyn thought them exceedingly stupid to let Challon so near unchallenged. Only a fool would permit her warrior husband such an advantage.

Tamlyn's breath caught and held as she stared at his beautiful visage. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she watched him.

These men were taller, yet he was not in the least intimidated by them. His was a raw, elemental power never measured by such menial standards. The armor plates covering upper arms and thighs, the mail habergeon, mantle and surcoat were black. All black.

Not the severe Norman style of hair cutting, his locks—of the same unrelenting shade of pitch—were much longer since coming to Glenrogha, curling softly about his ears and flowing past the metal gorget at the back of his neck.

Handsome—nay, beautiful—Challon was surely born of Selkie blood. The very air surrounding this dark warrior seemed to stir, as scorching energy discharged from him with the sizzle and crackle of lightning. A flick of the sooty lashes bespoke his biting disdain and temporary dismissal of the two men. Few men wielded such chilling command as Julian Challon .

His keen attention fixed on Tamlyn. The penetrating stare sent her to trembling, but not with true foreboding. She loved this man, knew he was worth fighting for, worth dying for.

More importantly, worth living for.

He had eyes the color of the deep forest, shade of sacred green garnets said to adorn the Holy Grail. They were ringed with lashes so long a woman would cry envy, almost feminine, though none would dare to ascribe that trait to him. An inner searing light pulsed from the hexing eyes. Heavy ebon brows bracketed them, emphasizing their mind-piercing hue. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed. There was only this knight all in black.

Challon.

Life had now come full circle.

His jaw was strong, square. The small full mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive, though touched with a trace of what might be cruelty. High cheekbones lent a balancing hint of thinness to his face, softening the arrogant planes. Glistening with a bluish cast, two jet curls fell over the hairline in a roguish air. His countenance was sinful…in ways no mere mortal man had right to be.

The high forehead bespoke of a willful, razor-sharp intelligence. The last man Tamlyn would want to face as an adversary. Nonetheless, the only man Tamlyn would want for a lover, her husband, the father of her children.

The man she loved more than life.

Images possessed her, singeing her with an ancient fire…of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it felt to be kissed by this black knight. Smiling a secret smile, memories flooded her. The first time she bathed him. How he told her if she provided what he needed there would be no other women. Of them dancing before the balefire at Beltaine . Him taking her in the pagan marriage ceremony. How she held him and kissed away the tears as he spoke of Christian's death. This English warrior was dangerously beautiful, a killer-angel with soul-stealing eyes. And she could not take her gaze from him.

"My orders were not made clear, Tamlyn?" He arched a brow in censure, before turning his formidable attention on the two men. "Scots. Their women are jug-headed at best. Edward does extract his punishment by leg-shackling me with this trying woman for a wife. I weary beating her. I thank you for finding and fetching her back. I have been off hunting down rebel Scots and dispatching them. Every time I return, she is off dashing hither and yond. You both are a long way from home. If you will give her to me, we shall head back to my fortress. Not of the splendor worthy the Dragon of Challon, but I plan to rebuild Kinmarch castle, then dismantle this ancient holding. I offer you a hot meal, a soothing bath and a good night's rest after your long ride." Challon rested the sword across his lap as if he had nothing to fear from these men.

She would almost believe his words, if he had not made the comment about being leg-shackled to her.

Apprehension rippled through the guilt-ridden men. She saw Ambroise look to John, silently asking what to do. Weighing options, the elder brother was caught off guard by Challon's offer of food and bed. Just as she felt his grasp on her waist ease, as if he might accept the offer and live to fight another day, a score of riders came galloping up the knoll. Riders under the pennon of the golden eagle .

Ambroise smirked and sat up straighter in the saddle, buoyed by reinforcements. John finally spoke. "Challon, we are not here to accept your hospitality. We came for precisely this. Despite your bit of mummery, we hear you set great store in your Celtic heiress. Whilst we should seek revenge for the loss of our dear brother, we devised a better means. Lady Challon rides with us. In five days' time, come alone to Castlerock Keep. With you have the charter for the fief of Torqmond and two chests of gold."

Challon smiled. "Ah, there be a price on brotherly love after all. I do so hope my brothers wouldst place a higher value on my life."

"If you do not come in the allotted period…" John smiled, sliding his hand up to squeeze her breast. "Well, you get the idea, Dragon. We shall return what be left of her on the sixth."

Challon did not blink, his emotions shuttered behind that will of iron. "I learned to speak the Scots tongue well during this last year. Is leam fhèin an gleann, ‘s gach ni ta ann . Do you know what that means?"

"Why shouldst we care, Challon?" Ambroise snapped, as the riders drew closer. "You heard our terms."

Challon went on as if Ambroise had not spoken. "The words mean this glen is mine and all that is in it. 'Tis an old Scots saying do not touch what is mine. Your imbecile brother erred in daring the temerity to touch my lady wife. Dirk is dead. Just as you two shall be."

"You are an arrogant bastard, Challon. It is two-to-one." Ambroise watched their riders slow and fan out as they approached. "Make that a score against one."

"You forget Pagan." Julian patted the side of his steed's neck. "He already dispatched one Pendegast." The Sacred Mists parted as Destain, Guillaume and Damian seemed to materialize out of the fog of the passes. "Well, the odds just shifted to my favor. Four Dragons of Challon. Darian shall be sorry he missed this. We shall slice up a score of scum and feed the leavings to the pigs without breaking a sweat. It wouldst not matter if it were a hundred to one odds, John. You are dead. No man lays a hand to my lady and lives."

Julian moved so fast neither man had a chance to react. His knee signals sent Pagan slamming into Ambroise's horse. The palfrey snarled deep in his throat as his teeth ripped into the neck of the roan, blood gushing from the wound. The precise instant Pagan moved, Challon brought up the hilt of the sword, slamming the rounded pommel into the jaw of John Pendegast.

Tamlyn wiggled, trying to break free, but Dirk's brother held on tightly, as he fought to control his steed. Damian, Destain and Guillaume spurred past him, whilst Challon swung Pagan around to face Ambroise. Urging the black destrier forward, both man and animal went into action. Pagan flew at Ambroise's mount again, as Challon's great sword came down, clanging against the blade of the younger Pendegast.

Determined to give Challon time to handle Ambroise without John coming at him, she grabbed his sword arm, wrapping both of hers around it and hanging on, rocking in the saddle to topple them. His fist slammed into her shoulder. Her vision darkened as pain lanced through her body. Even so, she held on, buying her husband time.

Challon spun Pagan on his rear hooves as Ambroise spurred his steed. At first, she thought the man meant to flee, but he yanked the reins, abruptly reversing the horse's direction, then came headlong at Challon.

Tamlyn kicked John's horse, causing it to rear. Whilst they were off balance, she shoved back, forcing them rearward over the horse. Her head connected with John's chin. Already hurt from Challon's pommel slamming into it, he cried out.

Slamming to the ground, the air was knocked from her lungs, but she struggled to her knees. Only, John was on his feet. Coal-black eyes narrowed on her. Reptilian in their fury, not a dram of mercy was in their stygian depths, as he backhanded her and grabbed her long hair.

He yanked her head back against his stomach, as he placed a dagger blade to her throat. Tamlyn's eyes searched for Challon and Ambroise. Their swords rang out as they met, but Challon caught Ambroise with the sweet spot of his sword―where all the power of the blow moved into the opponent. It had hit wrong so all the vibration of the swords meeting transferred into the man's muscles, making it nearly impossible for him to keep his grip on the hilt. Ambroise's teeth gritted as be absorbed the blunt of Challon's blow.

Challon kneed Pagan into a spinning turn and he came back at Pendegast. Ambroise tried to position himself to meet Challon. It was too late. Challon's broadsword sliced downward between his opponent's head and neck, going deep. Limp, Ambroise lifelessly slipped from his mount to the ground.

Most of Pendegast's men were down. A handful galloped away. Thankfully, Destain and Guillaume were still seated and unharmed. Damian had been unhorsed, but now remounted his grey steed. Challon jumped from Pagan and walked to where John held her on the ground, the sharp knife tip now pointed to her throat―same as she once had held her sgian dubh to his brother. Remembering the knife in her boot, she carefully shifted to get her hand around it.

Her action was slow as John held her up, spine nearly bowed. The blade permitted her no movement. Shaking fingers brushed the top of the knife. Stretching, her trembling hand closed about the hilt.

"Unhand her, John," Challon commanded softly. "We were not friends, but I respected you as a knight of honor. Never thought you would hide behind a woman's skirts."

"It little matters what I do, Challon. You plan to kill me. The only way I get out of here alive is with your witch."

Challon's long lashes flicked. The movement was so slight no one else could have read him. He was getting ready to move, and flashed her a warning. Tamlyn's hand under her mantle flexed about the sgian dubh .

"You are not taking her, John."

She felt the man's muscles tense, as he yanked harder on her hair, stretching and exposing her throat to the long knife blade.

"Then, we both die here, Lord Dragon."

Tamlyn jabbed her small knife into his booted foot. At the same instant, Challon lashed out with his sword, catching the man at his throat. His body stayed upright for a moment, his blood spraying onto her hair. Then, he fell back to the earth.

With a cry, Tamlyn leapt into Challon's arms, squeezing him tight, but not as tightly as he held her. He rained kisses over her face and then took her mouth, kissing her hard, kissing her slow, cherishing her. He broke away, his labored breath panting against her hair. "You ever scare me like that again—not once, but twice, I shall beat you. On the loch—oh, Tamlyn, I thought you would drown. I wanted to walk into those icy waters, follow you to your watery grave. Then, to see Pendegast held you…"

"Poor man." She laughed through the tears.

Challon reared back and stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. "Poor man?"

"Aye, when you rode up so calmly and invited him to supper and a bath I do no' think he knew what to expect. You almost had me believing until you mentioned about beating me."

He flashed his teeth in a predatory smile. "That part was true. I plan to put my hand to your bottom so you will not be able to sit for a week. Then, the next time you say, aye, Challon , you shall mean it."

"You may put a hand to my bottom any time you wish, my lord husband, and I might not be able to stand for a week, but it will not be because you beat me. You would never hit the mother of your two beautiful children." She glanced down at the milk forming stains on her sark. "Speaking of children, can you please take me home, Julian? I am so tired, and need to feed our bairns."

"Aye, wife, I shall take you home." He helped her to her feet as Pagan pushed against his back with his nose.

Tamlyn kissed the destrier's velvety nose and stroked his forehead. "Thank you, mighty steed, for once again protecting our Challon."

Julian mounted in the saddle, and then kicked out of the stirrup for her, offering his hand to help her up. He settled her crosswise on his lap. Accepting a mantle from Destain, he hung it about his shoulders and then wrapped the heaviness around them both. He nudged Pagan with his knees to take them home, his brothers and cousin falling in behind them.

The terror of the moment was catching up with Julian. He was the Dragon of Challon and had done what was necessary to save his lady. And she loved him so. But now, she felt the faint tremors in his muscles.

"Wife, I love you, but if you ever disobey me―" he began.

She let out with a small squeal, and shifted on his lap to face him. Wrapping her arms about his waist, she hugged him. "Oh, Julian!"

"Stop your wiggling before you unseat us both, òinnseach ."

"Do no' distract me by calling me a fool. You said you loved me!" The smile faded as she searched the green garnet eyes. "Do you mean it, Julian?"

He leaned forward and ever so gently kissed the corner of her mouth. "I love you, Tamlyn. How could you not know it? I think I have always loved you…always will."

"But you never told me."

He chuckled, then exhaled a deep sigh. "Have you told me, wife, that you love me?"

"No, but―"

" Och , Tamlyn fair, has golden hair. She won my heart from the start―"

"Julian, that be dreadful."

"Some things need no words, Tamlyn. I am a warrior, not a silly bard prancing around using words like love to where they have no value. I show you my love each time I take you into my arms, every time I look at you. Still, if you want me to recite dread rhymes―"

"No, rhyme, Julian, just three words."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I love you, Tamlyn Challon."