Chapter Three

Is leàm fhein a gleann, 's gash t à ann.

(This glen be mine, and all that's in it.)

— Auld Scots Adage

Fearful, Tamlyn's nails bit into the saddle pommel, as Julian Challon spurred his black steed to the rear of the long columns, past the Heavy Horses and soldiery. Once out of sight, he reined the powerful stallion to halt beside the small burn fed from Loch Shane Mòhr . He swung his leg back over the high cantle, descending easily for a man in heavy armour and mail.

Reaching up, he placed his hands about Tamlyn's waist. He paused, his eyes narrowing on her flesh exposed by the ripped sark. Almost transfixed, he brushed the sword-toughened thumb against her soft skin. Her belly quivered, scorched by his warlock's touch.

The Kenning oft permitted Tamlyn to read feelings in others. This time, his thoughts sang out clearly. Some fey cobweb brushed against his mind, warmth both exciting and discomforting to him in the same heartbeat. Then, a steel shutter within him fell, and she no longer shared that connection. Withdrawal of that tentative bond left her feeling bereft, alone as she had never felt before. Tamlyn blinked back tears.

He swung her free of the saddle. Bringing her body close to his, touching, rubbing in places, he let her slide against him until her feet touched ground. Her heart slammed in her chest, as her eyes locked with his. She could not draw air. The shard of time spun out, as they both seemed unable to move. Gradually, he lowered his head, as if he were going to kiss her. She saw the muscles flex in his jaw as he fought the compulsion. Irritation flashed in the green depths of his eyes, then he wheeled away from her.

Flipping the reins over the horse's neck, he permitted the animal to drink. He pulled a cloth out from under the black breastplate, leaned down to dip it in the water, and then strode back to her. Fingers deft, compassionate, he took hold of her chin and dabbed at the blood crusted around the edge of her nose. The gentle contact hardly seemed capable of belonging to a warrior, let alone the mighty Black Dragon.

Tamlyn stiffened, fighting pressure to shrink away from this dark earl. Odd. Though he terrified her, it was not precisely fear she felt. She struggled to prevent him from witnessing how her body trembled due to his warmth, his closeness, his scent. The raw, palpable power exuded by this unusual man proved more daunting than all his tall knights combined. Small wonder he stood as a legend amongst men.

His eyes met hers with vague indifference, proclaiming her no more than a riddle that plagued him only in passing. Mayhap the arrogant earl contemplated if she had scales upon her belly and breasts. She shrugged. Indifference had not lit his eyes a few heartbeats ago. He had wanted to kiss her. Tamlyn did not need The Kenning to tell her that. And counter to all logic, she wished him to do so, to close his mouth over hers with a deep, driving hunger that gnawed at the pit of her belly.

Freed from the mashing confines of the metal coif, the black hair pushed away from his skull in thick waves. Bluish glints highlighted the soft locks stirred by the gentle breeze.

Despite what his coming meant, she found the Lord Challon compelling. That angered her. Curse this beautiful warrior! Damn his near flawless, angelic countenance! Why had The Fates been so cruel to send this intriguing man to face her as foe? With a true measure of regret, Tamlyn could merely wonder how meeting him as friend instead of enemy might have been. Wisps of a dream. But they were enemies. Naught could alter that simple reality. Only, hating him would be easier if he were not so...attractive.

Swallowing, Tamlyn summoned courage to speak. "I tend thanks for rescuing me."

He gave a slight nod, then changed the subject, as if he did not wish to dwell upon the incident. "The Lady Rowanne is beautiful. Seems for once court gossip did not exaggerate. Edward oft promoted matches for the sisters to English nobles. One incentive for resettling northward, entailing more taxes, was tales of the ladies' beauty."

"Aye, she be a bonnie lass." Jealousy fluttered in her chest over this man deeming her sister beautiful.

Challon paused from cleaning her nose. His dark eyes skimmed over her features, pausing at the faint cleft in her chin. His thumb brushed across it as though he thought it a smudge of dust. When he found it was not, he rubbed the pad across the tiny dip several times. "And the Lady Tamlyn...be she as comely in face and form?"

Panic rippled through her body as he spoke her name. "'Tis muckle hard to judge. The daughters of The Shane are different. Very different."

"'Tis said the baronesses are twins."

"In faces their sameness 'tis apparent. But Raven is Celtic dark, whilst Rowanne is Norse fair."

"Then, that was the darker sister standing behind the Lady Lochshane?"

Tamlyn felt the heady pull of his ensorcelling eyes. She had to blink to concentrate upon his words. "Aye, 'twas Raven of Kinloch."

"And the Lady Tamlyn? Be she as pleasing to the eye?"

"Whether she be swart hag or lovely maid, you come to steal her holding. Should she be humpbacked or have warts upon her nose it would make no difference to you," she accused, scared of his quest for knowledge of Tamlyn. Did he suspect? Was he a big cat playing games of illusion with the doomed mousie?

"Does the lady bear warts?" A hint of a smile toyed at the edge of the too sensual mouth.

"Aye, three and a big hairy mole on her cheek—a mark of Satan, some folk whisper."

She heard Normans feared the Auld Ways , their Pope preaching they were wonts of the Devil. Silly nonsense! Lucifer was their invention, a bogeyman to frighten gullible minds from straying from the kirk. Still, if these ignorant English were so easily spooked, then such was their lot and an advantage to exploit. A woman wisely seized and used whatever weapons were at her disposal.

Searching his bonnie features Tamlyn tried to fit his male perfection and sensuality to the name of the Dragon of Challon. Her heart thudded erratic, rapid, as he lured her with his dark magic. She had trouble masking this unwanted reaction to the enigmatic lord.

Long, sooty lashes batted over his devilkin eyes. "The hump? Poor woman...she be so sorely afflicted?"

"Nay, but her spine is twisted, so she hipples. 'Tis muckle sad."

"Strange," doubt laced his tone, "court gossip seems to falter in this instance. Jongleurs regale the third daughter of The Shane is as lovely as the elder two."

"Folk at Glenrogha love her. They wouldst never shame her pride. No looking glass or polished-plate be permitted within the tower. Poor lass, she does no' ken her homely, kenspeckled state." Mayhap she was piling it on a bit, and it would likely return later to haunt her. Even so, she could not leash her wayward tongue.

"Such loyal subjects." He pressed the cold cloth against her reddening cheek. "I hope these tenderhearted villeins serve me as true."

???

Anger flared within Julian's mind. Nothing as finely molded as this woman's face should be touched in such harsh disregard. His knights would pay with the skin off their backs and count themselves fortunate he had caught them in time. Had they raped her, he would have seen them hanged.

"Such tales of her ugliness fail to ring true. I sense you play games, my fool. Mayhap you are jealous of the lady's appeal, hmm?"

"Wrong, Sasunnach . She holds naught for me to envy." Her eyes moved past him to the dark sky near Kinmarch. Fear shadowed her face. Her voice quavered. "May I beg answer of you? Word came of the siege and that...The Shane were...dead."

Julian's hand holding the cloth dropped slowly, as he studied the reaction to his words. "By Edward's command, they dismantle the castle as we speak. Naught shall be left standing, but a pile of fine Scottish stones."

"And the earl?" Tears formed in the large eyes, threatening to spill.

There was a strange pressure in his chest, as he watched her fighting her fears. What was it about those damnable gold eyes that had such power to reach him? Julian found it hard to look away from them. "So, you care for the earl." No question, just a flat statement of his inference.

"Please," she beseeched.

Ah, the puzzle was unriddled—she was the Lord Hadrian's lover. Foreign sensations invaded his body, increasing as he recognized he resented her feelings for the earl of Kinmarch. He was jealous! Why now, why summoned by this fey Scots lass, a stranger who for some proof did not feel like a stranger?

Naught felt the same since coming into this pagan glen.

"He lives." Wishing the man did not, he informed her, "Edward ordered him made prisoner and transported to York. The governor shall hold him there until the king crosses back over the River Tweed and onto English soil. The Earl Hadrian and the Lord Douglas, former governor of Berwick Castle, shall be carried to Westminster to stand trial, accused of lèse-majesté . Edward intends to make examples of all nobles foolish enough to support Balliol in his blear-witted rebellion."

She forgot about clutching the torn sark. Folding her hands together, she dropped to her knees. Her lips moved in a singsong chant, but his Scots was too limited to understand this dark tongue.

Julian observed her Madonna pose for several breaths, until he could abide it no longer. Sensations burned as quicklime, eating at his innards. Never had he known jealousy was physical as well as a plague of the mind. Damn the bones of saints and sinners! He little liked this queer possessing madness, a distemper that made a stranger of himself. Unable to endure watching her shed tears for another man Julian stalked off.

Weary of it all, he leaned back against the trunk of a silver birch tree. By the Rood , he wished matters done. He was so bloody tired of war, fed up to the gills with Edward's insatiable greed and uncontrollable rages.

Julian knew he had lost the warrior's edge. The taste of battle was now rancid, and with each day's passing grew more unpalatable. There had been too many wars, too many friends or relations gone for vague, tenuous causes, dead, food for ravens on some foreign field of battle. Their lifeless faces still haunted his memory.

Then, there were the poignant eyes of his brother Christian...pleading. He squeezed his eyelids tight to block out the crippling image.

This strange disease of spirit was killing him from within, slowly. Agonizingly. Atrophying his very soul. After decades of unquestioning allegiance to Edward, never once raising word whether his king was right, the cause just, Julian could endure the charnel house of war no more.

Wales had been bad enough. Only, it grew worse. In his unreasoning hatred of the Scots, Longshanks was poisoned. His virulent Angevin temper—rivaling that of Henry II—had changed into a black malignancy, as if he were an apostate of Satan. No telling where it would all end.

Julian wished his eyes had been closed at Berwick. Instead, it served as an epiphany.

War should be honorable, but all Round Table chivalry had been put asunder. What the Plantagenet charged his host to do in the sack of Berwick held no laurels for bards to laud. Sights, sounds and smells lingered vividly, unwanted within Julian's tormented memory. Hideous visions persecuted his infrequent sleep. His dreams were made Hell.

If Julian could find some measure of peace in this mist-shrouded land, he would ask for naught more and count himself favored indeed. Let Edward be done with Balliol, depart this North Country. Hurry to challenge the will of France, go far away...forget Julian Challon exists.

Allow the legend of the Dragon of Challon to fade into fable.

When someone now addressed him as the Black Dragon he almost laughed. Nonetheless, it was a shield, a mask he would don to reach simple goals. The mere name Challon had panicked the garrison at Lochshane to surrender. If in luck's fickle regard he remained, he would soon see same at Kinloch and Glenrogha. After securing the holdings, he would use the legend to scare off those who might try to take any part of his new lands. Only a fool would dare the temerity to reive cattle from the great Black Dragon.

Relief filled him when Lochshane came over without the first arrow being loosed. None were hurt. His occupation was bloodless. If the two sister demesnes followed suit, in time he might be able to sleep once again.

Guillaume and Destain galloped up. He smiled at his father's sons. More importantly, they were his friends—something he did not call many men. Born to his lord father's leman before his own birth, neither was able to inherit lands or titles due to their bastardy. Julian was protective of both men. No man dared insult the openly acknowledged brothers of the Dragon of Challon—and live to boast. Ever steadfast at his side, they stood against all, shielding his back so he fought with no fear. Never had either gainsaid him nor permitted their bastard birth to embitter them.

For their loyalty, he would reward one with Lochshane, the other Kinloch. Julian's plans were to claim Glenrogha for himself, unite the holding with the lands of Kinmarch, and take the Countess Tamlyn MacShane as lady-wife—twisted spine, hairy mole and all. Anything for peace!

No more Edward and his spiraling greed for bigger kingdoms and greater glories for the First Knight of Christendom. No court intrigues and dark machinations. No more war. Julian's time had finally come.

"Your tent awaits, Lord Brother," Destain informed him with a grin, leading the two stallions to the water's edge beside Lasher.

His expression the opposite, Guillaume frowned. "You should seek rest, Julian. Your head aches when you push hard as you have this fortnight past."

He was tired, mentally more than physically. "We may all take rest. Time enough before my next move."

Pushing away from the tree, he strode to the kneeling woman and lightly touched her shoulder, hoping not to startle her. Her skin burned like a brand through the thin baize. In desperate hunger, he wanted to pull her to him, absorb that heat into his being. He had been cold for so long.

Despite his care, she flinched, the large cat-eyes widening in alarm. Julian's mouth pressed into a hard line, not caring for her reaction to him. In a soft voice, he commanded, "Arise, my fool ," and offered his hand to her.

Since she no longer clutched the front of the torn sark, it gaped, affording Julian a tantalizing glimpse of the curves of her breasts. His gut clenched painfully in response. Desire rolled through his entire body like thunder.

He was surprised she accepted his hand to help rise on unsteady feet. She wobbled. He caught her upper arms to lend balance. The haunting amber eyes slowly lifted, and in an instant frozen in time's fabric, they locked with his, ensorcelling him with pulsing, ambient power. A witch's power. A dark fire that burned straight to his soul.

Affixed by her cat-eyes, he was lured with the fathomless depths. So many extremes eddied there...almost as if echoes from the distant past. Julian felt time suspend and bend in on itself, and the world narrowed to only this woman before him. All he could hear was the erratic pounding of his heart, the rhythm echoed by hers, and the cool air stirring gently through the new leaves of the silver birch trees. It hurt to draw breath. Lightheaded, he felt the whole world spin out of control.

He tried to resist the peculiar spell she cast by apologizing. "I regret the harm inflicted by my knights. They were under orders not to touch the females in this glen. Sadly, when nations make war women oft suffer most. Rest assured, they shall be punished for disobeying."

The woman nodded. She seemed perplexed that the great Dragon of Challon apologized. He supposed dragons were not thought to act contrite. Suddenly, he could almost hear her thoughts: They roared and breathed fire. No matter how breathtakingly beautiful, dragons were...dragons.