Chapter Four

Chan e sealbh na foatainn.

(The finding of a thing, be no' the owning of it.)

— Auld Scottish Adage

Julian had his captive sequestered within his tent and a guard placed outside the entrance, whilst he strolled about conferring with his soldiery and knights. The front flaps had been tied back so all could observe her movements. And move she did, pacing with the restlessness of a catamount trapped in a cage.

With feigned innocence, she glided to the far corner, checking if she could slip under the edge without detection. He raised his hand and signaling the guardsman on station. The man leaned in and cautioned her back to the middle. Julian choked back a laugh as she stuck out her tongue at him, then flopped down with a frustrated thud upon a large chest.

Julian admired her inner steel. Most women would be cowered given her situation. Not this female . She met their eyes with that witchy direct stare, not flinching, never backing down. A woman of fire.

Jealous, he felt certain she was the Earl Hadrian's leman. What man would not covet her, kill to own her...protect her with his very life?

At English Court two years past, he had been introduced to the flamboyant laird of Clan Shane. A strikingly handsome Scotsman with arresting ice-green eyes, he appeared much younger than his seven and two score years. His wife—countess in her own right—had died nearly a decade past, affixing him as objet of the husband hunts. He seemed disinterested in acquiring another mate, and oddly, the laird displayed the same unhurried attitude in arranging marriages for his lady daughters. Balladeers sang how his marriage to the Lady Deporadh Ogilvie of Glenrogha was a great love-match. Julian found it hard to believe this man—one could almost call beautiful rather than handsome―old enough to have sired three grown daughters.

The Shane's daughters drew the interest of hordes of suitors. Worse for them, they had become an obsession with the English monarch. Zealous to see them leg-shackled to staunchly loyal English nobles, Edward smugly jested it was his Seeding of Scotland campaign. Longshanks found he was sorely vexed in dealings with Hadrian MacShane and his lady daughters. In the king's eyes, they became a symbol of all that was wrong with Scotland.

'Twas most unnatural, these females held titles and lands through ancient Pict matriarchal lineage. The earl exhibited a disinclination to go against their archaic laws, which permitted their females the right to select their husbands. Time after time, the daughters refused all alliances proposed by the Plantagenet. Peculiar circumstances that provided fodder for court gossip and fuel for Edward's volcanic rages. Pursuit of the three continued as they aged, with them showing no inclination to accept any offer—most especial those advanced by the English monarch.

Eventually, the earl saw the twins wed to Scottish barons, though both were now widowed. Baroness Kinloch lost her husband to a bout of lung fever, whilst the Lady Lochshane's spouse died quite mysteriously several seasons past. Scandal whispered speculation that the woman had a hand in the man's untimely departure from this world. Having witnessed the baroness' poise upon the rampart, such rumors fell within Julian's belief.

These Scots females were such a strong breed, unlike any he had encountered. It did not bode well for him in his upcoming dealings with them. It little mattered if they were tiresome and unrepentant. His will was the one that would rule.

The striking coloring of his fool repeatedly pulled his attention. The shimmering bronze tresses made a man yearn to fist his hands in the silken mass. This fey lass drew him, fascinated him in dark ways that he scarcely understood. He studied his captive, only half listening to his brother's words, detailing their next move against Glenrogha.

Julian was average height for a Norman, still she reached to the level of his nose. 'Twas disconcerting. He was used to shorter, frailer women, not one who carried a knife in her boot, or rode a horse astride with chivalric skills. Sir Geoffrey commented she was a superior rider, that had her mount been an equal to their powerful Frisian Warm-Bloods she would have lost them in the chase.

She jumped up and, once more, took up the agitated prowling. He could watch her do that all night, the graceful sway of those curves. Not only was she taller than most females at court, her hips were wider, rounder. Conceivably, why these Scots numbers seemed endless—their women were formed to cradle a babe with ease. A man's seed would find fertile purchase within their strong bodies.

As she paced, Julian envisioned his fool's belly swollen, heavy from his life within her. She would wear motherhood well, breeding second nature to this sturdy Scots lass. A surge of hot possessiveness spiked in his warrior's blood, overwhelming him with a yearning to see her carrying his seed, breeding him strong sons.

Mayhap Julian would claim her as his mistress. He would plant his child deep in her belly, then she would forget to shed tears for the Red Laird of Clan Shane. His lower body pulsed in agreement.

It would be intriguing to see a child resulting from the mix of their bloods. Which traits would dominate? Was the golden coloring of his fool strong enough to influence the black hair and green eyes that so marked the Challons, when no woman before had altered their ancient line? Heat clawed under his skin as he contemplated if she coupled with a man as fiercely as she had fought his knights.

Admiration filled him when he first saw her, kneeling, but not humbled. She looked his men in the eye with the strength and power of a warrior. Those poignant gold eyes were so fierce...so vulnerable, though trying not to show it.

Could that intensity be bent, turned into another violent emotion—passion? His blood quickened as these questions possessed his mind. Julian forced himself to glance away, shaking the overpowering lust raking his thoughts. Or rather, miming pretense he did . He little cared for this lack of control. No woman before held the power to bind his senses so.

"Guillaume, place a second guard outside my tent. Have drink and food sent." He paused, the long fingers of his right hand stroking his chin. "Make known—under threat of losing heads—that none save me touches the Scottish demoiselle . "

Guillaume grinned. "Growing territorial, are we?"

"We?" Julian shrugged, his sangfroid a mask to cover the fact that Guillaume's well-aimed arrow found mark. "Glenrogha be mine. All of it."

"What say you, Lord Brother?" Destain called Julian's wayward concentration back to the drawings scratched in the dirt. "Six men should see it done."

"'Tis sound. I shall send forth a messenger in the middle of the night when exhaustion dulls their minds. At the gates, he shall inquire about the Lady Tamlyn. Whilst attention focuses to the fore of the fortress, they shan't spot men flanking their lochside. You remain of mind to attempt this, Destain?"

"Attempt? There be naught I rise to more than a good stiff challenge. Makes one's blood surge." His smile salacious, Destain's meadow-green eyes flashed in a smirk. "Amongst other things."

Inclining his head, Julian altered, "Choose three and ten. I want none harmed in this—especial you, Destain."

"Fear not, Julian. Those flanks are the weakness. The Picts were renowned for pegging the best defensive locations. Foolishly, they trust the cliffs. Chances of the lochside being scaled likely never entered their heads. Show certitude, my Lord Brother, and you shall warm your boots in Glenrogha's Great Hall before dawnbreak," assured Destain, the Challon reckless streak showing.

Finding pretext to linger around campfire, Julian spoke to his squires to prolong time's passage before withdrawing to his tent. Truth be confessed: he avoided her. Julian was undecided—the obdurate warrior's mind in diametric conflict with primitive mating instincts—over how he planned to handle his Scottish fool. He craved her, and claim her he would since it was his right. First, he needed to ferret out something other to call her. A smart man simply did not command, " Fool , you shall warm my bed." Not with reasonable expectations of compliance! Women liked to think they had a choice, and rarely did any appreciate being called a fool.

When he could conjure no further excuses to procrastinate, he slowly treaded toward the tent and the arousing, yet perplexing problem housed there...feeling as if his soul were being placed in the balance.