Chapter Five

She cannot fight a craft so strong,

nor wouldst her mind cipher to resist...

So she surrenders.

— Adrian Ogilvie-Macgillivray

His squire Moffet set coals in the brazier, to dispel the biting Highland chill. Working to get the flames to catch, he pretended to ignore the pacing woman.

She stopped and put her hands on her hips, then gave him the sharp edge of her tongue. " Och, why not just ask the bloody Dragon to breathe fire on them?"

An eager lad, he would never dare speak to a prisoner without Julian passing leave. Julian saw Moffet suppress a smile. Clear in his eyes, the lad liked her and admired her feisty spirit.

But then, so did Julian. After what she had been through, one might expect her to be trembling and cowering in the corner. Not this Scots lass. She was born of fire and had a spine of steel.

Moffet, poor boy, was at that awkward stage of growth—age four and ten. Long and lanky, nearly as tall as Julian now, he was transmuting from child-to-man within the passings of a few moons. One could almost hear bones creaking. Rushing about to please his liege, he oft tripped, unused to his new larger feet. Kinsman, he was bastard son of Julian's second-cousin, Damian St. Giles.

His Challon blood—from his father's side—showed in his midnight hair and vivid green eyes. At times, it pained Julian to stare upon Moffet. He was the living image of Julian's youngest brother, Christian. Blest with a rare and gentle nature, Moffet could conjure a smile from him even when Julian's mind was in the blackest of malaise. Since Christian's death, he found smiling difficult, thus he treasured these moments of respite with the lad, and was glad Damian had sent him for training.

It made Julian ache for a son of his own.

The lad looked up when Julian entered the tent. "My lord, I made all as Sir Guillaume bade," Moffet informed, with adoring eyes.

Julian patted him on the dark head. Pangs of wanting a son twisted his gut. "As do you always. No lord be blest with a better squire. This I so spake to your lord father less than a fortnight ago."

The lad grinned. "I try, my lord, though I fear the Scots will die of laughter when they hear my becursed voice."

"Time shall witness the problem sorted out, then you face troubles not fighting foes, but comely wenches. Aid me from my armourments. Then, partake food and rest. I shall require you later."

Julian's eyes settled upon his fool in a banked predator's gleam. He never took them off her the whole time the lad unbuckled plates, mail and his aketon —arming jacket.

Gleaming in flickering firelight, the dark gold hair curtained her shoulders and back with the texture of silk. It took his last shred of willpower not to march over, fist his hands in the thick mass, and drag her to the ground. He swallowed hard, choking back the knot of desire clogging his throat, lest she rank his character as low as that of his men.

In an effort to distract himself, he tried to focus on details about her. The drawstring of the ripped leine-croich had been retightened so the wool in front met, though it did little to mask her curves. Blasted female did not even wear a chemise! Small wonder his knights disobeyed his command.

His lust feasted upon her full, sensual form barely shielded by the thin material. Her pagan earthiness hit a man hard as a fist to the solar plexus. As if sensing his musings centered upon her breasts, her nipples pebbled, clearly defined under the clinging fabric.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a slow feral smile. Heat flared in his blood. His eyes sought hers in unspoken communication, man-woman responses. So arcane, so ancient, so elemental. The honey-colored eyes flashed in anger, causing the twist to his mouth to deepen. He could not suppress it.

Anger implied awareness. Awareness could be bent into arousal. In the right hands—his hands. Yea, his fool and he would deal well together. Very well indeed.

Moffet rushed to complete his tasks, only tripping thrice. Before scurrying off to comply with his lord's instructions, the lad pulled the tent flaps closed.

???

Tamlyn's eyes watched the young man lowering the tent panels, leaving her alone with the Black Dragon. She resented the Norman's smug grin and lecherous eyes. His aura conveyed he was master at controlling all and there was naught she could do to alter this. The male arrogance provoked her, drove her to want to slap that expression off his face.

His much too beautiful face.

Oddly, instead of woolen hose as most men wore, his was made of tanned animal skin. She had never seen the like. They molded to his body like a glove. The soft leather rode taut over his loins, drawing her attention to that area of male anatomy where a lady should never linger in contemplation. Dressed in only them, boots and a short under tunic—the hem tucked into the wide belt—he should present a less imposing fa?ade minus the mail and armour. Julian Challon gave the impression of indolence, reminding her of a catamount sunning itself on a rock. So relaxed, and yet, ready to strike in the blink of an eye. An indefinable air, a predacious insouciance, caused him to seem more dangerous. The drawstring of the tunic rode loosely about his shoulders, the edge revealing honed muscles. élan vital pulsed from this man in hot waves.

With inherent, casual grace, he strode to the large trunk where the repast waited. In precise movements, he poured wine into the ornate cup. Burning eyes flicked from the golden goblet to her, the small battings of the lids made more pronounced by long, thick lashes. "Wine, demoiselle? 'Tis French."

Tamlyn shifted, ill at ease under the earl's scrutiny. With the flaps down, the tent muffled the noises outside. It felt as though they were alone instead of in the midst of an army readying on the eve of a siege. His radiant virility lent the enclosed space a suffocating sensation. Tilting up her chin, Tamlyn eyed him without flinching. A bluff.

She was forced to reassess the Earl Challon. He exhibited kindness and affection for his young squire; ofttimes knights did not. As well, he had displayed softness toward her. Legends spoke dragons breathed fire and were never benevolent. Julian Challon's gentleness did not fit fables. How could she remain indifferent toward a man who patted a lad's head, reassuring his confidence and self-worth? A man who had rescued her as a Knight of the Auld Code .

"I wish to go home." Tamlyn tasted panic. The Kenning warned her to get far away from this lethally beautiful warlord. He threatened her in ways she scarcely understood.

"You shall...anon." He raised the cup. "Wine?"

"You likely poison the bloody stuff," she huffed, trying to create distance. Being detained by him in the tent seemed too intimate. She felt exposed, vulnerable.

Smiling, Challon brought the cup to his lips. Once more, she wondered how it would feel to have that mouth pressed to her own. Aye, she longed for this man to kiss her. Raw desire slammed into her with a force that was unnerving. She hated herself for the burning yen. Never had any man affected her so. Oh, why did he have to be a Norman? Soft, full, his mouth closed upon the golden rim and took a deep draught. His Adam's apple undulated as he swallowed.

Unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she looked away―had to for the sake of her soul. With the pull of a warlock's lodestone, Challon drew her against will, her eyes compelled to return, to drink in his comely visage and superior masculine form. Sighing, she admitted she liked— nay, enjoyed —watching this Norman. Curse his black head! She shivered, hugging herself as small bumps crawled over her skin. Her body trembled with a chill, though felt hot in the same breath. How could that be?

His stare never left her, the compelling eyes sending frissons of awareness up her spine. Tamlyn was not frightened; rather, she was disturbed by his dominating presence. Every aspect of this warrior was daunting, humbling.

"'Tis damp. Have you a plaide?" A cover would offer a measure of protection from his branding gaze .

"If you are cold come closer to the brazier." He motioned with an upturned palm.

"I would rather have a plaide, if you do no' mind."

"I find that I do," he said calmly. The lids over the incisive green garnet eyes lowered, jeweled light of assessment flared behind them. "I prefer you where mine eyes can see you. All of you ."

She muttered, thinking he could not hear her, " Chomh dana le muc ."

Eyebrows, dark as his midnight hair, lifted in amusement. "I do believe you just called me a pig."

"I said, you be as bold as a pig." Tamlyn fought against the escaping smile. "A wee distinction, Sasunnach."

"I know naught about swine." His eyes danced with humor. Pure green scorching fire "I have been called worse. And I am bold—a man who dares much. Are all Scots females like you?"

"What mean you, Norman?"

???

"For one, you are rather tall ." Julian spoke the word as though distasteful.

Skittish as a fawn, she edged toward the flickering coals. Or was it toward him, Julian wondered? Condescension of blood-royal molded her intriguing face. Ah, touchy and prideful was she? Julian smiled to himself, strangely pleased.

"You are small for a Norman." She tried to sting with the barb.

"'Tis true Norman men tend to be taller than Saxons and Scots. I be middle height for men of my country," he answered, unruffled by her taunt. "Men—and women—oft mistake in judging by such trifling standards, underestimating my threat until 'tis too late. My height lends speed, quickness." He traced his eyes down her body and then back, pausing to linger on her full breasts. It set her to blushing. "Also, better for...other... er ... activities ."

A faint frown crossed her face, as though she failed to comprehend his double-meaning. Julian found the puzzled expression fascinating. The corner of his mouth twitched; he could feel it, but was sure the tic did not show. Wickedly, his actions put him in mind of a cat toying with a dormouse.

"Also, you are, ah, well...stout," he stated offhandedly .

Outrage flooded her cheeks. "Graineil peist!"

"I meant no insult with my humble observances. I doubt, demoiselle , you can claim same by calling me an earthworm...and a loathsome one, at that."

"I suspect, Lord Challon, you have never been humble in your whole bloody life!" When he said naught in reply, just stared impassively, she stomped her foot and snapped, "I am no' stout!"

"Not as you infer. I merely mention your hips are wider apart, rounder. Do females of your clan carry breeding easily?"

"'Tis not fit for you to speak of such matters."

"Oh come, come, come, my fool , playing the blushing virgin ill becomes you."

Clearly baffled by his jibe, she tried turning the tables by countering, "Do all Sasunnach warriors behave as you?"

"And that being?" Julian removed the small knife from the sheath at his belt and carved the wedge of cheese.

"Arrogant."

"Oh, I be that. Others vary."

"Greedy," she snapped.

He shrugged. " All men be greedy. Lies they speak if they say different. Some men are greedier than others. A few have simpler aims and take a direct path in getting what they desire."

And he wanted this woman. Nothing would stop him from claiming her.

"You come to our lands as thieves, rapists." Frustrated fury bubbled in her as she saw he took no umbrage at the insults she hurled at him. Still, he figured she found it easier to wield ire, a shield against other emotions he clearly provoked within her.

"I neither steal nor commit rape. There be no need." He flashed a smile, giving her a clue that there was little doubt his claim was truth. He stuck the shiny blade into the cheese, then held it out to her, almost beckoning her to come closer. "Would you like cheese, demoiselle ?"

She glared at him as if he presented a dead rat. He waited. From her reaction, he judged that she found his stillness almost as unsettling as the fact he refused to rise to her baiting slurs. After several blinks, he shrugged and carried the soft cheese to his mouth.

He enjoyed the play of emotions upon her face. Her eyes watched his slightest move, the weakening, the longing clear in her eyes. His body reacted, raw desire slamming into him with a force that was daunting. Never had any woman affected him so. Well, it little mattered she was Earl Hadrian's leman. She was his property now.

Realizing he was aware of her responses, she scoffed, "As I said... arrogant . Hordes of thin-waisted, English lasses toss themselves at your big feet, eh?"

He choked back the laugh wanting to burst forth. Breaking off a hunk of bread, he held it out to her. "Yea, I weary of stepping over their prostrate bodies."

He was not surprised she spurned this offering, too. Inwardly, he applauded her hackles of vanity over his calling her stout. He used the word precisely for that reason—to get a rise out of her Scots temper. He found it calming trading quips with his fool .

"Know you well the Lady Tamlyn?"

"In Alba we value rank little. Her people call her Tamlyn MacShane or Tamlyn of Glenrogha. She has no use for Sasunnach pretensions."

"Then you share her confidence?" He let his skepticism ride heavily in his tone.

Something resembling mischief flickered in her amber eyes. "Aye, I ken her, better than most."

"They say she be a bit long-in-the-tooth." He liked that her spurs never found purchase, yet in turn, she was so easily flustered. It gave him an upper hand.

Oddly, the power of his words slammed into her, and she sucked in a hard breath. "I do no' use your Norman tongue oft enough, but I take you to mean she be old, not her teeth seem a muckle length."

"Your French serves you well—as we both know." He lowered his lids partially, reckoning flaring in his mind. "Aye, 'tis age of which I speak, not condition of her teeth—provided she still has any in her head."

A frown curved her mouth. "And how old be the mighty firedrake of Challon?"

"Five-and-thirty, next Michaelmas. And I have all my teeth." He flashed them before biting the cheese.

" Och , the Dragon also has teeth a bit long."

"Yea, all the sharper for it, my fool . "

Raising his lids, he watched her. Some sour note was in her responses. His focus on her narrowed, trying to pick apart what was off, why she took offence at comments about the Countess Glenrogha. Outwardly, his appearance would be little more than a sleepy countenance to her. A few might comprehend his expression was anything but dispassionate. His brothers would. They would caution it as lethal—when Julian Challon was at his most dangerous. Generally, by that time, it was too late.

"So he comes northward to take a bite out of Alba?"

He settled back against the edge of another trunk, stretching out his long legs. In a careless pose, he crossed the black boots at the ankles, his gold spurs gleaming with the flicker from the brazier's flames. He noticed she stared at the black leathern chausses, how they hugged his thighs and rode tight on his hips. Julian contented himself with drinking the wine to hide his amusement over her appraisal of his body—and most interestingly his groin. He was pleased how he affected her.

"Edward means to subdue the Scots. He shall."

She knew he had caught her watching him, so to cover she began the restless pacing again. "Ages ago, Merlin's prophecy foretold of Le Roi Coveytous—the Covetous King. To protect this land, the mage set an ancient Spell of Making to bring defeat upon this king's head."

He scoffed condescension, "Mere fables."

"And was it not spake that your king was in attendance at Glastonbury, nearly a score years past for re-interment before high altar of the bodies of Arthur and his queen?"

"Aye, Edward was there, paying homage to hanks of hair and a few bones. Fine example of men bending fables to further pale aims. The abbey faced crumbling to ruins, their coffers empty since their flock strayed back to the Auld Ways . Convenient discovery of the bodies reversed that. As for the Plantagenet's presence—he was there to press claim he be the right and true king, heir to these isles, by blood of Arthur that flows through his veins."

"Another fable."

Lifting the chalice, he smiled and nodded. "Precisely, my fool . Present I was for the ceremony, in all its pomp and splendor. Old Arthur likely rolled in his real grave due to all the self-serving in his name that day. At re-interment, Edward proclaimed he is Arthur's heir by direct line. Shall the ancient warrior-king and his all-powerful wizard rise and be counted alongside the Plantagenet?"

"Twisted logics from a king's champion— his creature ." She prodded with the slurs, determined to tweak his nose . "Longshanks covets all he views and in following that overreaching trail he shall find Merlin's prophecy awaiting."

"You might be interested to learn that the Welsh boast four score years passing Merlin's prophesy rose to bring about the downfall of Le Roi Coveytous —King John, Edward's grandsire." He grinned at her lack of a comeback. "'Tis the nature of Plantagenets to covet. They covet as they breathe. They know no other way. 'Tis the way kingdoms are forged."

"So boasts a man who cleaves to the power of sword and lance."

He almost laughed at her fiery resolve. "Females hold little understandings of the realities of warfare."

"Oh, aye, we just see to the holdings whilst you males traipse off to The Holy Land , fighting an enemy we women merely hear tales about. No Scotswoman e'er faced rape at the hands of those barbarians. Same claim cannot be boasted by the English."

"Wouldst you see The Holy Land in the foreign devils' keeping?"

"Mere fables to me. You Knights of the Sword rush to standard of king and kirk. You leave pitiful, inferior females behind to keep the wolves from the gates, nurse the sick, and see to the harvest so we do not starve. We collect rents, sort out clan disputes, rule law, and hang reiving scum. When you highborn knights return from your grand fine adventures, you weary of hearthside. Then, you create wars upon our isles. We lasses needs must fear for our lives, facing slaughter―or worse, left with the seed of the vile enemy growing within our bodies. Aye, you be right, my Lord Challon. We ken naught of weighty male matters."

Julian's eyes raked over this unusual woman. Surprisingly, he enjoyed this banter, even the upbraiding of his supposed masculine superiority. Never had he spoken with any female on subjects of such consequence, never once witnessed one standing toe-to-toe with a man, willing to argue and hold her ground.

Most would be fearful to repeat these beliefs since the Church could and would prosecute the words as heresy. Women were for serving, bedsport to relieve male humors and for breeding heirs. The clergy still debated if females were even endowed with souls. Men, 'twas held, found equals only amongst other men. Women weakened them, lured them into temptation. Yet, here he sat relishing this spirited repartee with his fool and eager for her next taunts, enchanted by her vibrant face that expressed her every thought.

"So, they permit the daughters of the clans to work their tongues."

She snapped, "Aye, they do, they have, and they shall."

"Do they not also beat their women?" His raised brows arched to add emphasis to the rejoinder. He found himself liking her, admiring her. Her quicksilver shifts in moods were intriguing. Taking a deep breath, he suddenly had a sense that coming to Glenrogha was the best thing that had happened to him in a long dark year.

"Few e'er raise hand to me. No husband shall, but once. In Alba, he must answer to her clan, else some night he might waken to a sgian dubh buried in his wicked heart."

"A black knife for a black heart? Hmm?" He raised the cup in mock salute. "Same fate which befell the Lady Rowanne's lord husband?"

Her mouth compressed in censure. "Stories carried afar by silly nodcock bards before fireside, willing to say aught for coin."

"Tales provide a diverting way to pass long dark nights. They say winter nights are near endless in this heathen land, so one would need diversions ."

"Heathen? Oh, aye. Here the Auld Ones whisper e'er so softly from shadow and mist."

Her gold eyes took on a feline cast, sending a shiver up Julian's spine though he pretended to ignore the reaction. Little triggered fear in Julian Challon. No female― even if she possessed eyes of a cat ―would do so either. "Then, a cowardly lot they be, forsaking their children in their dark hour...same as Arthur sleeps undisturbed in a cave near Alderley Edge. No supernatural being, be it blue meagre hag or swart faery, no divine intervention from On-High changes our fates, my fool."

"Not even your Christian One True God?"

He exhaled, exhausted. "Not Him especial. He must be a warrior-god, if He takes a role a'tall."

The woman batted her eyes, clearly witnessing the change that must show on his countenance, a reflection of his bone deep fatigue, a weariness of the mind as much as of the flesh. Characteristics of a man, not a legend. That seemed to startle her.

"Must I continue to address you by that silly appellation?" he inquired. "Since we have shared thoughts on many things, shall you not tell me your name?"

"Why should you care? Am I not just part of Glenrogha you seek to take and to hold?" She trembled, despite the outward attempt at defiance.

To take and to hold . Yes, Julian would love to do those things to her and more. So much more. He would bury himself so deep in her woman's warmth that she might dispel the unyielding cold plaguing his warrior's soul.

He would lie upon a sunny hill with this fey lass, feel the kiss of the summer sun as he lazily stroked her luscious body. Listen to the serenades of sea gulls, peewits and whelping curlews. Watch his growing children chase butterflies and kittens. Simplistic tableaux of life, oft thought of little consequence to a veteran knight, now filled his being with a gnawing insatiable hunger.

Julian wished for a home. He desired a wife and children... a son. He longed to sit by fireside whilst his arms surrounded his woman, as she leaned back against his chest. He wanted—no needed —peace.

And in those tranquil visions, Julian saw himself holding the woman staring at him with ancient amber eyes. He blinked several times, disturbed how vividly he saw this.

His mental malaise was staggering. He ate due to his body sickened without nourishment, not because of hunger. Food tasted like wormwood. He slept what few tormented hours he could for night fell, and there was little else to soothe his endless restlessness.

His lust demanded periodic release—just another physical function, bringing only fleeting gratification. Hasty, dispassionate couplings that left him empty. Hot throes of green youth no longer ruled, barely more than faint remembrances, and dimmed with each year's passing. Ofttimes, Julian wished to close his eyes and never wake up.

So much of his life, his soul , had been forfeit for niggardly gain, less now he had drawn Edward's enmity. This pocket of the Highlands might be pagan, untamed. Even so, the moody, near forgotten valley would be his last bastion. If Julian found no peace here, some important part of him would be forevermore lost, leaving in its wake naught but the cruel, hard-bitten warrior. A man who witnessed scores of battles, endless scorched villages, and far too many men staring up at him with cold, sightless eyes.

Edward had been right to send him away. The Black Dragon needed to slip into the mists of these Scottish hills, lick his wounds and hopefully heal. Find something in life worth living for. A reason to go on.

When she remained mute, refusing to reveal her name, Julian rose to his feet. "Then, my fool , the pallet of furs be at your pleasure. There are tasks I needs must sort out."

"Such as building siege-engines?"

Her eyes signaled bravado and resentment—a bad mix. Despite that, hidden in the gold depths were emotions calling to him with a witch's elemental craft. Emotions too new for him to name, feelings as ancient and enduring as these purple hills.

Almost echoes from voices of the past.

Shoving these queer, possessing notions aside, he straightened his spine and raised his chin in a condescending tilt. "Hardly, my fool. Glenrogha's defenses are feeble. The force so ill-trained, and half gutted since the Earl Hadrian, rallied both clans to his banner. I foresee no need for a waste of time and scarce timber. Matters should be settled anon."

She jolted. "Meaning?"

"By lightbreak my host shall enter the dun— with or without Tamlyn MacShane's consent."

"That you will never get."

Her haunting eyes signaled feral panic. Finely-honed warrior's instincts warned Julian that as soon as he was out of sight she would try to escape, possibly end in harm to herself.

" My fool indeed." He laughed softly. Raising the lid of a trunk, Julian removed two thin leather cords. "The Lady Lochshane received my word that you would come to no harm. I think you shall be less the distraction left not to your devices. Your wrists, hold them out."

" Och , obliging you are." Tamlyn backed up as he advanced, stalking her.

His grin was unrepentant, wicked. "I try. Come, I shan't harm you, my fool ." In that breath, he recognized he called her my fool and meant the stress of possession. The surge of ownership pulsed in his blood—and painfully in his loins. He was unsure when he began to regard this woman as his property. It just felt... right. "I simply wish you to stay where I put you."

"You do no' want me to slip away. Warn them in the fortress," she charged, skirting backward with trembling steps.

"Glenrogha knows we plan to attack shouldst they contest my right to enter. Come, my fool, trouble me no longer."

He pounced, grabbing her. Quick as a minx, she dodged. His fingers caught the sark's edge, the soft material tearing again. "Beg pardon. Surrender before more battles with the English have all your bountiful charms fully displayed. Not that I would voice plaint."

"Let go of my hands, Norman muc ."

"Back to calling me a pig, eh?" He jerked left in feint, then cat-quick to the right, trapping her. "Come, end this game."

Seizing her about the waist, his force carried them down. Half on the pallet, he pinned her with his solid weight. Hands freed, he manacled his fingers around her wrists, shoving them above her head, compelling her body to bow. He shifted, stretched until he was hips-against-hips. She snapped at him, trying to sink her teeth into his flesh, but Julian bore down with his warrior's strength, so it was impossible for her to catch a breath. She had to weaken. There was nothing else she could do, her surrender a foregone conclusion.

The male urge to dominate surged, the singeing heat washing through his muscles to congeal painfully in his groin. He wanted her. Agonizingly. Possibly, as he never wanted any woman. 'Twas exhilarating to experience such raw tumultuous desire after endless months of apathy.

"Fine set of long teeth you possess, my fool . Much like my destrier," he taunted, laughing. By damn, it felt so good to laugh again . "He bites, too."

"You compare me to your bloody horse?"

"You called me a worm and a pig. Besides, I happen to be quite fond of that horse. Go ahead, bite me. I shall bite back." Julian teased, easily countering with just enough exertion to keep her pinned. "Ah, demoiselle , keep up that wiggling. I enjoy the feel."

She stilled, eyes wide.

His gaze traveled down her body and gradually returned to her face. The line of her jaw was squarish, stubborn, though not so strong as to detract from the earthy sensuality. The effect was softened by the faint cleft in her chin. Her mouth was small, though the lips were full and shaped with high double peaks. A mouth begging for kisses. Her brows and lashes, nearly as dark as his own, provided a striking complement to her tawny coloring.

But it was the eyes that reached into him, held him with their witch's fire. They demanded a response from him. He drew in a measured breath, trying to slow his thundering heart. Everything about this she-cat called to him to take her, resonated with a violence within him, the likes he had not experienced in so long. Mayhap never. More so, he sensed she possessed the ability, the art to reach him, affect him, change him in ways he scarcely began to identify.

Julian's sexual appetites were animalistic, strong. Only of late, his soul cried out in indefinable hunger, yearning for more.

So desperate for something more .

She remained motionless, eyes searching his warily, questioning. Frightened, yet intrigued. She was drawn against will, as her body felt the call of instincts older than the dawn of time. He saw it.

His nostrils flared, picking up her heady female scent. A witch's potion. His heart lurched hard against his ribs, sending his blood thundering. He lowered his head to hers, his lips brushing the curve of her neck where her blood throbbed strong. Reveling in the sensations, nearly frightened by its intensity, he lifted his head to watch her reaction.

She sucked in and held it. The pounding of her heart thudded erratically against his chest, vibrating her body.

To Julian, she smelled of spring grasses, sea-kissed Highland mists and lavender. So clean, so soft, her skin was not pale, but shimmered with a soup?on of golden faerydust. It invited a man's caresses, his lingering strokes. He nibbled on her unstable pulse. It thrummed under his mouth. He tasted a tangible radiance... as if he drank her very life-essence . The aura spread through him, burned him, overwhelming his senses.

In gentle nips, his teeth traced the column of her throat. He fought the spinning—fought and reveled in the exhilaration. Careful not to bear down against the faint reddening, where one of his knights had slapped her, he savored the sweet, piquant taste of her skin .

For an instant, outrage over her treatment reared its head. Savage possessiveness declared this woman belonged to him and none tother had right to touch her. An all-consuming lust supplanted such thoughts.

His mouth hovered over hers, catching her warm breath as though he needed it to survive. Mayhap he did. Slowly, he fit their lips together. So perfect...so right.

The world spun as whirling leaves in an autumnal storm.

She did not resist him. Breaking the kiss, Julian gasped for air. His eyes searched hers before closing to taste her once more. Slanting his head for a better angle, he pressed. Hungry. Deepening the contact, issuing the primitive male demand for her submission.

Control shattered as the kisses went on. And on. He heard a low moan, felt it through his skin and every drop of blood. Even so, he was unsure whether the sound emanated from her or him.

Kissing was foreplay, youthful preliminaries in which Julian had rarely indulged or enjoyed. Until now. His body usually pushed for its urgent male release and had little patience for fumblings of his Springtide. Lost to the lure of this pagan Scot, he wanted the kisses to last forever. Never had he experienced such searing satisfaction through the innocent sampling of a woman's mouth.

His tongue slid along her lips, seeking, near begging entrance to her honeyed warmth. The tip touched the sharp teeth, outlining their edge. He did naught to compel her to open for him. He wanted― no needed ―her to share the turbulent, windswept desires raging in him. She answered. Soft, sweet lips moved under his, matching, mimicking his lead. Finally, she acquiesced, allowing his tongue to dart into her.

He released her wrists, his left hand slid down the back of her head, fisting in the dark, gold tresses. The other palm spread over her shoulder, tugging the thin wool of the sark down. Vexed the knotted drawstring prevented him from pulling it farther unless he tore it, he settled for cupping his fingers to cover her fullness.

Proclaiming the depth of her arousal, her nipple thrust against his palm. How he wished to close his mouth upon her supple flesh and suck hard, telling her of his need, coax her to join him in the madness. He craved to see her arch to him with twin hunger and burning passions. Her body shifted, conforming to his; solid planes and rounded softness met and merged to perfection. Julian doubted she was even aware that her arms snaked around his neck, or her legs parted so he could push his thigh betwixt them, riding high against the apex of her female heat.

Yea, this Scots lass was molded for a man's pleasure. His pleasure.

God's blood, she drove him to folly, the quickening drowning all reason. Was she a witch to bind his senses, ensorcel him with only simple kisses? Sweet, honey-mead kisses. His hand slid into the rip in the sark. Scent of her arousal clouded his brain. She moaned in shaky need as the pad of his thumb circled the distended nipple.

Yea, his fool followed the dance. Her breathing was hoarse, as her thighs locked hard about his, gripping with amazing strength, near desperation. Shudders ripped through them both, echoing and re-echoing as their pulses beat as one.

It was more than he had dared hope...everything for which he could dream .

Never, even in agonizing throes of hot youth, had the primal urge to mate torn through him, clawed at him with such compulsion. As if he did not take this woman he would expire from the yearning. Exquisite, voracious magic encircled him.

Suffocated him. Terrified him.

Witch's spell or not he would take her, possess her—own her. It was not his intent when he kissed her. Fires of damnation! He never planned to kiss the wench! It just… happened . Only, nothing on this green earth would deter him from joining his body to hers with the most primitive, raw, elemental hunger.

"Julian, Destain wishes to know―" The man entering the tent pulled up short. "Beg pardon." Just as quickly, he ducked back out.

They jerked apart, staring at each other, barely able to draw breath, let alone form coherent thought and speak. They were too saturated with the heavy sensual haze.

Julian's hands shook as he shoved away from this Highland enchantress. By the Black Rood, never before had he lost sense-of-self and where he was over a female. Dark witchery!

He had to get far from her, clear his befuddled mind of her pagan magic—tricks to ensnare a man's soul and weaken him. He was the Black Dragon of Challon, and no woman brought him to his knees!

Hands jerking in faint tremors, he searched for the narrow strips of leather, resenting his lack of control because of her. Before she thought to struggle, he bound her wrists and then her ankles, leaving the witch trussed up on the pile of furs.

At the opening of the tent, Julian paused to glance back. Not once had he believed fables about faery queens, witches or Cait Sidhe, nor the mysterious enchantments they wove around mortal men. Yet that, and only that, could account for what possessed his body, banished his mind. He still fought against the siren's call, evoking the pagan pulse in his boiling, traitorous blood.

His mouth compressed into a frown as he stared down at his trembling hands...rough hands, calloused hands coming from years of wielding a sword. Hands of a veteran warrior, the Black Dragon of Challon. A man once the king's champion. Hands suddenly made weak by a mere woman.

In that instant, he hated her as much as he wanted her.