Chapter Ten
Tha an sealgair no an sealg? Bi cinnteach a bheil thu a qui est?
(The hunter or the hunted? Be you sure which is which?)
— Auld Scots Saying
“Beg pardon, Lord Challon. Tides the Black Dragon has a twin brother failed to reach Lyonglen.” Aithinne pushed the lie over her teeth, hoping it strong enough to guise her shock at facing the one man in the whole land she never expected to meet again.
Willing her feet to remain plastered to the stone floor, she steeled herself not to flinch as Damian St. Giles slowly strode the length of the room to reach her. He moved with a regal grace, a warrior comfortable with power and command. Likely one used to getting his way in all. That sort of self-value often led to an edge of arrogance in a man, and this air touched RavenHawke’s mien. Heart pounding, it slammed with a bruising force against her ribcage, even so, she had to stand, a timid rabbit while this predator moved in for the kill.
Her breath hitched as he drew closer, seeing the haunted, gaunt appearance to his arresting countenance. Shadows tinged the skin under his eyes as if he had not eaten well or slept, consequences of watching Tamlyn marry his cousin, she presumed. Aithinne sensed great honor within this man, as well, his respect and devotion to Lord Challon were clear to her. Thus, the conflicting emotions surely must be tearing him apart. Her heart squeezed, kenning this man was hurting inside, aware she could do naught to ease his grief.
The pressure increased in her chest as she stared at Damian St. Giles. Flames of desire flickered within her, despite the overwhelming panic forged by his dominating presence. So handsome, he wore a dark blue surcoat over the mail shirt, a simple braided leather baldric about his hips, and like Challon, had leathern hose instead of the ones of mail. Frozen by fear she remained still, barely breathing, as his eyes roamed over her features and then down to her fist clutching the green garnet amulet suspended between her breasts.
Veiling his thoughts with a sweep of his long black lashes, he reached out and gently took her hand from where it rested next to her heart. Uncurling her fingers from around the dark green stone, he raised them to his lips, then paused. Those pale eyes lashed into her soul, and stripped away all protection against him. Their force sent a dread slithering through her being, once more concern arose. Had the spells and potions done their mission? Finally, with a half-smile, St. Giles brushed his lips over her knuckles.
Since the potion and Oona’s spelling were crafted to rob all memories of his time with her, for him, this was the first chance he had to study her in comparison with Tamlyn. A slight quiver wracked her body as she fought not to burst into tears, his unforgettable eyes almost seeming to count each bloody freckle on her nose.
Finally, he inclined in a faint bow. “Damian St. Giles, Lord RavenHawke, your obedient servant, my lady. I am not Challon’s twin, not even his brother, but merely a humble cousin.”
Perceptive, the Dragon lifted his brow. “You have met before?”
The question was addressed to Damian, but Aithinne afforded him no chance to answer. “Nay, my lord. Had I ever met two such handsome men, alike enough to be brothers, I wouldst surely recall. Men such as you are hard for a woman to forget.”
She tried to retract her hand, only the vexing man held firm, refusing to let go. Aithinne bestowed an aloof smile upon RavenHawke, then tugged against his grip again. His fingers tightened, the incisive eyes alive with challenge. Nervous, wondering what Lord Challon made of his cousin’s strange behavior, her eyes shifted to Tamlyn’s husband.
“Damian, release the Lady Aithinne’s hand,” Julian Challon advised softly. “You may continue becoming acquainted later, after I settle concerns which brought us to Lyonglen.”
St. Giles gave a faint nod. “’Til then, my lady. My breath is held in anticipation.”
Instead of releasing her hand, he replaced it against her heart, then stepped back.
A frisson crawled up her spine. Part dread. Part her body’s traitorous response to him.
“Lady Aithinne, if you would be so kind to send for the baron. We must speak with him upon pressing business. We carry a missive from King Edward.”
Challon’s tone was calm, but coldness spread through her blood, her worst fears becoming reality. Here the lies start. She hoped she was mummer enough to lend believability to her falsehoods. Her throat constricted, but she forced out the words.
“It is with respect, Lord Challon, that I must decline this request. Lyonglen be unwell.”
Challon nodded, the air of impatience upon him once more. “We heard stories of his being ill―why he failed to rise to Balliol’s standard or Edward’s. Later, tales tother were carried across the countryside about his marriage. Whilst I regret he ails, we still must meet with him― forthwith―upon matters most urgent.”
She clutched the amulet hanging from the chain about her neck, squeezing it so tightly it cut into her palm. The pressure warned, ease the grip, but she could not relax her fingers. If she did, she might start shaking and never stop. A large stone of green garnet―the same gem reputed to adorn the Holy Grail―it focused her powers and gave her strength to face this ordeal. Striving for an air of regal detachment, she forced a composed demeanor.
“’Tis not possible, Lord Challon. I regret your journey from Glenrogha was made for naught.” Aithinne found pride her voice managed to convey the right note of finality.
Challon’s eyes narrowed, obviously unused to anyone failing to obey his command. “Lady Aithinne, I have spent the past two fortnights dealing with women of Clan Ogilvie, so I should not hold surprise at your refusing to follow my charge. Methinks you share more in common with my lady wife than a few physical traits.”
The Dragon took several paces toward her, no doubt in Aithinne’s mind done to browbeat her with the force of his redoubtable presence. Those dark green eyes had the power to rip away her mind’s defenses, lay bare her every thought. Aithinne gnawed on her lower lip, studying this formidable man for several breaths. A dark fire burned in this warrior, an ancient fire, one that burned brighter than any man she ever encountered. Bloody discomforting. Never had she seen a man surrounded by such a dark, arcane aura.
Aithinne was relieved Julian Challon had wed her cousin Tamlyn, and Edward had not sent this warrior to Glen Eallach to claim the holdings and her. While sinfully attractive, this man was frightening. Aithinne stood in dread of this mighty Black Dragon, so aptly named. Only fools and blind men would not. And whilst at times she felt the fool, she was not blind to the power of Tamlyn’s mate. Unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she looked away―had to for fear of him scrying all her lies.
Her eyes collided with St. Giles’s enthralling stare, and suddenly his daunting cousin vanished from her thoughts. As imposing a figure as Julian Challon cut, it was Damian who drew her. Odd, upon first laying eyes upon both men, she had been struck by their likeness. Now, as she stood so close, that similarity lost the impact; it was their differences that held her spellbound.
Her body, her soul, her heart were ensorcelled by Damian St. Giles, forevermore bound to this dark warrior.
“Lady Aithinne, you fail to understand the situation. I am not asking to see Lord Lyonglen―I demand it. Edward made me overlord of Glen Eallach, as such, my orders shall be obeyed in all.”
“All of Glen Eallach?” She barely could speak the reply.
He inclined his head. “All―including Coinnleir Wood, which is what I believe you ask.”
She sucked in a deep breath, her jaw clenching against the rising fury. “Edward has no rights here. He be no king of the Scots. My titles and lands pass to me through ancient charter through Clan Ogilvie. Right of Line guarantees thusly―”
“Aye, my ears are fair numb with listening about your Pictish ways,” he dismissed with impatience. “I married an Ogilvie heiress, eh? Edward is Lord Paramount of Scotland. His commands become law by suzerainty. The Scots army is broken. All Scottish nobles are either dead or made prisoner to the Plantagenet.”
“Or their loyalty is bought by English gold and estates,” she recklessly sneered. “Despite Edward Longshanks’s thoughts on the matter Coinnleir Wood be mine.”
Challon offered her a fleeting smile. “Mistake this not, my lady. I hold both glens through charter from Edward. There is no changing this. Your cousin––my lady––has come to terms with these matters, and I believe she does not find her lot in life such a hardship. Enough talk. I will see Lyonglen―now.”
Aithinne tried to swallow, but could not. Her throat was too dry. She struggled to keep her attention on Lord Challon, but her eyes kept straying to Damian.
She steadied herself for the coming confrontation. “I am sorry, Lord Challon, you may not see Lyonglen. He be ill…gravely ill.”
Damian’s expression narrowed on her. “How ill?”
“Too ill to receive anyone. If you will explain the situation to me, I will try to convey it so that he understands. I make no promises, mind.” A reasonable offer considering she was unsure just how much a man over two months in his grave would listen.
“Lady Aithinne, I shall see Lyonglen. Now,” Challon insisted.
Aithinne took a step back, and glanced to Damian, but saw his reflection was as implacable. She hoped they would accept her excuse and go away without her having to drag out her arsenal of lies before them. The more she told them, the less they sounded believable even to her. Without thought she backed up a step, then caught her cowardly retreat and straightened her spine. “I am Lady Lyonglen. I deal with all matters concerning the holding.”
“Beg pardon?” Challon frowned, then glanced to Damian. “I understood you are lady of Coinnleir Wood―Lyonglen’s ward, according to Tamlyn. You state you are now the Baroness Lyonglen as well?”
“Aye. Lyonglen’s pennon does not fly from the rampart and our gates remain closed to all comers. I only permitted entrance to you and your men because you are now kinsman through marriage. My lo…rd hus…band…feels unwell and wishes no visitors.”
Damian’s head jerked back, then he roared the question―the accusation―at her. “Husband?” This time she did back up as he started toward her, looking as if he could strangle her. Would enjoy strangling her! “You are my grandmother?”
Aithinne gaped. Surely, the man was mad. Utterly mad. Odd, she did not note the taint of lunacy before. Of course, with the spells and potions she had not witnessed him in a normal way. “You…you…think you are Lyonglen’s grandson?” Shaking her head, she reeled. “Nay, my guard―hus…band had no children by his f-fi-first wife. Well, actually there was a child, a daughter―”
“My mother,” he snapped.
Aithinne knew she must look a dolt, but she could not stop her head from going side-to-side in denial. “She died years ago…nearly two score passing…same time as his lady wife, a dreadful fever that took many of Glen Eallach’s people.”
“My grandmother died of the wasting sickness. My mother recovered and lived. When she married my father––a Norman––Lyonglen disinherited her. He swore her name would be forevermore blotted from his life. Seems he kept that vow well.”
“But…but...” Heat flooded Aithinne’s face and the hall swirled about her as the enormity of his words hit her mind.
“I am the grandson of Gilchrest Fraser, Baron Lyonglen. Due to his age and infirmity, and in honor of their friendship, Edward Longshanks sends me to assume control of Lyonglen. I was granted charter here and am now the new baron of Glen Eallach. He felt it would be––”
“Noooo!” Aithinne grabbed the back of the lord’s chair and used it as a crutch to stay standing. The whole bloody world was pressing in on her. She had to suck air deeply to keep from tossing up the small amount of food in her stomach.
As if the enormity of RavenHawke’s announcement was not enough to swallow, a noise arose at the doorway leading to the kitchen. A monster comprised of three heads, six legs and six flaying arms tried to shove through the doorway.
“A beastie so terrible that Nessie would flee,” Aithinne moaned.
RavenHawke and Challon swung around to face the threat, their hand-and-a-half swords unsheathed and in their grips. Without word, they had moved to a position of protection before Aithinne, their backs to the other, showing they had fought in this manner many times before.
In mêlée fashion, the three young men tumbled into the room and then at the feet of the two imposing warriors. Finally aware of the situation, they glanced up at the Dragons of Challon, and for the first time comprehended the error in their entrance. Mouths open in shock, their eyes full of awe traveled up the warriors’ long bodies to the gleaming swords raised in a position to strike.
On their heels Einar came running in. Breathless, he fell to his knees before Aithinne and slammed his fist to his chest, then he intoned in his deep voice, “Beg pardon, Princess, they would not listen. You must come. There be men at the gates!”
Aithinne cringed, fearing even the strongest spells and Oona’s dark potions would fail to blot out the memories of three lackwits who looked alike, and one equally distinctive moving mountain of a giant who called her Princess. “Can this day get any worse?” she muttered under her breath.
Damian rotated around to glower at Aithinne. One black brow arched. “Princess?”
“Och, the poor man be barmy.” She tried to smile as she motioned for Einar to rise, whilst she moved to stand before her brothers. When he failed to do so, her foot reached out and surreptitiously kicked the Viking. Aithinne ignored RavenHawke’s challenge, and focused her attention on her brothers. “More men? Pray who comes now to disrupt Lyonglen’s peace?”
Deward looked at her as he struggled to rise. “Aithinne, Dinsmore―”
“Not again!” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “You know my orders concerning that knave––”
“Nay, Princess.” Einar informed her, “This time he demands entrance, says he comes on the command of Edward Longshanks. By the English King’s leave, we must open the gates and permit him to enter and to see Lyonglen.”
Deward worried, “What shall we do?”
At the tides Dinsmore Campbell came, bearing orders from the English king, Challon and RavenHawke exchanged silent questions. Damian gave a faint shake of his head, clearly telling his cousin he failed to believe Edward had sent Dinsmore Campbell here.
A tightness filled Aithinne’s chest as she stared at RavenHawke, regretting so many things. Only it was too late. Way too late. Girding herself for the coming storm, she summoned the image of her cousin, Raven, to her mind and tried to wrap the same mien of regal coolness about her. She did not know what sort of bluff Campbell was putting forth, but there was only one way she could answer it.
“My lord h-husband is too unwell to receive men plying their pale aims…”
Hugh, straightening his clothing, gave Lewis’s ribs the point of his elbow. “But, Sister, Dunny Dinsmore––”
For the first time, Lord Challon actually smiled. Lowering his sword, he laughed. “Campbell’s new name is rather fitting.” His lack of respect for the man was clear in his words.
He turned to Damian. “You rule here now. What say you? Shall the new Lord Lyonglen receive this pretender?”
The muscles in RavenHawke’s jaw flexed, as he scowled at Aithinne. “Would your lord husband––”
Lewis blurted out, “Oh, but he’s not really her hus––”
Both Deward and Hugh clamped a hand over Lewis’s mouth stopping him from revealing that Aithinne had never married Gilchrest Fraser. Dizzy, fighting nausea, Aithinne could hardly concentrate on the new developments, let alone weigh their possible repercussions.
“Not really what, Princess?” Damian moved closer, his eyes noting her wan complexion.
She swallowed hard, backing up steps as St. Giles closed the space between them. “Not…really…really…well enough…”
Seeking aid to escape the man nearly stalking her around the end of the lord’s table, she looked to Lord Challon. His expression reflected concern for her appearance as well. “Lady Aithinne, are you in poor health? You mention Lyonglen ailing. Are you so sorely afflicted, too?”
Aithinne yanked the lady’s chair before her, a shield to stop St. Giles. She glanced from the angry man back to the Dragon. “I have been…distressed by matters of late, my lord.”
“My lady!” The Captain of the Guard hurried in. “Beg pardon, but the Campbell yells if we do no’ open the gates and permit entrance, he shall battle his way in. He has a large force with him and swears he carries the might of the English king. I have ordered the curtain wall manned and all are at ready. What shall we do? ’Tis clear he means to attack.”
“Attack?” Aithinne gasped. “Why––”
She knew why. Dinsmore was suspicious about Lyonglen. No one had seen him for months. Rumors of his illness had been impossible to contain after the Scots’ King, John Balliol, raised his standard. A runner had come with word, demanding Gilchrest should rise to John’s call and muster the garrison of men at Lyonglen. She had to give a reason why her guardian was unable to join the Scottish forces.
She feared giving no valid reason would make it appear he backed the English. That would leave Glen Eallach vulnerable to the Comyns to seize the holdings they had long coveted, punishment for Lyonglen appearing to support Longshanks. Had they not already done the same to Clan Bruce? Pressed and with few options, she had at first sent forth word that her guardian was too ill to lead his men for the Scottish Army. What a mistake! At tides the elderly man was not in good health, both Phelan and Dinsmore came sniffing around, wanting to know just how ill the man was.
She knew both men saw Gilchrest’s weakness as the opportunity they had waited for. Both had tried to gain entrance to Lyonglen, demanding to meet with the baron on urgent matters. Knaves, the lot of them! They only wanted to get in so they could seize her. Both had bragged, years before, that they would take Aithinne and force her to the marriage bed, their arrogant boast reaching her ears.
With this fate looming before her, Gilchrest sadly drew his final, ragged breath as the first Peacock butterfly came with the spring. His last wish had been for her to keep Lyonglen safe, away from both the Campbells and the Comyns, his final words, “Seek the way of the raven.” No other choice, she had concocted the marriage.
At four and a score, she despaired she would ever find a man she wanted to wed. She liked being lady of her holdings––if arrogant, greedy men would just leave her alone! With the marriage, she could continue to control Lyonglen. The plans formed and her course set, doubts immediately intruded with word of the English crossing the borders.
Aithinne knew Edward Longshanks, the most ruthless king to ever sit on the English throne, wanted to possess Scotland―and would. Was not his stranglehold on Wales and Ireland clear as to the fate that lies before the Scots? Edward would marry her off as a prize to a noble loyal to him. Howbeit, if she were to get with child and claim the holdings as his birthright, maybe Edward would grant her leave to remain in Glen Eallach without the monarch forcing her into a loveless marriage.
RavenHawke caught hold of the chair’s arms, lifted it and used it to back her against the table, pinning her there, so she could not continue her retreat from him.
“Now, Princess, time for some truths from you―though I am coming to see you are unfamiliar with the notion.”
The pale green-gray eyes bore into hers, holding her in thrall to where she could not look away. All about her receded to near shadow as she could only see him. Images of their time together, his hands upon her breasts, his mouth on hers. Desire twisted within her. The wanting a knife to her insides. She wondered what he thought about her, if his body recalled what his mind could not.
The fey eyes watched her, undressed her body in front of him, before moving back to lock gazes once more. Then he stripped her mind. Oddly, he said not a word, just watched her. The anger slowly shifted to a questioning, then surprise.
The long black lashes flew wide and Damian St. Giles uttered, “He is dead.”
Panic surged within Aithinne. She had never run into a male with such powers. There was little doubt this man had been touched by the blood of the Sidhe. She had pondered this―feared this―before, only it made more sense now Aithinne knew his mother had been Scottish.
Made more sense…and more treacherous.