Chapter Thirteen
Then like iron in strong fire;
But hold me fast, let me not go,
Then you'll have your desire.
— The Ballad of Tam Lin
Damian fell crossways on the plane of the bed, Aithinne half under him. He relished the feel of pinning her with his weight, surrendered to the animalistic mating instincts surging in his blood, controlling his actions. The lightning’s white brilliance flooded the room through the narrow window, bathed Aithinne’s enchanting beauty with its eerie glow. Driving him to madness. Damian stared, ensorcelled by this pagan goddess offered up, half-naked before his hungry eyes. Her full breasts were so pale, the nipples tight and jutting. Every aspect of all his dreams conjured to life.
Now this moment was here, that he knew she was real, he was suddenly scared spitless. Only Damian St. Giles was never one to back away from a challenge.
Threads of déjà vu wove through this instant in time, echoes of dreams which had haunted his life, surfaced in his mind, overlaying each touch, each sensation. Yet it seemed more than mere visions. These feelings seemed rooted in reality, as if he had actually lain with her before. In a manner of familiarity only lovers possess, his body seemed to know hers, what touch made her gasp, what brought a sigh to her lips.
He had not intended to push the situation to this end. His mood perverse, he merely set out to provoke her, bring her to heel. The need to possess this woman, to mark her as his, was a demon riding him with spurs, driving him to treat her in a fashion not worthy of a lady highborn. Rules, manners, and expected codes of conduct, simply went to blue blazes when balanced with his primeval need to claim her. At this point, all the questions hovering around her, even conventions of God and king mattered little. He would do what he must to own her.
He took her mouth, gently at first, basking in the pounding she set loose in his blood, then savagely, kissing her like a drowning man…and only she could offer him salvation. He smiled in the kiss as her fingers bit into the muscles of his arms, hanging on. Precisely the reaction he wanted from her.
In the morning he would face the damnable riddles of Aithinne’s life, her lies, decide some immediate course of action. This night, he needed to be close to her, feel his flesh against hers, taste her, hold her, be inside her. Before anything else intruded upon their world, he was determined to bind Aithinne to him, insure she knew they belonged together no matter what.
Brand her so she wouldst never allow another man touch her.
He chained kisses down her neck, as his hands moved on her, pushing the kirtle down over her hips. She shivered. He felt the small frisson crawl over her skin, under his mouth. He savored it. He desperately wanted to draw this out, revel in every magical moment, only the need to mate thundered through his body, exorcising control and any hope of reason.
Her breath sucked in on a sharp inhale as he glided his hands up, cupping the weight of her breasts. His thumbs brushed circles around her sandy-colored areolas, then across the stiff peaks of her nipples, protruding more with each stroke. Her body was so quick to react. Aithinne gave herself up to him, open to all he would show her. His groin cramped in a surge of white-hot need when he took one breast into his mouth, drawing hard, laving his tongue against the tiny bud.
Pulling back to gasp for air, he muttered, “Responsive wench,” as his thumb circled the ruched nipple wet from where his mouth had been.
Her raspy sigh of delight empowered him. As she closed her eyes, he stopped toying, took the nub between his finger and thumb and gave it a light pinch, then rolled it. Her hips bucked against him, but not in pain. Too lost to the sensations vibrating in her blood, he led her along the razor-edge of desire, pushed her arousal another notch higher.
He raised up slightly to unlace the front of his breeches, then grinned as her shaking hands eagerly helped him slide them and his braies off his tensed hips. Again, the thought intruded that she was too keen, her movements too sure, though not in the practiced art of a wanton, merely in the manner of a woman who holds secret knowledge of how to pleasure her man. More questions, but one that faded when his hands took a hold of her rounded hips.
Aithinne drew a ragged breath as he glided over her body, his mouth catching the sensitive lobe of her ear. He sucked on it, his tongue swirled around it, teasing, tormenting, whilst his knee pushed between her soft thighs, opening her for his blunt invasion. Her body bowed against him, feeding the fire of wanting within him until his insides twisted. Need for this woman was devastating. Humbling.
He was claiming her, in the most elemental way. Only as he stared into the amber eyes, with the ring of green flecks, he suddenly understood it was she who was claiming his heart, his soul. The coming together was meant to be, foretold in his visions. The longing he felt for Aithinne went deeper than the flesh, reached to his timeless soul, touching him in a shattering way as no woman had before. The way no woman ever would.
Only Aithinne.
The minx was a liar, he was certain of it. A smile crossing his lips and felt every measure the predator. He would ferret out the truths from her, expose all her darkest secrets and take his own time in doing it.
He wanted to touch her. His hand snaked up the inside of her silken thigh, brushed over her soft nest of curls, nearly growling as his finger slid into the liquid heat. Her narrow channel was tight, but accepted his finger as he delved deep into that scalding heat, then her inner walls clenched around it, wanting the friction. She made a raspy sound in the back of her throat that sent a shudder through his tensed muscles.
He relished his hard body pressing her into the mattress, wanted her soft hands clutching the arch of his spine as he entered her. Later, he planned to set her over him and show her how to control the pace. He wanted inside her now.
First…the thud of his heart slammed against her thigh as he glided downward. Then his mouth moved on her—her burning core. At first her hand shoved against his shoulder as if resisting, soon her sharp nails scored his flesh as she wanted more. Incapable of thought, he drowned in the blinding pleasure, the rough lap of his tongue against her moist tissue.
Gasping to draw air, she splintered into a thousand pieces coming against his mouth. Barely able to hold back, he pushed up on his knees and then into her with a solid, sure thrust, setting her to keen loudly, until he closed his mouth over hers, catching her pleasure and making it his. His pelvis slammed against hers, over and over, in a near violent force. Some shard of him worried he might terrify her with this force, until he felt her hips lift to meet his, their bodies moving apart and coming together in a beautiful dance of passion, of love.
Lightning streaked upward through his flesh, hitting his brain, and then magnifying downward to slam into his groin. His body bucked, his seed pouring into her welcoming heat. His possession complete. She was his. Would forevermore be his.
Barely able to remain conscious, he tried to keep his weight from crushing her by rolling to the side and pulling her against him.
“Mine,” he whispered the brand against her hair, feeling a peace he had never known before.
A peace of finally finding home.
♦◊♦
Before stepping from the fortress, Aithinne paused to pull up the deep hood of her mantle about her face. A shiver crawled over her skin, though it had little to do with the heavy morning fog that blanketed the whole area. The reaction came from having the distinct sensation she was being watched. Glancing around the bailey she saw no movement. It still too early for even the servants to be up and about, as she hoped. She wanted to be halfway to Coinnleir Wood before anyone noticed her absence.
Her stomach pitched again, but she suspected it was fear, not the morning sickness, coming due to the bairn. With a sigh, she hurried her steps toward the stable at the far end of the courtyard. As she entered, she hesitated to look back across the ballium, expecting to see someone tracking her actions.
“Guilt eating at my soul,” she muttered under her breath.
Several horses murmured throaty welcomes as she silently moved down the long row in the deep shadows. They came to hang their heads over their stall doors to get pats, Aithinne touching their cool velvety noses as she passed. The last stall―the biggest one―had one of the outsider double-doors open, letting in the gray light.
A tall, young man stood brushing a magnificent black destrier, whilst speaking in low soothing tones to the restless animal. She had to blink, as the beautiful lad bore the clear stamp of Challon in his features. Same black, wavy hair, same near perfection of face. She estimated him to be the age of a squire, still too young for knighthood, but soon another Challon male to steal the hearts of unwise lasses. She smiled.
As if sensing her presence, he glanced up and then nodded in deference. “Good morrow, my lady.”
She noted the stallion was the one the Dragon had ridden yesterday. “You serve Lord Challon?”
“Aye, I am his squire, Moffet. Is there aught I may aid you with? Shall I call the stableman?” He looked around, obviously finding it peculiar she was alone at this hour.
She offered a reassuring smile to the angelic lad. “Nay, do not bother to call him. I am merely going for my morning ride. Please do not let me take you from your chores, Squire Moffet.” She started to turn, but hesitated, curiosity biting. “How do you like serving the lady of Glenrogha?”
Tamlyn MacShane was a gentle woman in most matters. Only, Aithinne wondered if the gentleness would extend to her lord husband’s squire who was very obviously his bastard son. If the situations were reversed, she was not sure how she would react to her husband having a son by another woman. Still, the lad exuded such a charming openness on his expression that she could not help but warm to him. It was not his fault, the nature of his birth.
“The Lady Tamlyn is patient with me, kind.” The full lips parted in a smile, showing his reply came from the heart. “She fusses at my Lord…but in a nice way…you understand? He fusses back, too, but she just says yes, Challon or no, Challon and then does what she wants. The earl does not know what to do with her ways. He grins a lot though. ’Tis good to see my lord happy again. He has been sad for too long.”
Aithinne nodded, taking the bridle for her mount off the hook. “Sounds like our Tamlyn. I would be too fearful to say yes or no to the Dragon and then ignore his wishes. He seems a more fearsome warrior. These men of Challon warm to giving orders.”
“My lady,” Once again the young man looked around, “do you not take a guard with you on your ride? Lord Challon is concerned about the men wandering the hills since the great battle at Dunbar. Troops under the standard of RavenHawke were attacked. My father would not care that you plan to go out alone―”
“No, he would not.”
Aithinne jumped at St. Giles voice. He stood holding his sword in a casual grip, though she did not mistake the negligent mien as a reflection of his mood. Wearing naught but the leathern hose and a simple white sark, which rode loosely on his square shoulders; the wavy hair was rumpled. He looked half asleep―and fully angry. In a casual movement he leaned the sword, tip down, against the wooden wall.
St. Giles came forward with slow stalking steps, halting a few paces away from her and just stared at her with those pale unearthly eyes. Eyes that saw too much. Accusing eyes. “Going somewhere, Princess?”
Aithinne swallowed hard, wanting to back up, only there was no place to go as the stall’s door was at her back. She decided to bluff it through. “I ride each morn. I find it helps me face the day and all its problems.”
“I informed you last night I did not grant you leave to return to Coinnleir Wood, Princess. You go nowhere without it,” he stated with implacable force that set Aithinne’s temper to spiraling.
Sensing the dark undercurrent of emotions, Moffet glanced nervously to Aithinne and then back to Damian. “I told her you would not want her to go out alone―”
Aithinne gasped. “You said your father―”
“Aye,” he nodded, his green eyes shifting to St. Giles, almost wary as if he was not sure he should have spoken up.
She backed up a step, her spine bumping against the stall door. “Father?”
Damian glared at her coldly, almost daring her to react wrongly, then reached over and loosely hugged the boy’s shoulder. In an affectionate manner, he ruffled the back of Moffet’s hair. “Aithinne, this is my handsome son, Maromme―though my mother called him Moffet and it stuck. A Scottish name, I believe. He is fortunate to be in training as a squire to Challon, though I would very much liked to have handled his education myself. Moffet, make your pretty to the Lady Aithinne, baroness of Coinnleir Wood.”
The lad smiled shyly and he gave her a small bow. “She looks like the Lady Tamlyn, Father, though her eyes are more green.”
Aithinne tried to control her reactions. She already warmed to the gentle lad, only knowing he was Damian’s son sent a hot poison through her, to the point of being so painful she wanted to double up and cry. Silly, but she felt betrayed. Ashamed of such thoughts, she misliked the reaction, only beyond her understanding or control, she hurt knowing this child was a product of his passion with another woman. Thoughts flew through her head as she tried to grasp some degree of refinement at learning this boy was Damian’s.
“Yes…I wouldst imagine being a squire to the Black Dragon of Challon is an envied position. I…I am sure you serve your lord proudly, Squire Moffet.”
Damian’s grasp tightened about the boy, then hugged him to his side. “Go seek your breakfast ere you begin all these chores. I know Challon does not expect you up at the crack of dawn and without nourishment.”
The young man paused. “Merry part, Lady Aithinne.”
Aithinne forced a smile for the innocent lad. “Merry part, Moffet.”
Picking up the sword, Damian laid the flat of the blade back against his shoulder and watched the lad walking away. Aithinne sensed he was waiting for her to say something, nevertheless, she judged this was a time when it was best to keep the words behind her teeth. Jealousy, for it could be none ’tother, burned within her to the point where she could hardly think straight. Was he married? Had he a lady wife somewhere? Or was Moffet a merry-be-got, a child of some castle worker somewhere or a leman. Did he plan to install her here at Lyonglen? Her cheeks burned, the pain too much for her to sort out. All she could think of was finding some place dark and quiet and have a lie down before having to think things through.
“Naught to say, Aithinne?”
She licked her lips and then tried to don a false face. There was little use, she feared, those damnable eyes seemed to rip away the lies she was building for protection. “He…he is a…handsome lad.”
“Aye, hearts will be broken as he comes of age.” He nodded, love clear on his face. “He makes me feel very old, Aithinne. He grows too fast. Already his voice is cracking. He is damn near as tall as Challon. A few more moons’ passings and he will look me in the eye on the same level. I am not prepared to be a father of a grown man.”
“You and…your…lady wife must be very proud of him.” Her lip quivered.
“I am proud. I have no wife, lady or otherwise, Aithinne—and you know it.” His gaze skimmed over the hooded mantle. “You were planning on going to Coinnleir Wood. Why?”
She tried to step past him, unable to handle this confrontation when she was so shaky inside. Taking hold of her arm, he spun her around to face him. His anger stilled as his hand slowly lifted to push back the hood of the mantle, then gently stroked down her hair as he lifted the loose braid out.
“Sorry, Princess. Your life has changed. You go nowhere without my permission. Same with your brothers. You are under my protection now―”
“Protection? Prisoners sound a better name for it, Lord RavenHawke.”
He shrugged. “Not so, yet it little matters. This is what will be.”
“You do not own me, my lord. You think because I obeyed your commands last night―”
He grabbed her and pulled her against him, to where his mouth hovered over hers, his stare challenging her, possessing her. “Own you, Aithinne? Aye, I do. Get used to it. We have a lot of things to get settled, a lot of your lies to cut through―”
“Lies!” She tried to jerk back. “How dare―”
“I dare much, Aithinne. For you, I will likely have to defy God and king, so save the high dudgeon. For now, you shall take my arm, and with a smile on your face, we shall stroll back into the castle, or by damn I will take you right here, up against the stall door―and I care little who sees.” His grin was unrepentantly wicked. “For my choice, I prefer the latter, but I am trying to be nice.”
Jerking away from him, Aithinne stomped off without another word. His mocking chuckle sounded softly behind her.
“I thought you might take that option.” His long strides quickly had him walking beside her. “Are you not going to ask me about Moffet? I saw the questions racing through your mind. You are a very easy person to come to know, Aithinne. All your emotions are there on your beautiful face.”
Curse his black head! Why did he have to say that? Oh, yes, she was beautiful, but not as beautiful as her cousin Tamlyn. Had she not heard the refrain all her life? Her throat hurt as the tears welled up, but she was damned if she would let him see how affected she was by his words. She sniffed. “Good, then you know what I am thinking now, My Lord Arrogant.”
“Hmm…I think that sobriquet is a hint.” He reached out and caught her arm to slow her pace. “I thought perhaps after we break our fast, you would show me around the fortress, introduce me to the villeins and serfs. I should like to get to know them a bit ere I call for them to kneel to me in fealty. I need to work to secure Glen Eallach. I think you comprehend the many forces that would seek to use this valley for their pale aims.”
Aithinne nearly stubbed her toe, as her eyes locked with his. Reality intruded that this situation was more than just her and her pride; it was the people here in this glen and in her holding. All looked to her to see life continued in a safe fashion. Being their lady carried a heavy burden, she knew well, what had driven her to the desperate measures to get with child. Had she not wished for a strong man to help ease the load she carried?
If only he did not love Tamlyn. How wonderful it would have been if he came to Glen Eallach yestereve and they met for the first time. None of her lies and deceits between them.
If only…
Aithinne muttered under her breath to herself, “Nay, I swear off wishes. Hobgoblins to trouble the mind.”
“What is that you say, lass?” he leaned toward her with a smirk.
She frowned at him. “Just you never mind, Lord Big Ears.”
Damian shrugged, taking no insult. “Aye, I am arrogant and may have big ears...” he glanced down at his groin, then added, “…and big―”
“Och, you certainly have not learnt any manners―”
“Feet,” he finished. “Well, since you think it unmannerly to speak of the sum of my body parts, how about you ask about Moffet instead. You know you are chafe to do so.”
She picked up the sides of her mantle to keep it from dragging in a puddle. “’Tis hardly my concern.”
“And when did that ever stop a woman from meddling?”
At the steps to the castle, she turned to face him. “And you Dragons of Challon ken all about women, do you not? They fall in your beds at the drop of a kerchief―”
“You did.” he challenged.
She couldn’t look away, as they both recalled how in the wee hours of the night she had surrendered all and asked nothing in return. How if she was not very careful she would find him in her bed again, and with no more willpower to resist him than before.
Knowing this was not a safe banter, she figured discussing Moffet was less risky, despite the reactions within her heart. “Very well, my lord.”
“What, no My Lord Arrogant, or My Lord Big Ears, even My Lord Big―”
She interrupted because the expression on his face said he was not going to say feet this time. “Tell me about your son. I see love in your eyes when you watch him.”
“Aye, you do. I am very proud of the lad. It hurt like the blazes when I turned him over to Challon―”
Aithinne followed him up the steps leading to the bastion. “Then, why did you? I think that is the saddest thing, for a mother or father to send sons and daughter to be raised in another household.”
“Is that why you failed to send your brothers away?” he queried as they reached the boulevard proper, and began to stroll slowly along the walkway of the wall that surrounded the inner bailey.
Aithinne’s spine tensed sensing the coming rebuke from a warrior born and trained, so ingrained in that way of life that he sent his son from him to train with the best, a man who would see no way other. “I lost my parents to a terrible fever. I did not want to lose them, as well. I did not want them trained for war, to ride out and kill or be killed. I did not want them to be made into killers.”
“Is that how you see me, Aithinne?” Damian whipped around to see her full faced for the answer. “A killer?”
Under those probing green eyes, she stepped backward. “I know men go to war, sometimes have to go to war…I just did not want my brothers to be warriors.”
“You made them weaklings, Aithinne―”
She exhausted her fury. “They are gentle souls―”
“My son is a gentle soul. He is learning the way of manhood from one of the greatest warriors England or Scotland has ever seen. Challon will show him the way to survive in this world and by being squire, then knight of the Black Dragon, will secure a place in these isles where he mayhap will not have to fight and kill. But if the time comes, he needs to protect himself or those he loves, he will be a man able to do so. It might mean the difference between his life or death. I want him to have those tools in his hands.”
Aithinne was unused to people criticizing her choices. She had been chatelaine to both fortresses and people did her bidding. Outside of Gilchrest, there had been none of rank to dare upbraid her in the manner Damian St. Giles just had done. Her pride stung.
“I wouldst prefer we not discuss my brothers,” was all she could summon.
His brows lifted in challenge. “Very well. We will not discuss them…now.”
Ignoring him, she started to walk again. “Moffet’s mother…you were wed?”
“Nay.” He paused by a crenellation to stare out across the glen. “I was very young. Of course, I did not think so then. She was a maidservant at Castle Challon. Being young, arrogant and foolish―and thinking with my nether regions―I assumed she loved me.”
Aithinne was unsure she wanted to hear his love for another. Damian being with this other woman was a knife to her guts. Still, she was not one to shy away from the truths where this man was concerned. It only helped her to ken what a mistake last night had been.
“Did you love her?” She watched this beautiful warrior, the breeze stirring the dark locks, locks kissed with the hint of Celtic fire, blood from his mother. Emotions swamped her. Loathing for this faceless woman who had given him such a beautiful son. Rage at him for daring to share with another what they had shared last night.
“In the hot bliss of youth I fancied I did. She was so beautiful I hurt just to look at her. You have to be a man full grown before you understand what love really is, how it is so much more than the passion of flesh.”
A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the thick haar about the grounds like restless, earthbound ghosts of the ancient Picts. Its coolness went to her bone. More than the passion of the flesh. More than what they had. She suddenly felt very, very tired.
She heard herself ask, as if the words were spoken by another, “What happened to her? Is she still alive?”
“Aye. I hear she is doing well. She wed the man she loved. They have several children now. But none with black hair and green eyes.”
She swallowed back the bile rising within her, fighting the tears clogging her throat. “That is well, I suppose. What I asked about…was what happened betwixt you and her.”
He sighed. “My secret, Aithinne. I shall have your word on this. Challon knows, but none tother. I would prefer Moffet never learns the circumstances of his birth. Aye, he kens he is bastard born, but then several men of Challon have borne the bar sinister upon their shields, so ’tis no shame to my son. Challon and I will see he marries well, he will become a knight, a powerful one someday. No one will dare look down their noses at the most favored knight of the Black Dragon, and the grandson of Gilchrest Lyonglen. Your word, Aithinne. I tell you and then we shall never speak of it again.”
She nodded. “I give my word, Lord RavenHawke. I like your son and would wish him no harm.”
“Damian.” When she looked confused, he smiled. “I ask you to call me Damian. I wouldst have us be friends, Aithinne.”
Oh, aye, he would offer her friendship, and in the depth of night take her body because she was so like Tamlyn. Friends? Why did that make her want to break down and cry?
Instead of railing at him for wasting his love on another, she nodded. “Damian, I give my oath.”
“Anya, was a couple summers older than I. Already she was in love with her woodsman, but she wanted something better in life. She bartered her body, later my son, to gain that. She deliberately seduced me, and fully intended me to get her with child. Once she was heavy with that babe she told me about her loving another. He would wed her, but he did not want to raise a bastard of mine. That much suited me. This child was mine. Bear the taint of bastardy he might, but blood of Lyonglen, blood of Challon flowed through him. He was not going to be raised as some baseborn villein. I think she must have sensed this possessiveness within me. She saw the child as a tool. She would sell him to me for gold and silver, enough to give her and the woodsman a much better lot in life than they could have achieved on their own.” Lines bracketed his mouth as he frowned, anger, pain, betrayal etched deeply in his expression. “I bought my child, Aithinne. Spent a small fortune in Anya’s eyes. The price I paid was damn cheap. He is worth every pence, a hundred times over. I would die to save him. I came out of this Devil’s Bargain with the real thing of value―my son.”
The tears she had been struggling against, filled her eyes at the love he spoke of, sympathizing with his betrayal, the taste still strong in his mind.
Moreover, she reeled as though she had been slapped as she comprehended how grave the wrong she had done this man in having her brothers ply him with drink and then dump him in her bed. She had used him to get with child. While her reasons mayhap were less mercenary than gaining coin, she had sought to use his body, his seed to get with child, hoping to use the child as a tool to keep her freedom and to protect Lyonglen.
She knew with a sinking feeling that one day this man would look at her with the same resentment, mayhap more, as he now displayed in speaking of Anya.
God in merciful Heaven! What had she done?