Chapter Seven
Trick and bespell the unsuspecting mind you may,
even an unsure heart, but never, ever the soul.
— Maeve Montgomerie
Damian looked up at Tamlyn MacShane as she set the plate filled with roast meat, cheese and bread before him. She offered him a curious smile, her amber eyes observing him with a wary expression. Naught more. Why did he almost expect other emotions to be there? Felt deep disappointment when they were not. He had to clench his jaw to keep from reaching out and taking her hand, wanting to touch her.
Julian stood by the fireside, paring his fingernails with a sgian dubh―the knife he had taken from Tamlyn when they’d first met. His cousin now favored that knife, kept the sheath tucked into his belt, almost a talisman, a touchstone that assured him as long as he possessed it he kept hold of the Lady Glenrogha. His stance was one of assured negligence, though Damian knew Challon was recoiled, ready to spring at him should he perceive any untoward attention paid to his betrothed.
“Challon has worried about you, Lord RavenHawke. Fashed that you had been beset by men from Clan Comyn and held for ransom…or worse.” Tamlyn’s rebuke was clear. “We are glad you are safe and have returned unharmed to us.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed. It sounded as if she were chiding him for going out drinking and wenching his way across the countryside with nary a care how it would upset Challon. He would like to disabuse her of the notion, but he needed an explanation of where he had been to offer, and that was not forthcoming.
From under hooded eyes, he watched the beautiful woman clothed in raiments of a commoner, his mind working to unriddle his mystery. He had been gone for days, they said. No one knew where. Not even himself, at this point. As he tried to focus on his mind, dig deep into his memories, he found it vexing that whilst flashes of images were almost summoned to mind, they were jerked away before he could seize them. Bloody frustrating.
As she poured the tankard full of ale, a frisson crawled up his spine. Damian pondered why the action, such a simple act, caused a ripple of unease within him. “Challon and I be pleased you returned this morn. We feared you would not be here in time.”
Damian placed his knife down on the table, suddenly not hungry. “Oh, and why is that, Lady Tamlyn?”
“Because―” she started, only to have Challon push to his feet and come toward them.
“Because Tamlyn and I wed on the morrow.” He placed a hand on Tamlyn’s graceful shoulder. Sliding it up to her neck, his thumb brushed Tamlyn’s pulse point. Possession was stamped in Challon’s every action.
A dirk to Damian’s heart. His pulse fluttered. “Wed? On the morrow? Banns cannot be called. Why such a rush to get to the church steps?”
“Aye, the banns have not been called, howbeit I spoke with the Culdee, and he agreed, with the turmoil facing Scotland, ’tis for the best if I move to secure this glen, thus he granted dispensation. Tamlyn and I have a life to build here at Glenrogha. We think it wise to give the people of Glen Shane a true sense of stability, show they are under the protection of the Black Dragon. Let all know―English and Scot―I rule here now as the new earl. In these troubled times ’tis of import to move ahead with our lives.”
Tamlyn smiled up at Challon, love clear in her amber eyes. Damian felt an oily blackness coiling at the pit of his stomach, the foulness pushing him to want to shove his fist through something. Swallowing back the grief, he nodded. “Then, accept my blessings upon your union. I wish you both all the happiness you deserve.” Pushing back on the bench, so he could rise, he said, “If you will excuse me, I should like to seek my rest.”
Challon nodded. “You look fair exhausted. You should take caution in your carousing, Cousin, you no longer are a young man.”
“Younger than you, Challon,” he quipped, before he could bite back the words.
Challon arched a black brow, unused to the brusque tone from the man he considered a brother. Regret rose in Damian, only he was unpleased by Challon’s uncalled for rebuke. Julian had done it before Tamlyn to ensure she viewed him as a knave, out drinking and swiving without thought to Challon’s worry.
Conceding the point, Julian gave a slight nod. “True, though I am smart enough to wed on the morrow and settle down to hearthside. Mayhap your disposition would benefit from you doing the same.”
Damian could not stop his eyes from wandering over Tamlyn’s face. “In a breath, if only I could find the lady of my heart. Consider yourself lucky, Julian. Very lucky, indeed. By your leave, I shall retire.”
As Damian started up the staircase, he looked back, catching sight of Tamlyn standing close to Challon. A flush tinged her cheeks, as she brushed a stray curl off Julian’s forehead. He stood spellbound by the gentle action, the tenderness clear that his cousin had bonded Tamlyn to him. They were one, in spirit, in soul.
Tamlyn would never be his. In despair, he closed his eyes, fighting the black wave of longing for something that could never be.
Forgive me, Damian...
Opening his eyes, his head snapped around to see who had spoken the words. There was no one about. For an instant, he thought it had been Tamlyn who uttered the plea, but she still stood before Julian, speaking lowly with him.
He blinked his eyes several times, trying to still the rising noise in his mind, images floating just out of reach. Mayhap he was ill, some brain sickness. Closing his eyelids he tried to conjure the voice again, but failed. It had sounded like Tamlyn…yet…it seemed deeper, huskier. A voice a man would crave to hear in the deep hush of night.
His groin bucked hard.
Odd. Why should his body react to ghostly words, when he had not experienced any effect to being close to Tamlyn? It hit him. He had not truly felt any reaction to Tamlyn being near. This response of his body to whispered imaginings was strong. Yes, his heart cried out to touch this ghost, but it was on a level of love, his soul craving his mate, someone who could show him how his life should be.
“Damian, you are losing your bloody mind.” Sighing, he trod on up the stairs.
♦◊♦
Aithinne sat huddled in the big bed in the tower room, her heavy, wolf-lined mantle wrapped about her tightly, blocking the chill. She could not stop shaking, but it had little to do with the dampness of the chamber.
Her mind was torn. She knew she had been right to return Damian to Glenrogha. Even so, she dreaded that by sending him from her too soon mayhap the Spell of Making was broken and she would never carry his child. Anguish rose up inside her. Oona stated there was no way to tell for sure until she ran her monthly courses―or failed to―over a fortnight until she would have some idea if her plan had succeeded. Not sure she could stand the suspense, she pressed Oona to use the craft to see knowledge of the path her life would take. Oona said there were too many things pressing inward for her to get a clear image of what would be.
Fearing that answer, but wanting...needing to know, she begged for her to fetch Evelynour of the Orchard. The strongest of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, she was named after the goddess of the orchards. Born with fey ability to call upon the thistle and the ravens, she had vision that saw beyond the mortal world.
“Evelynour will come. She will tell me what I need to ken.” She whispered to the darkness, like a small child trying to keep swort demons at bay.
Without a knock, the door opened and Einar ducked down to enter. In his left hand he carried a plate of food, whilst the other gripped a heavy trunk, slung over the right shoulder. Dropping it with a thud, he placed the plate on the small table at bedside. “Some meat and cheese, Princess. Cook made you fresh bread. Eat.” Not waiting to see if she would do as he advised, he moved the chest to the foot of the bed, and then set to building a fire in the cold hearth.
“Why did you bring the trunk?” She glared at the food, feeling no appetite.
“You are no’ happy elsewhere, so I ordered your things fetched up here. The rest will come shortly. Soon you will be comfortable in a room fit for a princess.” He tossed a peat brick upon the catching fire. “Now eat.”
“Thank you, Einar, but I am no’ hungry.” She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, huddling against the cold. Against the despair.
“I do no’ recall asking if you were hungry, Princess. Eat. Life’s riddles never are solved if one sickens due to the lack of nourishment.” He stood, dusting his hands off on his thighs. “All of Glen Eallach depend upon you. You must be strong for them.”
“Sometimes, Einar, I weary by all depending upon me to see them safe and well-fed through each winter.”
Einar came to stand by the bed. Crossing his arms, he lifted his pale brows in an I-told-you-so air. “You should have kept RavenHawke. I asked Óðinn for his blessing for the child. Allfather shall give you what you wish. But you need someone to protect you and the babe, Princess.”
Aithinne forced a smile. “I have my very own Viking guard for protection.”
“You need more. Troubles prowl this land in the skin of a leopard.”
“Leopard? You mean Edward Longshanks?” she asked.
“Aye, I do. He wears three golden leopards on his surcoat; ’tis his standard. Methinks the device serves him well. The man will not stop until he possesses all of Scotland. Having a child might not be enough to keep his schemes at bay. Glen Shane forms the entrance to the heart of the Highlands. Why he sent the Black Dragon to claim the holdings of the Ogilvies and Shanes. At the Beltaine celebrating ’twas spoken that the Dragon’s brothers shall marry with Lady Tamlyn’s sisters, Rowanne and Raven. The old king has long pushed for marriages of alliance for Earl Kinmarch’s daughters to men loyal to him. Now he has secured the whole of Glen Shane, his eye will turn to Glen Eallach and you―his chance, Princess, to claim all that has been denied him. He has no’ sent a warrior to take over Lyonglen―yet. He still thinks the old lord lives. Once he hears tides of his passing—mark my words—the Leopard will send a warrior. Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood are key positions. With Glen Shane and Glen Eallach in his grasp, he holds a knife to the backs of these Highland chiefs.”
“You speak things I already have long ciphered, why I sought to have a child. Lyonglen held great favor with the English king. He did not rise to Balliol’s standard and rebel. ’Tis my hope, if Edward believes I carry his child, that he will honor that friendship and, allow me to hold the fief until the child is old enough to rule. I could with this English king’s blessing.”
“Aye, you could. Only, the Leopard places little faith in women and their ability to control an honour, I hear. What will you do when he sends a warrior, mayhap demands you accept the man as your lord husband?” Einar clearly was not dropping the topic.
Aithinne trembled against such fears, and whispered, “Do no’ speak such things. Words hold the power to make them truth.”
“You should have kept the warrior. He was a man worthy of you. He would fight for you, protect you. ’Tis no’ too late. Go see him at Glenrogha, Princess. Humble yourself before him and beg forgiveness. No man could resist you on your knees before him.”
“If it were only that simple.” She laid her head against her knees.
He shrugged. “Life be simple, Princess. ’Tis people who insist on making it troublesome. You want him? Go fetch him.”
Aye, it might be that simple―if not for the fact he loved Tamlyn. Accepting her cousin was forever out of his reach when she wed Julian Challon, would Damian not accept a look-alike alternative? Forevermore torn, Aithinne would always ken his heart belonged to Tamlyn. Every breath she drew she would live in fear that he would see her as lacking in comparison, taller, with hair that had an ugly red cast and seven bloody dots on her nose.
“Einar, I think I prefer you when you just grunt your answers.”
♦◊♦
Damian’s heart pounded, slamming against his ribcage, his blood vibrating through his body to the point it was painful. She sat astride him, her naked body bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, her head lolling as she rode him, lost to the sensations of their bodies being joined. He bucked inside her, her slick channel tightening about his erection like a fist, squeezing the length of his burning flesh. It was not enough. He wanted to be even deeper inside her. Grabbing her at the waist, he brought her down hard as he slammed upward. From that angle, he forced her to shudder with the release of her passion. Her moan was nearly enough to drive him over the edge, yet not enough to satisfy the ravenous demon riding him. Wrapping his arms around her back, he pulled to sit up, arching her to where his mouth could latch onto the full breast. He was not gentle, drawing hard in a rhythm that matched the rough flexes of his flesh within her body.
“Father, you needs must awake.”
Someone shook his bare arm, snatching him away from the dream of moonlight and her. The male-animal in him was furious at the disruption, however the warrior’s instinct took hold and he came fully awake, his hand around the dagger he slept with under his pillow. The grip relaxed when he stared into the face of his son.
Moffet. It was still hard to believe this young man, nearly tall enough to look at him on the same eye level, was his child. He felt proud. He felt old. He knew many thought the lad to be Challon’s bastard son, the clear stamp of the black hair and green eyes marking the boy as of Challon blood. Damian had not really considered that factor before asking Julian to accept him as page, then squire; he just wanted Moffet to learn from the best. To be the squire to the Dragon of Challon would set Moffet on the road to a secure future. None would dare cast aspersions on Moffet’s origins when he stood next to Julian Challon. Had not Julian forced acceptance throughout the land for his three bastard born, half-brothers?
The issue of Damian’s misspent youth, Moffet came to him when just a small babe. His mother had been one of the serving wenches at Castle Challon. Older than Damian by three summers, she had brought him the fevered pleasures of the flesh, coming to him nightly for the passing of several moons. Later, when she whispered tides that she carried his child, he learnt she actually loved another. The man would marry her, only he did not want to raise another man’s child.
Damian quickly learned the sting of betrayal. Anya had deceived him, deliberately set out to get with babe, an eye on bettering her future. She would turn the child over to Damian in exchange for a settlement so she and her new husband, a woodsman on the Challon holding, could start off with life far above their station. The woman cared nothing for the infant she carried, only the gold coin she hoped to get for him. It left a bitter taste in Damian’s mouth that he had to buy his own son, that a woman could set out to conceive a child as a tool to getting what she wanted in life. However, when he held the little boy, he knew each coin had been well spent. He would have paid a fortune ten times over for the small black-haired babe.
“I sorrow to break your slumber, Father. My lord Challon requests you join him on the bastion.”
“What is the hour?” Damian slid to the edge of the bed, then reached for his hose and tunic, and began dressing.
Moffet picked up Damian’s mantle and held it while he finished buckling his baldric about his hips. “Should be near Matins, though ’tis hard to tell in this Scottish holding. They do not keep to the hours of prayers as we did in Castle Challon. Dawnbreak has not yet come.”
Taking the mantle, Damian swung it around his shoulder. “Shall we see what your lord wishes at this ungodly hour?”
♦◊♦
Aithinne stood on the roof of the tower room, staring off into the night as it lightened from blackness to a deep blue. Dawn would soon come, but she had not been able to find her rest. She tried to retire to her room on the third level, the room that had always been hers while she was in residence. Mayhap she should have taken possession of the lord’s chamber to further her pretense that she was now the baroness of Lyonglen. Only, something prevented her. The castle servants were aware the frail man had slipped into the otherworld over two moons passing. They also knew what was at stake and would keep her secret. Oddly, she had always felt at home in Lyonglen. It was a rambling castle of stone, but it had warmth to it, as if built to please the eye as much as for fortification.
Now she could not summon that ease, that sense of belonging here anymore. Some part of Damian St. Giles had marked this place, marked her soul.
Putting her hand on the crenellation, she stared off in the direction of Glen Shane. Her mind cautioned that this malaise was not good, she needed to put RavenHawke from her thoughts. Forget him. Mayhap in time she would achieve that noble aim. For now, he haunted her, visions of their time together, what he taught her about the magic of a man and a woman joining stayed constantly with her. Sometimes she wondered if the potion had done its job and obliterated her from his mind. In weaker moments, a selfish part of her wanted some fragment of their time to remain with him. She could not stop wondering where he was, what he was doing.
Pulling her mantle closer, she shivered against the damp morning air, watching the haar shift like aimless gray ghosts across the valley. Once more, she wondered where Damian was. She could close her eyes and try to summon his image, use The Kenning to try to touch his mind, but that would be the road to ruin.
“Mayhap I am the one who should have taken the forgetting potion.”