Chapter Twelve
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I am your bairn's father.
— The Ballad of Tamlin
Aithinne rushed into the bedroom―her old room out of habit―and straight for the chamber pot. There was naught on her stomach, thus all she managed to do was wretch with the waves of dry-heaves. Fortunately, the pot was clean! It would have been the last straw. She tried to choke back the nausea, but just as she thought it was controlled, her entire being pitched and rolled. Finally, dragging herself to the urn with water, she cupped a little in the palm of her hand and drank, then poured the rest into the basin and splashed it on her face.
Feeling a bit more stable, she paced. As worries pressed in on her mind, panic arose. To counter, she hit her forehead with the palm of her hand, allowing the pain to offset the growing anxiety. Under normal circumstances the knocks should hurt. “This day, they feel rather well-come. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I am cursed! Doomed! The Auld Ones use me for sport! I give them jests with this brainless muddle I have gotten into. OONA! Blasted woman, where are you? Could anything be any more convoluted than this situation? His grandson! The whole time I plotted and planned, trying to keep Lyonglen from the Campbells, Comyns and Bruces…Gilchrest had a grandson! Och, of all the―OONA!”
Aithinne, I have no heir. You, and you alone, can save Lyonglen, protect our people. Gilchrest had spoken those words over and over to her whilst he faded away, growing weaker each day.
The elder Gilchrest Fraser had been so kind to her and her brothers after they lost their parents to the wasting fever, taking them in and affording them the protection of him being their guardian. To learn he had a child, and had totally cut his lady daughter from his life, caused her to view the old man she had loved and admired in a different light. It was hard to reconcile he had turned his back on his daughter and the son she bore, to the point he had denied their very existence to all. Never would she have thought the Lyonglen she knew capable of such cold-heartedness. The image was upsetting to Aithinne, and set her to think her life was built upon dark lies.
“OONA!” she screamed.
The woman finally floated in. Oft, the crone did not seem to walk as other people, but glided from spot-to-spot. Not in the mood for those witch’s tricks, Aithinne wanted answers.
“You kenned there was a grandson?” she accused.
Oonanne ignored her and set about to mix a potion. Pouring water into the cup, she stirred it and then held it out to Aithinne. “Drink this. It holds the power to ease your troubled mind.”
“Death shall ease my troubled mind! Then I shan’t be plagued by three third-wit brothers, a child-like Viking and an old woman who hides things from me. Do you have any idea in what a bloody mess my life finds itself? RavenHawke―the man who was in my bed―is the new lord here now.”
Oona sighed and held out the cup. “You overset yourself. ’Tis no’ good for the bairn. Drink.”
“Child?” Aithinne had nearly forgotten about the babe she carried, so distressed by Dinsmore, a Dragon, and his bloody cousin. She clutched her mid-section and moaned.
“Och, stop this fashing and down this, Aithinne Ogilvie.” Oona employed the tone a mother would in speaking to a child.
Frowning at the bothersome female, Aithinne snatched up the cup and gulped the foul brew. “Blllckkkkkk―that is dreadful.” She glared at the dregs in the bottom. “I hope this potion works better than the ones you fed RavenHawke.” She fixed Oona with an accusing glare. “I have this sinking sensation he remembers. Oh, merciful heaven, what if he remembers? Were the tansies not strong enough? Did your crafting of the spell fail? Have your powers weakened, old woman? Och, what am I to do? Answer me!”
Oona shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the whole situation. “Change what you can. Accept what you canno’, lass.”
“Oh, like I could not riddle that much out myself.” She paused and put her hands on her hips. “You kenned about Gilchrest’s daughter.”
“Aye. Most of Glen Eallach here about two score years ago likely recall the lass. A lovely eyeful she was, much in the image of the maither. The old man was not right in the head after the fever claimed his lady wife. Then, when he presented the daughter at English court, she eloped with a Norman knight, after the baron refused permission for them to marry. He seemed to die even more inside. His heart withered. He was good to you and the lads, but he never opened himself to loving and losing again. He forbad her name to be spoken at Lyonglen. I think she tried sent word a couple times, asking to see him. He refused. She had chosen her path, he said; she was forevermore dead to him. After a few seasons no word came of her ever again. I never kenned about the grandson. Mayhap that was her purpose for trying to reach the old man―giving him tides of the babe’s coming.”
Aithinne exhaled, “What of The Kenning? Surely this be something you should have foreseen? Why did you not recognize who he was from the very start?”
“As one touched by the blood of the Sidhe, you ken oft images are not clear. Visions are true, but we mere mortals can read their meaning wrong. His aura was mixed, confused by his life threads being intertwined by Lord Challon’s. This man has the power. It must have come through his mother.”
“Could his Scot’s fey blood see him more resistant to your spells?”
“Mayhap. This warrior be potent in ways I have never seen in a male. Both of these men of Challon are too much alike to understand the dreams and visions. Too different in the same breath. I warned you to be careful for what you wished. You wanted a child. You have one. In seven moons’ passings you will hold that babe. A son. Much like his father. He will see that, Aithinne; ken you used his body for your own gain, even if his mind does not recall it all. One way or ’toher he will understand when he sees the child.”
“Oh, I wish―”
“No more wishes, lass! We have more than enough of your wishes to deal with!”
♦◊♦
Damian stood on the bastion, watching the Campbell men ride away from Lyonglen. “Fair speed and never darken our keep again, eh?” he muttered.
The wind had shifted, rising off Loch Eallach, swirling about him with ghostly, playful hands that ruffled the locks of his thick black hair. The smell of rain was heavy in the air, the knowledge enforced by the gathering storm clouds looming over the passes. A thunderstorm would soon hit. Likely a strong one. He would welcome its power, the force when it broke, embrace the fury.
“Mayhap Campbell will get a thorough drenching soon,” Challon commented with a smile. He turned the dark green eyes to study Damian, too perceptive by half. “Wish to talk about it?”
Leaning into the crenellation, Damian allowed the wind to buffet his face. Inside, his emotions were jumbled. He was not sure where to start to unravel them. Being moody, and like most men, not particularly fond of articulating problems, reactions, or perceptions, Damian preferred to brood. He knew Julian had questions. Bloody hell, he had questions. Perversely, with no immediate answers before him, it was simpler to give in to the need for silence.
“Not particularly.”
Challon nodded. “I am sure the Lady Aithinne’s resemblance to Tamlyn confuses you and―”
“The two favor one another. Despite, I see their differences more than the similarities. A lot of people look at you and me, and think we are mirror images. Not so.”
“We are two men with Challon traits,” Julian concurred, “yet dissimilar by whom life has made us.”
Nodding, Damian forced a grin. “Aye, I am taller…and prettier.” At the words, the chuckle died before it escaped his chest. I am taller…and prettier. One of those odd echoes of déjà vu which haunted him since his return to Glenrogha.
“What troubles you?” Challon noticed the reaction and was curious by the sudden change.
Damian tried to pull in the peculiar instant sticking in his craw, pick it apart until he understood what it meant. The moment of time remained elusive. “I am not sure. I need to think upon it more. Things, words, images hover at the edge of my thoughts.”
Challon rubbed his thumb over his chin. “Guillaume mentioned you shared drinks with three young men who looked alike, and that they had a huge man at their back, just before you vanished on Beltaine.”
Near perfect, just what is needed, eh? Once more, words echoed within Damian’s head. Damn frustrating. “Did Guillaume say more?”
“Only that you were drinking with the four, then later you were gone. So were they. I doubt finding another set of men fitting that description, eh?” Challon paused and then looked out in the direction toward Glen Shane. “I miss Tamlyn. I should have brought her, but I was not sure what sort of resistance we might run into with the Scots stragglers from Dunbar still hiding in the hills, or what we would find here. I am pleased your stepping into the role as baron of this glen is being done with little disturbance. The sooner everything is settled, the sooner I am back at Glenrogha with Tamlyn.”
“I am sorry this matter took you away from your lady,” Damian said, for the first time not experiencing the taste of deep regret Tamlyn was not his. “She is good for you, Julian. Never let Edward know how he blessed you with this marriage.”
“This, I comprehend well.” He patted Damian on the shoulder. “I go now to see that Pagan is settled in the stable, then to sup. You come? It has been a long day for us both. More unsettling for you though, eh?”
“I shall catch up with you later. For a spell, I would like to walk the length of the bastion, and absorb this holding is now mine.” The concept was still too new to him. He wanted to savor his first impressions as lord of the holding.
“Then, I leave you to your brooding and thoughts of the Lady Aithinne.”
Damian offered him a half-smile. “Why do you assume I shall think upon the lady?”
Challon chuckled and then walked away, shaking his head.
Welcoming the solitude, Damian slowly strode along the boulevard, trying to grasp this glen and the fortress truly belonged to him now. He was lord of Lyonglen. It was a rich holding, land his by right of birth as well by favor of Edward. Only, it would take time to feel at home here. Usually farseeing in his aims in life, he suddenly felt oddly adrift. He had served Julian, as earl of Challon after Lord Michael died. Served too many years, too many battles to count. He had inherited the small holding in Parvon—his father’s estate. Only, he had been too busy, ever the warrior protecting Julian’s back, so he rarely stayed there. He felt no roots to that fief. Could not care less if he ever saw it again.
Here in Glen Eallach there was the chance to build a future. The time had finally come to settle down, marry, and raise a family.
Those musings conjured Aithinne’s face to mind. Did she tell the truth about wedding his grandfather just before the old man’s death? If she had, it was not to gain money and position. As baroness of Coinnleir Wood, her title and lands easily was equal to Lyonglen’s. Why then would she weave this fable of now being baroness of Lyonglen? More to the point, why had he let Campbell believe she was his lady wife?
“Possession,” he hissed under his breath. “Like some dog hiking its leg, I wanted to mark her as my property and did not stop to think. Damned if―”
A scream split the storm-darkened landscape. He turned the corner, hand going to the hilt of his sword. His eyes looked out over the wall trying to see where the call of distress came from. Only silence greeted him. Just as he began to wonder if he dreamt it, the plaintive squeal suddenly rose again.
Only this time, his mind experienced some sort of slippage. He had heard the same screams before. Only when? Where?
One of the guards on regular patrol came around the opposite corner. He nodded in deference. “Good eve, my lord. ’Tis only the Peacocks. Fool birds sound like a woman being strangled.”
Damian finally spied the ridiculous peafowl streaking across the pale after the peahen. As he stood watching, the landscape from this angle evoked a familiar chord within him. The soldier moved on, but Damian paid little heed as he pinpointed how the scenery was different, why this should seem so memorable when he had never seen it before. Feeling as if it were part of a dream, he spun around and looked upward behind him. The North Tower dominated the fortress, a giant sentinel of the glen. Anyone approaching Lyonglen could be easily spotted from up there.
He leaned his hips back against the crenellations, then stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. His right hand rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the tower.
Not sure why he felt compelled to it, he pushed off the wall and started into the fortress as lightning cracked, followed by the deep roll of thunder.
His mood almost summoning the storm to break overhead.
Rounding the turn of the first floor, he hesitated at the stairs curving upward. Damian was unsure what drew him. Nothing familiar about the winding staircase. Nothing causing that echo in his memory as the view from outside had. Urgency to see the tower drew him forward, propelled him to take the stairs two at a time.
At the pinnacle he came to a stop, facing the long hallway that ended in the huge black-oak door. Closed. His hand on the latch, he could almost envision the room in his mind’s eye. Without bothering to knock, he shoved it open.
Mixed emotions filled him as he stood, his eyes taking in the richly furnished room. A fire burned lowly in the huge fireplace, with bearskin rugs before it and again on the floor by the bed. The large wood-canopied bed had plaid curtains of red, which were tied back, long drapes nearly covering the heavy, ornate bedposts. A wolf-pelt cover was folded cross the foot of the thick mattress. A bed fit for a king. The sense of disquiet rising, he leaned against the post, trying to isolate images crowding in on his mind. This room seemed so familiar, yet different.
Going to the large fireplace, he plucked a long straw from the broom propped there and lit the tip from the flames of the peat fire. He walked back to the table by bedside, and used the straw on the wick of the candles. Once there was more light, he studied the bed more closely. Her bed.
On impulse, he knelt by the foot post, running his fingers over the base. A shiver crawled up his spine as he felt the gashes in the wood. Marks gouged all around the circular post.
“One thing for certain, I am not dreaming these.”
♦◊♦
“Are the rooms readied for the Lord RavenHawke and the Lord Challon?” Aithinne inquired of the maidservant, as the woman carried in fresh linens.
The graying woman nodded. “Aye, my lady. All was prepared as you asked. Rooms for both lords be waiting for them. Fresh water is in the urns, and I am just taking in linens―”
“Aithinne!” Deward came running down the darkened hallway, then jumped as a clap of thunder rattled the fortress’s stone walls. “You must come, Sister. The man…he goes to the room.”
“What man?” Aithinne knew that question was a waste of breath.
There was only one man and only one room. She merely did not want to believe him. She had hoped by placing both Challon and RavenHawke in the South Tower that the new lord of Lyonglen would stay far away from the old tower for the time being. It was obvious that since RavenHawke would be living here, this bridge would be crossed sooner or later. Aithinne just preferred that it be later…much later.
“Of course, nothing ever goes as I would will it. Why should I expect aught different in this?” She exhaled her frustration, her fears.
With rising dread, she grabbed the sides of her kirtle, lifting it so she could hurry her steps. At the top of the staircase she drew up short upon seeing the half-opened door and the flickering light at the end of the hall instead of expected darkness. She knew he awaited her. Like a coward she could turn and flee, claim being unwell―the truth. Nonetheless, she realized it was merely a matter of putting off the coming confrontation. He wanted answers―about his grandfather―possibly about the memories fighting to surface.
Aithinne dithered before the threshold, taking a deep breath to still her pounding heart. Wasted effort. There was no being at ease around Damian St. Giles. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, she froze. She thought she had prepared herself to face this man alone, but she had not anticipated seeing him in her bed again. It brought back all her feelings for him, all her vulnerability. All the need.
He had lit several candles, lending the room a warm glow, and casting his sinful body in half-light. Arrogant man was sitting up, his back to the headboard, his right leg casually bent and crossed over the other. One black curl fell over his forehead in a mussed, little boy fashion, but there was nothing boyish about this man. Everything about him called to the woman in her.
“The lord’s chamber has been readied for your possession, my lord.” She tried to keep her voice level as she entered the room.
He shrugged. “I rather like it here. It feels comfortable…familiar.”
“The tower is currently my quarters, but if you would rather stay here than in the master chamber―” She half turned, as if going to make arrangements.
“Come here.” He watched her with a curious expression. “Come here, Aithinne. I mislike yelling across the room to have a simple discussion.”
“’Tis no’ proper. You are half unclothed, my lord.”
Damian’s eyes ran down the length of his bare chest, the long legs encased in the leathern hose and to his bare feet, as if he just noticed his state. “Aye, I am.” The lids over the pale eyes lowered to a hooded expression, one that was lethal. “Lady Aithinne, I gave you an order, in a polite fashion, yes, but I still expect it to be carried out. Come…here.”
Sucking up false courage, she started to step away from the door, only to have him add, “Close the door―then come here.”
Aithinne held still, her hand on the door almost afraid to release it. Before this day, she could not recall any man ever giving her orders. Her father had been a gentle soul, never commanding his daughter do this or that. Gilchrest never corrected her, never issued edicts for Aithinne to follow. She had always been in control―of her life, of her brothers. This morning began with the Dragon of Challon demanding the gates be opened. Now, his too comely cousin was being deliberately provoking, issuing instructions, merely to remind her she now had to obey him as the new Baron Lyonglen.
“Aithinne, I am in a peculiar mood this night. Do not present me with a reason to let loose the poison boiling inside my mind. You shan’t enjoy it.” The slow rise and fall of his chest showed he drew measured breaths, clearly in effort to control violent emotions.
Deciding his caution was worth heeding, she closed the door and crossed the room. He said nothing, just stared at her. Outside the lightning cracked close, making her jump, though she noticed he did not even bat an eyelash. On edge, she glanced at the narrow window to the flickering streaks of light from the spring thunderstorm, then back to the dominating male in her bed.
He had been there before, but this was a different side of Damian St. Giles. The potions ere soothed the warrior’s nature, letting the gentleness in his soul come to the forefront. Now the warrior ruled, and she judged his nature as wild and untamed as the tempest outside. She knew so much about him, yet he was truly a stranger. For a fleeting time she had held a shard of this powerful, fascinating man. Only now she realized how little she knew about him.
Odd to have given herself to him, surrendered to his caresses, taken him inside her body. In this breath she comprehended how unfamiliar she was about his tempers, his moods or the manner he handled people and situations. On the surface he appeared calm, relaxed. A fool might accept that. She was no fool.
RavenHawke scared her.
In her life she had dealt with Gilchrest, three brothers that were vexing but little more, a frustratingly obtuse Viking, and greedy men who sought to use her. Not once had she ever feared one as she did this man. And not a fear that bespoke a concern he might harm her. She knew gut deep this man would never hurt her, never beat her or raise a hand to her. His power was more terrifying. Damian St. Giles held the prerogative to destroy her world, and reform it to his whims, the power to crush her heart.
She had to get away from him before it was too late. “In the morn, my brothers and I shall return to Coinnleir Wood―”
“I did not grant leave, Princess. You go nowhere without it,” he snapped, steel in his voice.
The flatness of his statement disarmed her for a breath. Her stomach tightened, though she felt reasonably certain she controlled her outward reaction. “I did not ask permission, Lord RavenHawke. I am baroness―”
“My charter from Edward is for Glen Eallach. That includes Coinnleir Wood.” He smiled, but it lacked true mirth. “Since I am overlord of your holding, you need to seek my permission for all you do, Princess.” The gray-green eyes watched her, almost seeming to glow with triumph as he witnessed her struggling to rein in her temper. “You do not care for the situation. You will earn your place now.”
“My place?” Heat flooded her face and her fingers curled in fists at her sides. “And pray just what is my place, my lord?”
He remained motionless, like a big cat intent on watching its prey. “That remains for me to decide, dependent upon the truths I uncover about you, Aithinne. Mark this. You are mine to do with as I please. And at this moment I would please a lot.”
“Mayhap…we should continue this discussion another time…” The storm was worsening outside, but it was nothing compared to the one she saw in his fey eyes. Breaking away from the stare that ripped into her mind, she turned on her heels and started to leave.
“I did not dismiss you, Princess,” he called after her. When she continued walking, he threatened, “Do not make me come get you. I will.”
His tone saw her halt. She believed he would do just that, almost feared that he wanted her to force the issue. She tried to steady herself, but her heart kept up the unsteady rocking, made worse by her body’s traitorous response to him on the animalistic level. Her breasts were tight, swollen, sensitive. Oona said the child was causing some of this, her body accepting his life within her. Only, her nights with Damian St. Giles had taught her about the small changes in her due to wanting him.
At this moment, she was close to hating him. No man dared order her about like some common serving wench. She did not trust him, frightened what his presence in her life now meant, terrified of the repercussions if he discovered her deceit. That little stemmed her body’s craving for him. It took all her willpower not to go to him, put her hands on that hard belly and slide them up his chest, to take his mouth in a bruising kiss, taste him as she had every night in her dreams since she let him go.
“Aithinne, come here.”
Thought barely more than a whisper, she knew better than to defy him. Swallowing to moisten the dryness in her throat, her steps carried her back to the bed to face the arrogant man.
“Your wish be my command.” Her tone conveyed it was anything but.
The corner of his sensual mouth quirked up. “Take your clothes off, Aithinne.”
She tried to weigh his mood. Was he testing her? Did he mean it? “Go to perdition, Lord RavenHawke.”
The small muscles in his jaw flexed, rising to the challenge. “It is not just my wish, Princess, it is my command. Take…off…your…clothes.”
A tremble rippled through her. She fought to keep from slapping that smug expression off his much too beautiful face, and held tight against the part of her that wanted to do precisely as he demanded. The wanting rose in her, thrummed in her blood to where her body felt on fire. She never knew this drive existed within her before. Was not sure she liked it now. Only, the emotions were overpowering to the point she could barely think.
Simply want him.
He shifted, swinging his long legs to the floor, rising so his lean, hard body was close, too close. Aithinne’s mind screamed for her to run before it was too late. Somewhere inside her she accepted it was already too late. This man held her in thrall. He placed his hand on the flesh just below her neck, fingers splaying as he stroked up her throat. His thumb caressed her jaw, and then his palm agonizingly dragged down the expanse of skin to the edge of her bodice into the cleavage. Her breasts, already sensitive, almost strained upward to meet his touch, wanting it to go lower.
The expression in the hooded eyes said he knew her weakness, that he held the supremacy. All she could do was stand and tremble.
And want.
“Your flesh is cool, Aithinne…so soft…so very soft.”
He skimmed his hand up to her throat and then down, over and over, each time a little lower. Her breathing hitched as his hands cupped her breasts, each inhale pushing the crests up, almost offering them.
Finally, the rough fingers grazed over the pebbled peak, drawing a ragged breath from her. Arcs of lightning crashed about the tower, the fury of the storm seemed to feed off their rising passion. One finger flicked back and forth, as her body echoed the lightning within her flesh. His caress grew rougher as his finger and thumb tweaked the nipple, increasing the pressure as he saw it spiraled her need for him.
Finally, he shoved the bodice off her shoulders, exposing her breasts to the cool air. Damian sucked in a breath and held it as his burning eyes watched both his hands cup her pale flesh. Brushing his thumbs back and forth he whispered in near awe, “Tell me to stop, Aithinne.”
“Stop, my lord.”
“Tomorrow…tomorrow I will stop.”
His mouth found hers, kissing her savagely, as the tower shook from the power of the storm surrounding them, as they shook from the power of the storm within.