Chapter Sixteen
But if Love comes, he will enter,
And will find out the way.
— Love Will Find a Way, 17th Century Anonymous
With mixed emotions flooding through him, Damian studied Challon as the man’s eyes hungrily followed his lady wife’s departure from the Great Hall. Tamlyn had come to report she had settled Aithinne for the night, and was now going to seek her bed, as well. Damian thought it endearing how she had asked Challon’s permission.
Never could he envision the fiery Aithinne coming to ask his leave to retire. He almost snorted thinking of her, how she chafed at orders he had given over the past few days. She wouldst sooner take a knife to him than bend her will to his. Firebrand―what her name meant in the Scots. It was perfect for her, he thought. His Firebrand.
It brought him joy to seeing how Julian and Tamlyn were already bonding so strongly. Truly, he was happy for them. Yet, in the same breath, it also made him feel empty inside. He craved this same contentment, the closeness of their affection. “She is good for you, Julian. I have not seen you this happy in years.”
“Aye, Edward has no idea what a prize he has given me. I am damn lucky, indeed.” Julian concurred, with a half-smile. “I have a feeling we both are.”
“You are. For me…mayhap.” Damian shrugged.
“Have you twigged if she lies about this so-called marriage to Lyonglen?” Challon asked, settling back in his chair to finish his drink.
Damian lifted the goblet to his mouth, paused and flashed his teeth in a grin. “Oh, she lies. I spoke with the gatekeeper, and casually inquired how often Malcolm the Culdee comes to Lyonglen. He said the priest comes only when called. So I asked, when was the last time the man had been summoned?”
“And?” When Damian just smiled smugly, Julian nudged his foot with the tip of his boot. “Spit it out. Do not keep me wondering.”
“The guard said the priest was fetched one stormy night―first time since last Yuletide―a little over three moons’ passing. He came as quickly as a fast horse would carry him. Then, departed with the dawn.”
Julian yawned. “Interesting, but not quite to the point.”
Damian nodded, then took a swallow of the wine. “The crux being, the brothers started putting about the rumor that Lyonglen had married several sennights before that. Which means―”
“I raise a cup to the Dragon of Challon…brought low by love madness!” The slurred words rang out through the Great Hall.
All eyes turned in the direction of Dirk Pendegast, who had stood and now lifted his cup to Julian. The man’s eyes glazed from the drink. Clear that demons ate at his insides.
Damian gritted his teeth. He recalled earlier when he had found the man in Aithinne’s room. She had been scared by Pendegast, but then, to Damian’s disgust, he had long ago surmised the warrior liked females to cringe before him. One of the best knights Julian had ever trained, his cousin was disgusted by the man’s sadistic bent toward females. Under a less careful liege, the tall knight with black hair and eyes would likely prey on maidservants, or rape women in warfare, proof of this was his near taking of Tamlyn before Julian had stopped him.
“Love madness?” A small twitch in Julian’s jaw, barely perceptible, bespoke of his controlled anger. Only a fool provoked Julian Challon.
“Aye, ’tis a distemper—and you, my lord—” Getting to his feet, the fool gave a mock, sweeping bow. “—mayhap be beyond cure. It can make a lapdog out of the strongest. Rot our brains.”
“Distemper?” Julian probed, clearly wondering what maggots had gotten into Dirk’s fouled mind.
Challon had stated a fortnight ago he had sent word to Baron John Pendegast, Dirk’s eldest brother, that he wanted Dirk recalled to the family holding, that his services would no longer be needed. Unfortunately, thus far there had been no reply. The baron had hoped Julian would settle a fief on Dirk. Damian knew that would never happen. Challon wanted the man gone from Glen Shane.
Damian noticed Challon’s right hand had deceptively slipped down to the hilt of Tamlyn’s sgian dubh, which he kept tucked at his belt. After Pendegast scaring Aithinne earlier, he wouldst like naught more than to see the repugnant pup taught a lesson, but he had a feeling Dirk was not as drunk as he pretended, and deliberately provoked Julian for just this sort of response. Mayhap he assumed Julian’s wound to the wrist to be worse than it was. Tamlyn had pampered him all evening. Possibly, Dirk assumed she did so out of necessity instead of love. Dirk would never mistake to challenge Julian in a fair fight otherwise.
To head off the coming confrontation, Damian slammed his gold cup down hard on the tabletop to draw Julian’s focus from the knight. “Sir Dirk dips into the wine overly this night. Pendegast, close thy mouth, before you ruin our digestion with bilious nonsense.”
“Any healer will attest to the truth. Go ahead and ask them. Just make certain to speak to a male one, not some female witch, who plies you with love filters. It is disease, say I. As with any disease, there is a cure. Does not our Church say women corrupt us, weaken us? No man shouldst suffer such indignities to his honor and pride. A woman needs must know her place. Obey their lord. A man never permits one to lead him around by his cock.”
Julian jumped to his feet.
Damian loosely restrained his arm, and cautioned lowly, “Ignore him. His words spew forth from a green fount of jealousy.”
“Healers bleed a man…draw out the foul poison crippling spirit and body. To sear wounds and prevent infection you slap hot iron. For a man to cure this insidious sickness that saps his soul, he must have intercourse with another woman. Then, and only then, shall he rid his soul, mind and body of this dark malady. If that does not work, he needs must discover they all are alike. From lowly serving wench to high born lady, willing to lay with any man when his back is turned. A man is a fool if he thinks any one of them is special above others. A lady screams her pleasure same as the lowest swine girl. ’Tis sad when our mightiest warrior is brought low by cock fever.”
Before Damian could blink, Julian tossed his dagger, and with a thunk it landed tip first between Dirk’s first two fingers. Casually, yet with regal bearing, Challon strode to the table. He stared at the knight, unblinking, waited, and allowed the man’s fear to rise. Julian wielded silence as a weapon, one of his tools that always gave him the advantage. Finally when Dirk blinked, Challon reached out and snatched the knife back and then used the tip of the blade to pare his fingernails. “You were saying?”
Dirk sat down and reached for his cup. “Nothing, my lord.”
“What I thought. Keep that vulgar tongue behind your teeth, eh?” Julian’s lashes flicked disdain.
Dirk’s jaw muscles flexed visibly, holding back the fury, but he said naught.
Spinning on his heels, Julian headed for the doors.
Damian followed Julian from the hall. “You wouldst do well to send that pup back to his brothers.”
“I plan on it. I sent word to his brother to recall him.” Julian strode from the Great Hall. “The prickles up my scalp tell me I may regret not using that dagger to slice that insolent throat.”
“Good, because if you do not send him from here I shall end up doing worse. I found him trying to corner Aithinne in her room just before supper. She said at first he thought her to be Tamlyn. I trust him not. Tamlyn or Aithinne―I do not want him near either woman.”
“Do not worry. He is gone, or I fear I shall have to kill him.”
Pausing to glance back to the arrogant soldier, Damian asserted, “You might have to stand in line, Julian.”
♦◊♦
Damian watched Challon go on up to the next landing to the lord’s chamber. He smiled as he saw Julian taking the steps two at a time. Eager to be with his lady.
The emptiness that gnawed at his innards at supper, now arose again as he wondered at the feeling of knowing someone awaited his return. With a sigh, he turned and stared at the long hallway, dark except for the torch burning in the sconce, about halfway down the corridor. No one waited for him. There was no body warming his bed―or his heart.
His whole life he had carried the sense of feeling apart. Not a Challon son, just a cousin. Unwanted by his grandfather. He was half Scot, and yet this land was strange to him. He wanted to vanquish this restless, hungry spirit within―to belong somewhere. He wanted what Julian had―love, a home, a future. Someone waiting for him to come to bed.
He wanted Aithinne.
She alone could give him for what his soul yearned.
His eyes were drawn to the door where she rested. Was she asleep, or was the redheaded harridan waiting to hear his steps pass by? Mayhap someone waited for him after all.
With a smile, he started to take a step toward her room, only to have raised voices at the bottom of the stairs distract his attention. The small hairs prickled at the back of his neck, causing his warrior’s skills to take over. Stepping so he was cloaked by the deep shadows, he looked down the stairwell to the floors below. Several of Julian’s men were passing, coming from the Great Hall and heading out of the lord’s tower. Talking, chuckling, enough to be heard, yet just at a level where most of the words were indistinguishable. They laughed at some jest, and then moved on past.
One lingered. Dirk Pendegast. He paused at the bottom of the steps, his hand on the newel post, looking upward, as if trying to decide something.
Damian’s hand went to the hilt of his sword without conscious thought, his warrior’s instinct happening involuntarily. If Dirk so much as put a foot on the first step he was dead before he reached the third one. The torches on either side of the stairs illuminated the hard planes of Pendegast’s face. A face a woman might mistakenly find comely―until it was too late.
After Julian took the three holdings, he ordered Dirk and the other men who attacked Tamlyn tied to the post in the ballium and given a hundred lashes. Pendegast was lucky Julian had not killed him, so great was his offense. As Damian stared down at the cold, empty eyes, he feared Dirk had not learnt his lesson. An oily taste filled his stomach, as he realized he held his breath, ready to strike.
Finally, with one last inimical look, the man moved on. Something in his manner spoke to Damian. Whatever poison that fouled Pendegast’s mind would only grow worse. He bore the taint of madness. Uneasy, he glanced to the stairs. Both Moffet and Gervase slept in the hallway leading to the lord’s chamber. They would protect Challon and Tamlyn.
Turning, his eyes went to the door where Aithinne slumbered. No one slept as sentry before her chamber. She had not even brought a lady’s maid with her, so none else would be resting in the room. Even if there had been someone, he would not trust her to be capable of defending Aithinne. If he admitted it, he would not depend on anyone but himself to see to the lady of Coinnleir Wood.
He smiled. “Ah, the sacrifice. The code of chivalry says a knight must protect his lady. If she shan’t have me in her bed, then I shall have to make a pallet on the floor.” With a last look down the stairwell, he went to play guard.
Aithinne jerked up in the bed when he pushed the door open. Wearing only a thin chemise, so sheer, it was nearly his undoing. The dark circles of her breasts were clearly outlined against the pale material, bringing a wolfish grin to him, as he noticed how those crests became more defined the nearer he came to the bed. Even in the firelight, he saw her blush as she tugged the wolf pelt cover to her chest. Her long hair had been plaited, the braid hung over her right shoulder and down to the bed.
Her wide-eyed expression lent her an air of innocence. He knew that was a lie. Aithinne, his mistress of deceits. Only, as he looked at her he could not breathe, let alone care what she was hiding from him. He just needed her.
“What are you doing here, Lord RavenHawke?” She tried to sound chiding, aloof.
“Take off your chemise, Aithinne.” He began unbuckling his baldric.
“Go kiss the backside of your destrier, my lord,” she snapped, her nostrils flaring slightly.
Whether it was with rising desire or anger he was not sure. Mayhap a mix of both.
“The command worked last time,” he pointed out, grinning. “Ah, my lady plays hard to get this night. Fair enough. That being the nature of things, I thought you might be in need of a bed warmer.”
“The night be soft, not cold, my lord. So you may hie yourself on down the hall―or to the stable,” she fussed.
“True, it is not cold.” He leaned the sheathed sword against the wall, within reach from the bed, then sat on the edge of it. “But sometimes, there is another cold that touches people, Aithinne. It comes from being lonely. Are you ever lonely, lass?”
He saw such sadness, such longing in her eyes, before she pulled her knees to her chest and looked away. His heartbeat dropped to a low thud, her pain becoming his.
“Please…” came her whispered reply.
“Please what, Firebrand? That is what your name means, does it not?” Lifting the long braid, he toyed with it. “I think the name fits you well. You have a rather fiery temper and―”
Her head jerked up, the sadness still there so tangible that it was nearly a living force between them. “If you say freckles…I will…will kick you.”
Damian chuckled, though everything within him wanted to soothe her pain, to bring a smile to her beautiful face. “Freckles? Ah, my lady, you are sensitive about them? Even in the bright sunlight I hardly notice them. By candlelight I cannot see them a’tall.”
“Do not laugh at me, Damian St. Giles, or I will…will―”
He reached out and lifted her chin with his crooked finger. “I do not laugh at you. Freckles have divine possibilities, Firebrand. Such as—since you have freckles in one spot―your nose―then you might have at least one or two…or three…elsewhere. A man might spend half a night hunting for them.” Might spent his lifetime, he wanted to say, but feared she was not of a mind to hear that yet. “Since I am suddenly quite captivated by freckles, it wouldst be a quest worthy of a knight of Challon.”
Aithinne crossed her arms, and buried her head against her knees. “Oh, go away,” came the muffled request.
Still playing with her braid, he chuckled. “Cry and you will have puffy eyes and a big red nose come morn. Likely, your freckles will stand out more.”
“I could grow to hate you, St. Giles.” Her hazel eyes lashed daggers at him. The words might have had some force if her chin had not quivered.
He traced the faint cleft in her chin with the side of his thumb. Some might consider that slight dip a flaw in the perfection of her beauty. Not him. It made her more real. Emotions overwhelmed him, as he knew without doubt he stared into the face which had haunted his dreams for years, that kept him clinging to life when he was ready to give up because his whole existence had been hollow. He needed more to his life, wanted roots, a home, more sons like Moffet. Mayhap a daughter with those ensorcelling eyes.
“Hate me?” He shook his head no. “You resent that I have come into a life where you had final say in all. Now, I tell you how things will be. You do not like that. You have been used to doing as you please for too long. Give it time, Aithinne. We will learn to work together for the good of Glen Eallach. You will do what is right for your people. So will I. They are now my people. When you come to trust that―trust me―maybe you will also trust me with the secrets you guard so jealousy.”
She looked away.
“Coward,” he chuckled.
Her head snapped back. “I am no coward.”
She started to slap him, but his quick reflexes caught her wrist before it made contact with his face. Grinning, he let her struggle against his hold. Then, he forced her palm down inside his sark’s opening to the center of his chest where his heart beat. “I warned you, Firebrand, about trying to hit me. What would happen.”
Distracted by the pounding under her hand, she stared where her palm met his flesh, in thrall by the magic rising between them. Then, her eyes batted as she recalled what he said would be the punishment if she ever tried to strike him again. Aithinne attempted to pull back as if she had been scalded, but he refused to let her go.
“I am sorry,” she whispered the apology.
He laughed out loud. “That, I do not believe.”
Her smile tried to slip out. “Very well, I am no’ sorry. But I do wish you would go away.”
“I do not believe that, either. Your body puts lie to those words.” He brushed the back of his hand lightly against the dark circle of her breast, where it pressed against the thin material with each shallow breath she drew. She shuddered. “As your body becomes aroused, it speaks to me with its changes. No words are needed between us, Aithinne. Words can lie. This does not.”
He covered her mouth with his, giving her no chance of protesting. He was not being fair. Fair be damned. This night, he wanted to be with her, to hold her through the long shadows of darkness, feel her heart beating next to his, and awaken in the warm glow of dawn with her in his arms. He was a warrior. Anytime he went into battle, he waged war to win. The war he played out on the plane of her bed was little different. He wanted to conquest Aithinne’s heart, take her hostage and never let her go. Mayhap, he would tie her up and tickle her with a peacock feather until she surrendered, and yielded all her secrets as well as her body.
Something about peacocks trigged drunken images to float through his mind. He recalled there were no peacocks at Glen Shane. There were some at Glen Eallach, though. What had led him to the tower room at Lyonglen that first night? He had meant to examine why the remembrance bothered him, but Aithinne had entered the chamber and he had told her to take off her clothes. Then, his mind had suddenly forgotten all about peacocks.
This time was no different. She muddled his thoughts.
Breaking the kiss, Damian gasped for breath. His eyes searched hers. Words floated on the night air, so he made them his own. “Half-measures never see the deed done, Aithinne.”
He heard the small hitch in her breath and knew he had struck a chord within her. Yet, once again, his mind little cared for riddles as he stared at this pagan enchantress. The candlelight made her eyes seem to glow. Intelligent, penetrating, they held a power, a pull. Their directness might unsettle some men. Men too weak to accept the challenge flashing in their hazel depths. His mother had whispered tales of the Cait Sidhe, a race of witch women of the Picts. Lore said they possessed the power to assume the form of a cat under the rays of the full moon. He recalled Challon saying the women of Tamlyn’s clan were descended from such females. As he stared at Aithinne he found it easy to believe she was some magical creature touched by the blood of the Fae―a witch. A woman a man would kill to possess.
She provoked his warrior’s blood. The need to conquer her flooded his mind until he could no longer think. Only beg. “Touch me, Aithinne.”
For several heartbeats she did not stir. Then the corner of her mouth twitched as she rose up on her knees and moved closer. “Touch you how, my lord?”
“Any manner you wish. Burn me with your fire, Aithinne.”
She pushed at his shoulders. “Get off the bed, my lord, you have too many clothes on.”
He watched her for a second, wondering if she was trying to trick him. His inner voice told him to take the chance. Trusting it, he slid off the bed and stood.
Aithinne’s legs slipped off the bed, coming to stand behind him, her soft hands snaking around his waist to reach for the hem of his sark to pull it over his head. So damn slow, he had to grit his teeth at the ghostly friction upon his skin. He barely breathed until she tugged it off and tossed it to the floor. Molding her body against his bare back, she ran her hands around and up his chest and then slowly down to unlace his chausses. As the deft fingers nearly drove him to madness, he took over undoing them.
With a throaty purr, she slapped at his hands and then nipped his back. Damian smiled and let her continue her game. She pressed her soft breasts to the curve of his spine, whilst like an idiot, he balanced on one foot to undo the cross-lacings on each boot in turn, then kicked out of them. She was already shoving down the leathern hose, allowing him to step out of them. With another rumble in her chest, she brought her hands up the outside of his thighs, nails lightly scoring his flesh.
Her questing hands slid around his waist, one going up so the first finger could encircle his flat nipple, the other going down, to the soft sack between his legs. She squeezed gently, causing his staff to buck painfully. Damian leaned his head back, closing his eyes, to ride the edge of the pain pleasure threshold she brought to him.
“Is this how you wished to be touched, my lord?”
He smiled in delicious agony as she wickedly added a pinch to the nub on his chest. It sent lightning arcing through his body to explode in his groin. Sensations he never before experienced as Aithinne’s magical touch made it all new for him.
Spinning around, he caught her waist. She did not resist him. Instead her mouth met his, opening to taste him once more. Slanting his head for a better angle, he pressed his advantage. Hungry for all she could give him. Control―if there had ever been such a thing―shattered as the kiss went on. And on. He heard a low moan―her moan―felt it through his skin and every drop of blood. Took it within him and made it his own. Deepening the contact, he issued the primitive male demand for her submission. Now.
His hands roamed over the swollen breasts, toyed with her nipples until her breathing was ragged, wheezing. Damian smiled, arrogant, happy, determined. He pushed her back on the bed, then covered her with his burning body. Never had the primal urge to mate torn through him with such savage force, proclaiming this woman was his.
Aithinne was more than he ever dared hope for, even in his darkest dreams, a woman with the power to make those dreams a reality.
The magic was voracious, like a forest fire consuming all in its path.
What he felt for her terrified him. But by damn, he would possess her, own her. Kill anyone who tried to take her from him.
The passion burned so bright the explosion came quickly, then immediately seared them all over again, pushing him to take her again and again.
Aithinne…Firebrand. Aye, she had branded him.
In her bed, he was no longer alone.