A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) by Deborah Macgillivray

Author:Deborah Macgillivray [Macgillivray, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Prairie Rose Publications
Published: 2017-07-12T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Mar gum biodh an air do chraiceann.

(As if the fire be on your skin.)

— Auld Scots Adage

In the pink and purple gloaming, Challon joined his brothers and cousin to watch the lighting of the balefire of Beltaine. The Scots considered this a sacred fire, he had learned. Within Glenrogha every candle, each fire had been extinguished, and they would be relit from this blaze come dawn.

Men and women formed seven rings, dancing around the great fire, the pit cut deep into the loam. In opposing directions, each circle revolved about the balefire, its pitch-fed flames shooting high into the night sky. Their pagan invocation to the God Bel, Lord of Light.

“’Tis difficult to tell the women from the men.” Damian laughed, referring to the Scots males wearing their feile-beag―kilts.

Arms folded across his chest, Julian’s eyes took in the spectacle, but shifted to judge his

cousin. Once more, he grew uneasy with the bent of his cousin’s mind. Damian downed his second tankard of mead, as if he sought escape from some inner demon. Julian feared the trouble stemmed from Damian’s growing preoccupation with Tamlyn. It was impossible not to see how Damian’s eyes followed her every move when she was near.

Julian gave him a half smile. “Sorry, to hear you are so sorely afflicted, cousin. Fortunately, I do not suffer the same problem.”

Guillaume laughed, “A first―Damian having troubles differing betwixt males and females. Mayhap, you indulged in too much mead? It addles your vision?”

“Normans,” Tamlyn huffed, coming to stand next to Julian. Her amber eyes glowed in the orange-yellow cast from the bonfire as she smiled up at him. “In the Highlands ’tis spoken any man can appear manly in trewes and chausses. Only a real man can wear the plaide. Lasses ken him very virile.”

Julian leaned to the side to breathe the words against Tamlyn’s hair, meant for her ear only. “Then, mayhap I shall wear one for you...sometime.”

Her blood thrummed, visible in her neck. Julian felt the same pulse beat within him.

A playful grin formed her small mouth. “You wouldst be bonnie in one, my lord.”

“Bah, the fool thing be too drafty in winter,” Damian almost snarled. The mead seeing his guard down, his eyes flashed in jealousy. “A man could die of…exposure.” Then, realizing his jest, he laughed a bit too loudly.

Destain was sitting on a chair they had fetched for him, since his leg was still healing. Behind his cousin’s back, Destain pantomimed the motion of downing cups. His brother’s arched brows asked Julian if he knew the reason why. They all recognized this sort of behavior was so unlike Damian.

Julian shrugged, ignoring Damian’s troubled spirit. He placed his hand on the small of Tamlyn’s back, reminding his cousin of realities.

Noticing the heavy gold torque about Tamlyn’s neck, he ran his thumb over the intricate design. The workmanship was strong, with subtle artistry, bordering on the mysterious. The flattened torque would fetch a king’s ransom on any market. The gold’s patina spoke it was not new. Ancient gold had a deeper luster, it shimmered—just as the woman who wore it did.

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