Devil of Kilmartin (10 page)

“All is well?” Symon asked, waving away the wine in favor of the meat.

“Aye. There was much muttering when you did not return to the hall, but the lass’s presence seemed enough of a diversion to keep them occupied.”

“Good.”

“You would really give this Lamont shelter?”

Symon turned his attention away from the flames to his brother. “Aye, Auld Mor—”

“I do not care what the auld witch said.”

Symon scowled. “Then what is it you wish to know?”

“Why.”

Symon rose from his chair and moved closer to the heat of the fire. “You know why.”

“You would put the clan in deeper danger only to cure yourself?”

“I would never put the clan in danger if I did not believe it was for just cause. Ridding myself of this curse will let me lead this clan the way I intended; the way our father would have wished.”

“Or it will bring the wrath of Lamont down upon us, and that of all their allies.”

“Not if you find that information I need. If we know why Elena found it necessary to flee, we will have the bargaining chip we need to keep Lamonts from our borders and their allies in their own homes. There has to be some powerful reason they would hunt a healer such as Elena. Why is she not revered and honored by her clan? Surely this is the key to both keeping the Lamonts at bay and convincing Elena this is the place she must be.”

“I have found nothing so far. Tomorrow I will ride out to see what information I can glean.”

“You will go to Auld Morag, tell her what you seek. She will guide you.”

“She will spout nonsense.”

Symon considered his brother. “I do not like being in her presence any more than you do. However, I am still your chief, and, despite your mistrust, that auld woman has counseled this clan too long and too well not to ask her help in this matter. You will do as I say.”

Ranald’s face was carefully neutral. “Very well. I will go to her at first light. I will do as she deems necessary. But then I will follow my own counsel. We shall see who
is better suited to lead this clan, you and that auld witch—or me.”

With effort, Symon forced himself to calm. He uncurled his fists, relaxed his shoulders, and purposely drained his goblet.

Ranald glanced at Symon. “Her clan will want her back.”

“They’ll not get her back. Morag saw her destiny. ’Tis here amongst MacLachlans.”

Ranald looked at him for a long time, then nodded his head. “There is more to it than that, Symon. You ken it as well as I do.”

“I ken there is more, but I cannot say what it is.”

Ranald nodded.

“ ’Tis like a buzzing in the gut,” Symon continued. “Something is wrong, and if we but knew what to look for, I feel we would see it right before us.”

“You promise the lass much. Will you honor me equally as well?” Ranald stood at the fire, his back to Symon.

“If it is within my power.”

“Do not rush into this alliance. Give me time to discover the cause of her being here amongst us.” He turned to face his brother, his face set in grim lines. “I bid you walk wary in this matter. I do not trust the Lamonts.”

Symon considered Ranald’s words. “ ’Tis reasonable. I will endeavor to be patient.” He grinned at his brother, who only scowled in response. “Get you off to find this information. I fear I have no great talent for patience.”

“Aye. If there is need for me before I return,” Ranald said, “send Murdoch to find me. He seems able to find anyone in these forests.”

Symon agreed, though he did not like the intimation in his brother’s words. Ranald would be needed if the Devil took Symon again. And that would only happen if Elena could not help him.

Ranald left and Symon paced the floor, trying to work out a plan to convince Elena to stay. He had promised not to rush into any alliance with the lass, but that did not mean he could not try to soften her to her fate. Indeed, if the kiss they had shared showed him anything, it was that softening her would be pleasant, at the least. But the lass was stubborn, and it was not Symon she wanted.

Safety, she said, and yet she did not seem to know exactly what she meant by that. Safety from what? Her own clan? Or simply from the man who chased her?

Frustration scratched at him. The answer was so close, yet held too tightly by the lass. Still, she had trusted him enough with one secret, perhaps he could win another from her. The question was, how?

E
lena had been
surprised when Ranald told her Symon’s chamber was next to her own. Surprised, and worried. Now she heard Ranald’s thumping gait pass back down the hall toward the stair, and she wondered what the two MacLachlans had decided about her fate. Had she sealed it by agreeing to help the beleaguered chief? She could not see any other way of gaining the safety she needed, though if he did not keep his word, she was doomed. Certainly he would think he held her in his grip after that kiss.

That kiss. Just the thought of it brought the experience back in full force. And the results as well. Yes, she had
been consumed by the sensations swirling through her. And yes, he had gotten what he wanted from her. But how had he known what would happen? Perhaps he hadn’t and he only thought to muddle her mind with his soft kiss, and his hard body—

She could not dwell on that.

Her gift seemed to reach out to this man despite her decision to withhold it. Again and again she fought to contain it, only to have him touch her. Lightly or otherwise and he seemed to pull it from her, or perhaps she gave it in spite of herself.

To fight it, she needed to understand it. To understand it, she needed to figure out how it happened. If she could sort through the myriad sensations of that kiss and find the moment when her gift asserted its power, she might be able to fight it. Elena took a deep breath and let herself relive those brief moments.

There was heat, and lightness, and a peculiar heaviness at the very same time. There was a prickling of the skin as when lightening struck nearby, and a liquid fire burning in the blood. She remembered the scent of leather and wool, the prickle of his whiskers, and the softness of his lips against hers. She remembered a curious fog that had come over her, blocking out time and place, who she was—and what. She could not remember another time in her entire life when she had been able to completely forget what she was.

And yet, despite the pleasure of that moment out of time, she was sure that was when her gift had taken over, overcoming years of practiced control, healing Symon. She did not remember it happening, but in that moment of abandon, she had forgotten.

It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. If she was to have any power in this situation, she must be in total control of her gift at all times. Symon must not be able to use her gift whenever he chose. She must be able to withhold it in case he did not keep his word. And in order to do that there could be no more touching unless she did so to dampen his symptoms.

There could be no more kissing. She would keep her distance from him, though a tiny place inside of her yearned for that abandonment again, that moment of losing herself in the embrace of the Devil of Kilmartin.

chapter 7

S
ymon searched the
sparsely occupied tables of the Great Hall. Elena hadn’t been in her chamber when he’d gone to escort her down to break her fast. She must be here eating, somewhere. The alternative was not something Symon wanted to dwell on. If she wasn’t here . . .

But she was. He saw her, hunched over in a dark corner of the vast space, her back to the door. She clearly sought to escape everyone’s notice, but from the furtive glances and blatant stares of his kinsmen, he knew she had not accomplished her goal. Of course that fiery hair, carefully tamed into a tight braid, would have stood out anywhere. He imagined its silky strands, sliding through his fingers. He shook off the image, focusing instead on what he needed from her. He tried to smile, hoping to appear less dangerous, and strode across the hall.

“There you are,” he said as he straddled the bench, facing a startled Elena.

“I would show you about your new home when you have finished eating.” Unable to resist, Symon reached out to smooth a small tendril of hair away from her cheek. It was just as silky as his imagination had told him, yet Elena winced at his touch and inched down the bench away from him.

“Do you not wish to acquaint yourself with this castle?”

“I do not need to,” she said quietly. “I will not be staying here long.”

The smile slipped from Symon’s face. “Of course you will. You are safe here, and you have promised to aid me.”

Elena looked at him as if he had sprouted an extra eye. “Have you already determined to forget
your
word?” she hissed.

“Nay. I will do as I promised.”

“Then what do you want?”

“There is no reason you cannot learn a bit of my people. See the ways of the castle and its folk.”

She leaned closer to him, and his heart momentarily sped up. “I will not. . .” She looked about her. “You agreed not to force . . .” If Symon believed such things, he would swear the fairy folk had stolen her tongue for she could not finish what she started to say.

“I gave you my word,” he said quietly, getting irritated that he had to keep telling her this. “Why can you not believe me?”

Elena just stared at him, then rose quickly and left the hall before he realized she was going. A rising murmur followed her departure, as if conversation had been
dampened in order to overhear what words were exchanged between the chief and his guest.

Symon followed Elena, finding her stopped at the top of the stone staircase leading down to the bailey. She stood, seemingly transfixed by the activity below. He followed her gaze, noting the beaten look of the people toiling there. Even the animals—horses, pigs, and sheep—looked forlorn, hopeless. He reached out and touched her arm, and she jumped, as if startled from a trance.

“What?” he asked, needing to know what she saw there.

She started to speak, then closed her eyes for a moment. He could almost feel her erecting a wall between them, pushing him away with her stubborn insistence that she would was not here to fulfill the prophecy. Her stubborn insistence that she had somewhere else to go, that Kilmartin could not be her home.

Temper flared in him. He must help his clan. He must overcome his curse. And she was the one that held the key, the key to his future, and that of Clan Lachlan. “Why can this not be your home?” he asked, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his side to keep him from grabbing her and giving her a good shake. That’s what he really wanted to do, shake her, and kiss her, and shake her some more. Stubborn, stubborn woman.

“Because”—she looked out over the bailey again—“because there is too great a need for me here.” She glanced back at him. “There are too many reasons for you to change your mind. My ability corrupts those who would wield it, and I am not the only one to suffer for it.”

“I am not like that.”

“You are.”

This time he gave into his impulses, grabbing her by her
shoulders and turning her to face him, turning her away from the bailey that promised only hopelessness. “When the time comes I will take you where you wish to go. I ask only that you use your gift to stop”—the look flashing in her eyes had him backtracking—“nay, not to stop, you say you cannot do that, to abate the symptoms of my affliction. I gave you my word, I will not break it, though I may try to change your mind.”

“Aye, by words, or by threats”—her gaze shifted to his mouth, her eyes going soft and liquid, and he knew she had been as unsettled by their kiss as he was—“or seduction.” She shook off his hands and stepped away. “Do not touch me again, Devil.”

“But ’twill serve to convince the clan you are content to stay here,” he said, his voice echoing the frustration growing within him.

She looked back at the bailey. “They are not so daft as to believe I will stay.”

“They need only have the hope.”

“There is no hope in this world. There are only those with power, and those who wish to gain it.”

“And which are you, Elena?” His voice was hard, his temper held ruthlessly in check. “Would you gain your power by refusing to keep your word?”

Elena’s hand whipped out. She slapped him soundly, the sound slicing through the noise of the bailey. “I have suffered enough at the hands of men like you. My own kinsmen have suffered as well. If I refused, ’twould make me just like . . .” She crossed her arms, erecting yet another barrier between them. “I will keep my part of our bargain, but it does not include you touching me, nor my learning aught of your people.”

With those words she turned and descended the bailey stair. When she reached the bottom, she slipped along the base of the curtain wall, hastily disappearing from sight.

S
ymon paced the
ramparts, watching Elena move slowly through the scattered people below, talking to no one, moving carefully away when anyone ventured near.

Murdoch appeared at his elbow and stood quietly, watching with him. “She’s an odd lass, that one,” he said after a few minutes, “but bonny.”