Devil of Kilmartin (7 page)

This clan was one contradiction after another. A chief who was distrusted, reviled. A substantial battlement so poor it could not be furnished properly.

Elena heard faint voices from behind a door at the far end of the long Hall. After a time Symon emerged. His plaid moved in time with his stride, drawing her attention. She found herself uncomfortably pleased with the well-muscled form of his legs, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the intensity of his eyes—

Her breath hitched and her heart raced. He watched her as a starving man eyes a fat rabbit.

“There is a small chamber over the kitchen you may have,” he said as he neared her, his eyes fixed on hers. “ ’Tis not fine, but ’twill have to do . . . for now.”

Elena nodded, unsure what to say to him, or how to calm the pounding of her heart. She followed him out of the far end of the Great Hall and into a dark vestibule. Heat radiated from the opposite wall where large openings in the wall showed a kitchen. Symon disappeared through a doorway on her left, leading her up a narrow, spiraling stair. Stopping at the first landing, he stepped into the hallway and pushed open a heavy oak door.

Elena took care not to brush him as she ducked her head
and passed through the small doorway, into a room more spacious than any she had ever lived in. A simple box-bed was pushed up against the wall on her left. Directly across from her was a modest fireplace, though the lack of ashes told her it had been a long time since any fire had burned there. A small window with precious diamond-paned glass overlooked the glen they had climbed out of that morning. Sunlight streamed through it, creating diamond-patterned shadows on the wall. The floor was bare planks, the walls equally bare.

Symon cleared his throat. “Will it do?”

Will it do? No one had ever asked her opinion of her surroundings. She had always been told what she needed, never asked. Will it do? A tiny whisper of wanting passed through her. It would do well, after a bit of cleaning, a fire warming the hearth, some fragrant rushes strewn about the floor. Elena stopped herself. No, it would not do. She would not be plied with small comforts, lulled into revealing her secret.

“ ’Tis fine.”

Symon exhaled loudly. Elena turned to look at him. A hint of a smile hovered in his eyes, subtly changing the stern features she was quickly becoming accustomed to into those of a quieter, less battered soul.

“I’ll see a fire is laid and some food brought up. Perhaps you would like a comb for your hair?”

She took the tangled mess that remained of her braid in her hand, picking small twigs and bits of bracken out of it. “I am rather heather-headed, aren’t I?”

The smile hovering in his eyes deepened, gathering tiny lines at their corners, threatening to tip his lips into something other than the grim line they seemed to prefer.
Something about him made her want to see those lips smile, those green eyes twinkle. She suddenly wanted to know what his laugh sounded like. It would be deep and rich, she was sure.

Forcing herself to abandon these thoughts, she looked down where she still gripped her braid in dirt- and soot-stained hands.

“I’d like a bit of water to wash the soot off me, as well,” she said.

“What you want is a good dipping in the burn. That’ll wash away the soot.” One corner of his mouth twitched upward but was quickly controlled. He crossed his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the door, relaxing ever so slightly.

“And have you taken up the ways of the Saracens then?” Something about this new side of Symon made her tease. “Washing all the time?”

“Aye, that’s it,” he teased back, surprising her. “I’m secretly a Saracen come back with the Crusaders. Have you not heard of me—Black Symon the Saracen?”

A laugh escaped Elena, startling her so much she put a hand to her mouth to stop it. What was she thinking? She mustn’t let this man too close. He already suspected something. She must keep him at a distance. She must remember that he was just like Dougal, a warrior intent on securing his position.

“You’ve a fine laugh, Elena-lass.” His voice was low now, the teasing gone from it. “You should let it out more often.”

“Nay,” she said, equally as serious, “there’s naught to laugh about.” What was she thinking, laughing with this man. He truly was the Devil, distracting her from troubles,
tempting her with a lovely bedchamber and teasing banter. His charm—when he let it out—was as heady as fine wine. She must put a stop to this now.

“What do you expect in return for your hospitality?” she asked.

Her words brought back the Devil of Kilmartin, banishing the softer Symon. He pushed away from the wall, once more the warrior.

“I bid you make yourself comfortable, then join me for the evening meal.”

She nodded, though she did not trust his words. He was a warrior, and soon or late, he would make his demands again.

“I’ll find Jenny and send her to you,” Symon said, his face its usual scowl once more. Abruptly he left.

Elena sat on the bed and looked about. It was a beautiful room to her. Simple and spare, but the door was open, and she could walk about the castle if she wanted to. Symon had asked if it would do. Such a simple kindness warmed Elena, while another part remembered that he was the Devil of Kilmartin. Who knew what he was truly capable of when the devil was upon him?

A young fair-haired woman tapped on the open door, drawing Elena away from her thoughts.

“Mistress?” She bobbed her head in greeting, though she never took her eyes off Elena. “I be Jenny. I’ve brought you a tray of broth and bannocks. ’Tis ale, as well.” She set the tray on a stool next to the cold hearth. “Niall is bringing some peat and a coal to start the fire. Meggie is finding some clothes for you. She’s about your size. ’Twon’t be anything fine, mind you, but it’ll be better than the rags you’ve got—”

Jenny clapped her hands over her mouth and turned bright red. Elena nearly laughed for the second time this morning.

“So sorry, mistress, I did not mean—”

“ ’Tis all right, Jenny. This gown
is
rags. Anything Meggie can spare will be most welcome.”

“The Devil”—she said the name furtively, as if she would be struck from above for uttering it out loud—“he said you wanted a bit of hot water for washing.”

“Aye.”

Elena watched the lass pour ale into an earthenware mug, then hand it to her.

“Is it true you will save the clan?” Jenny asked quickly.

Elena almost dropped the mug. “What?”

“Murdoch says ’tis so.”

She should have know her arrival would be rich fodder amongst the castle’s inhabitants, despite their seeming disinterest when she arrived. “Why would he say that?”

“Murdoch says you will lift the curse the Devil brought down upon us.”

“Curse? Do you mean his madness?”

“Aye, mistress. Some say that one sold his soul to Lucifer, then tried to escape the bargain. Now Lucifer eats away at him, little by little, and the clan, too.”

“And you believe this?”

Jenny pulled herself up to her full height, barely to Elena’s shoulder. “You have not lived with the curse of the Devil these many months, mistress. Before the passing of the auld chief we were a strong, feared clan. Now we are little more than beggers and fools.”

Elena realized she had insulted the girl who had told her more, and less, about Symon and this strange clan than she
had guessed. She smiled. “I did not mean to question your words, lass. ’Tis only that—”

“Do you want the tub, or a basin?”

Elena stared blankly at the girl, unsure where this next turn of the conversation had taken her.

“To wash in,” Jenny said, as if to a half-wit. “The Devil likes his tub. ’Tis more proof he is not right in the head. Bathing’s not good for the humors, you ken.”

An unusual urge to prod the girl leaped through Elena. Symon had been nothing but kind—if a bit surly—to her. She had felt his head ache, and his stomach roil, but there had been no sign of his mind being eaten away.

“Symon”—she said his name slowly, watching the chit’s face—“likes his tub, does he?” A vivid image of Symon—water dripping from his midnight hair, head lolled back in utter relaxation, his broad chest naked and glistening with drops of water—surprised Elena, stirring something deep inside her. She pushed the errant daydream aside. She must be more fatigued than she had thought to be indulging in such flights of fancy.

Jenny gave her an odd look. “ ’Tis not a bother if that’s what you want.”

“What? Oh, the tub . . .” Elena did not share the girl’s opinion of bathing, and despite the heat that gathered in her cheeks and the pit of her stomach at the thought of using the same bath she had imagined Symon in, a good soak would do much to ease the aches in her own body. She picked up a bannock and nibbled at its edge. “Aye, I’ll have the tub.”

A little food and a warm bath would do her good. She’d wash away the dirt and soot of the past two days. Then she’d have to figure out a way to stay clear of the chief of
MacLachlan. Symon was invading her thoughts and unsettling her. She could not let that happen. If she ever thought to have a normal, peaceful, life she could not let the Dev—Symon, she corrected herself—distract her. He was too dangerous to ever let that happen.

chapter 5

A
candle mark later
Elena was clean and dressed in the clothing Jenny had brought for her. The old battered tub had been a luxury, and it was pure pleasure to put on clean clothes. She belted a borrowed arisaid, a length of muted green and gold plaid, about her waist, then pulled one end up over her shoulders. She’d left her brooch behind when she fled, so she tied the corners together at her breast to hold it in place.

She sat, running her fingers through her thick hair, drying it with the fire’s heat. While she had bathed, she had decided the first thing to do was to find a way out of this castle. Soon she would have to leave, before her gift was revealed, before Dougal came for her. It was up to her to protect herself now. There was no one else to depend on.

But first she must find her way about this castle,
discover any exits, especially any more discreet than the front gate. Quickly she braided her hair and set about her quest.

She moved down the twisting stair. Noises from the busy kitchen and a comforting warmth drifted up to meet her. Elena stopped, inhaling the scent of roasting meat, pungent ale, and wood smoke. She gathered her courage and continued down, reminding herself that it was safe to wander this castle. No one knew what she was. Of course if Molly’s tongue wagged as fast as that Murdoch’s, they might not be happy to have a Lamont in their midst. She would have to take her chances, for she had to find a way out of the castle.

She moved down the stair slowly. When she got to the bottom, she peeked into the chamber. Seeing no one, she hurried around the corner and through an outer door. Late afternoon sunlight greeted her as she stepped from the dim interior.

From her vantage point above the bailey, she took in the dingy drabness of the MacLachlan stronghold. A sudden feeling of exposure flashed through her as faces turned up in her direction and a hush fell over those working there. She raised the arisaid over her head, shadowing her face with it. Fear skittered through her, but she forced it back, unwilling to give in to the urge to run back to her chamber and hide. She was in this predicament because she had not been willing to stand up to Dougal sooner. She could blame her father for leaving the clan in such a man’s hands, but when she had not exercised her rightful claim to the chiefship of Lamont as soon as he disappeared, she had become just as responsible.

And now she was running again, or planning to. But where? And what would it gain her? Freedom? Peace? Or
guilt, and continued fear? Nay, it would do no good for her to go back. Dougal was too strong, and she too weak. It would take more than a mere woman to oust Dougal of Dunmore now that he had the power he so coveted. It was best she keep out of his grasp. Without her to lend him the veil of legitimacy, Ian might yet have a chance to take his place as chief. She would not let Dougal wield her as a weapon again her kinsmen.

But she could not let the Devil of Kilmartin wield her, either. So then the question remained: Where would she go? That would take some thought, but for now, she could at least find a way to go, then she could decide where and when.

She remembered that the main gate was well guarded, though there was plenty of coming and going through it. Elena had lived in a castle long enough to know a postern gate would likely meet her needs better. She descended the stone stairs. When she reached the bottom, she turned away from the main gate and prepared to make a circuit of the walls.

A heavily bearded man erupted from a dark undercroft, knocking Elena aside in his haste. He brought the smell of moldy barley and ale with him out of the cool depths of the storage space. “Watch your step there, lass,” he spat. “Else the would-be chief may say you’re the one stealing the barley. Fah!”

Elena shrank back against the wall just as another man came out of the depths of the storage chamber. He stopped in the deep shadows of the vaulted opening. “I’ll have those sacks of barley back this day”—his voice echoed in the man-made cave—“or I’ll have the coin for it.”