Devil of Kilmartin (8 page)

“ ’Tis a dark day in Kilmartin when you do not believe
the word of your kinsman!” the bearded man yelled back. “Aye, a dark day. I do not have your bloody barley, but I ken who does. You’ll have it back by nightfall.” He left quickly, his black hair flying and his plaid jerking back and forth in time with his stride. Elena turned back as the other man stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

She blinked to clear her sight. It did not help. The man who stood before her, the would-be chief the bearded man had said, was nearly Symon’s twin. Surely this was the brother he had spoken of. Looking at this man was like looking at a reflection of Symon. The same—but somehow backward.

Where Symon wore his dark hair loose about his shoulders, his brother wore his caught back in a strip of leather. They shared the same dark slash of eyebrows, but where Symon’s eyes were the bright green of moss growing on a burn-side rock in early spring, his brother’s were the paler green of frost-covered moss in midwinter. Symon carried himself ever ready to do battle. This man seemed folded in upon himself, less substantial. Perhaps it was a trick of the eyes, for the man before her wore trews with a long tunic that looked more English than any Highlander typically wore. The effect was decidedly diminishing.

And there was something about him that made her wary. His odd choice of clothing may have caused the crawling sensation at the base of her spine, but the look in his eye disturbed her most. She much preferred the grim determination she often saw in Symon’s eyes to this look, for where Symon’s gaze showed feeling, his brother’s showed nothing at all.

Until they met her own.

Fire ignited in his eyes then, and a slippery smile flirted
over his lips. “Ah. You must be the lass Symon found in the wood.” He moved toward her slowly. “I am Ranald, brother to the Devil. You would be Elena, daughter of . . .” He let the words slide out, teasing her that he might know who she really was.

“I am pleased to meet you, Ranald, brother of Symon,” she said, emphasizing the chief’s name.

Ranald appeared as surprised by her words as she was. He bobbed his head in acknowledgment of her point. “And I you, for it is not often Symon returns from his fights with the Devil with the salvation of our clan.”

“ ’Tis the second time I have heard such daft words,” she said. “Where did you get such an idea?”

Surprise sliced across Ranald’s face. “Auld Morag . . . the pro—” He stopped, then started again. “The clan puts great store in the barmy witch’s muttering.”

“Auld Morag? She said nothing to me. I cannot save myself, much less an entire clan. I am no one’s salvation.”

Ranald nodded his agreement as he looked over her shoulder. She watched as his face subtly changed, taking on the hardness of one hiding within himself. Elena turned but saw nothing.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “there is business I must attend to before the evening meal. You will join us in the Great Hall, will you not?”

“I will.”

“Good. Until then,” he said, then moved quickly toward the main gate.

Elena pulled the arisaid closer about her face and wandered in the opposite direction. She had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Something about Ranald didn’t feel
right. But then nothing had felt right the past few days. Perhaps she was looking for trouble where there wasn’t any.

And yet, all was not right in Kilmartin Castle. Symon was despised for a madness she had heard of, but had not witnessed, yet he held the position of chief within his clan. His brother had been called the would-be chief, clearly not a sign of respect.

“Are you lost?”

She gasped. Her arisaid fell about her shoulder and her coppery braid slithered out. She had been so intent on Ranald she had not noticed Symon’s arrival.

“Be calm, Elena. I’ll not harm you,” Symon said. He stood there, his eyes trained on her hair, his own dripping wet. The sweet smell of fresh air and cold burn water surrounded him, drawing her to him. He shook his head, breaking the moment and splattering her with tiny droplets, like diamonds in the sun.

“I was . . .” She was just searching for an escape route is what she wanted to say. “I was looking for the Hall.”

Symon nodded his head. “I see.” He watched her a moment, his gaze intense.

“You should have asked Ranald to direct you,” he said.

Heat flooded Elena’s cheeks, and she knew her pale skin gave away her embarrassment. “Were you spying on me?” She tipped her chin up, daring him to deny it.

“Aye. Did you have a nice talk with him?”

“He sees the world differently than you,” she said.

“Ranald has always had a unique view of his surroundings. He is my only brother, and my most trusted adviser.”

“Then you know he does not believe in the tale Murdoch is spreading?”

Symon tipped her chin up with his finger. “What tale?”

The momentary pleasure of his touch was overwhelmed by a swirling blackness that washed over her. Madness? It did not feel like madness. She stepped back, breaking the disconcerting contact.

“That I am to be the clan’s salvation,” she said.

Symon’s mouth tipped into a slight smile. “He likes to spread tales. It endears him to the lassies.”

He turned and motioned for her to walk with him. “I would acquaint you with my home,” he said, “in exchange for a wee bit more of that willow tea you made me.”

“I do not think the willow will do much good,” she said to herself.

“Lass?”

“Aye. I have more of the willow. Auld Morag gave me her supply,” she said. “ ’Tis in my chamber.”

Symon nodded, then led her not to her chamber, but along the way she had started. “We shall have someone fetch it.” He stopped a boy and had Elena explain what was needed and where to find it. As they continued on, he pointed out the smith, the alewife, cousins, and other kin, keeping a constant stream of conversation going, as if he needed her to know everyone immediately.

But none of the people spoke to Symon. They acknowledged the pair’s passing with only a grudging nod, or a short grunt and a quickly turned back. Elena couldn’t help noticing the many furtive glances at her, though. Apparently Murdoch had spread his tale through the whole castle already. Symon stopped at what was clearly once a gate. “ ’Tis all blocked up, the postern gate.” His voice dropped. “Better than having to guard it.”

Elena noted the bitterness in his voice. “You do not believe that.”

It was his turn to be surprised. “I do not. ’Twas my father’s doing. ’Tis still a point of debate between Ranald and myself.”

“But you are chief, why do you not unblock it?”

“Aye, I am chief, but ’tis a near thing. I do not do that which they do not trust. ’Tis not so important, this gate, to test that trust.”

“ ’Tis a strange place, this. The people sullen, rude to their own. The chief questioning his own decisions instead of commanding.” She slanted a look at him. “Tales of Lucifer and lost souls. Why is it like this, Symon?”

He stopped, facing her. “Are you not afraid of the tales about me?”

She thought about his question. Did she fear the tales? Part of her did. She had clear evidence, in her clan’s recent battles, of his cruelty. And yet she had seen none of that. Her own experience of the last few days showed him to be arrogant, brave, pushy, but never had he sought to harm her. The tales of the Devil of Kilmartin told of a monster, killing anyone in his way, ravaging women and causing destruction wherever he went. The truth was that she had not seen him in his madness, but the sane man before her did not cause her fear.

Symon waited, an expectant look on his face.

“The tales tell of a horrible monster, but I have only seen a man, afflicted by calamity, but strong enough to fight it.” She thought of Dougal. “I do not think I have cause to fear you.” She smiled at him shyly. “But I will be cautious.”

A huge smile spread across his face, transforming it into
a dazzlingly handsome countenance. Elena’s breath stuck in her throat.

“You are an unusual person, Elena of Lamont.” He studied her face, as if he might find an answer to his pressing questions there. The smile faded. “Still, I must take much of the blame for the ills that have befallen my people. I will do what’s necessary to right things.

“Come,” he said before she could reply, “I find that I am hungry.” He took her hand and led her toward the Hall.

Elena let him lead her, still dazzled by that flash of what Symon must have been like, before his trials started. She truly didn’t fear him. With the likes of Dougal of Dunmore about, she was certain she was safer with this mad warrior than with the one in her own home.

Carefully she shielded herself from the headache she could feel plaguing Symon. It took great concentration not to give in to the call of her gift to heal him. But while she was not afraid of the Devil of Kilmartin, neither would she give him anything to hold over her.

S
ymon heard the
familiar, soothing sound of harp music spilling down from the gallery overhead as they entered the Great Hall. The tables, so empty earlier, were now crowded with people, talking, shouting, grabbing for the meager contents of the platters. Symon stood, giving Elena time to adjust to the throng. It seemed the castle became more crowded by the day as more and more of his kinsmen were run out of their homes by the English, or the Lamonts. Day by day, as his madness gripped him, the holdings of Clan Lachlan shrank, until one day all that
would be left was this fortress and a crowd of his starving kinsmen.

Unless the prophecy came to pass.

He felt a twinge of conscience. He had no idea if Elena would fulfill whatever her role was. He had no idea what “mingling” might entail. That she wasn’t afraid of him pleased him greatly. Once he was rid of the madness for good . . .

As if the thought of madness was enough to call it down, the pain in his head tripled, his stomach clenched, and a foreboding sweat trickled down his chest.

For a moment he thought of dragging the lass back to his chamber to force her to heal him then and there, but he could not just yet. First he had to make sure she had no alternative, no way out. He had to bind her to his clan quickly, decisively, before she could slip away from them. She would fulfill her destiny, whatever it held. He would make sure of it.

He shook his head to clear the pain swirling through him and started forward.

Silence surged down the hall ahead of them like a wind-whipped wave racing ashore. Symon glanced at Elena as they made their way down the Hall. Her mouth was a tense line, and her gaze flitted over the crowd. Her hand was stiff in his.

Symon stopped her in front of the chief’s table, turning her to face the assembled MacLachlans.

“You will make our guest welcome in Kilmartin Castle,” he said formally, his voice strong and steady. “She is known as Elena.” He turned then to her. “Please accept the hospitality of Clan Lachlan.”

“With thanks,” she said, a surprised look on her face.

Her safety assured by his words, Symon led her around the empty table. They sat and servers laid trays of food before them. Symon reached for his cup and rose to his feet. A hush fell over the Hall once more.

He looked out at the faces of his clan. Curiosity warred with apathy, and apathy seemed to be winning out.

“My kinsmen,” he began, his voice booming through the hall. Symon raised his cup but leaned his weight against the table, praying he would not fall over before he could do what he must. “Many of you have heard Auld Morag’s prophesy.”

A muttering filled the hall and a voice yelled out, “ ’Tis true?”

“Aye, ’twould seem so. Auld Morag said this woman”—he nodded slowly toward Elena—“is the flame. You know well what part I play. The rest has not yet been revealed, but clearly our time is at hand.”

Elena gasped as a cheer erupted from the gathering. Symon allowed the crowd to trade speculations for a moment, then he banged his cup against the table until they quieted once more.

“Auld Morag foresaw her coming. The prophecy has come to pass. Elena’s presence here assures our victory over our many troubles.”

Elena surged to her feet, knocking over her wine goblet. “Nay!”

Symon grabbed her wrist, arresting her motion. He felt her sway, and she clutched at her stomach.

He turned to her and said under his breath, “Aye, ’tis your destiny—unless you wish to return to your clan?”

Elena shook her head.

He was pleased to see anger in her eyes, a flash of fight.
If she had wept, or collapsed in fear, he would not know what to do, but anger—that he was familiar with.

“She is our honored guest,” he said once more to the crowd. He sat, releasing the lass. His stomach roiled, but he downed the spiced wine, praying it would dull the ache in his head. He would sit another moment or two, then escort Elena from the Hall and back to her chamber, where he would require her to heal him once and for all. Surely that was the way flame and madness were to mingle.

E
lena sat, stunned,
next to a madman, desperately quelling the stomach pain that had burst within her at his touch. She shook her head at his words. Her destiny? She could do naught for this clan but cause them trouble, for Dougal would not wait long to claim her. Soon or late he would come for her. There would be no victory in that.

Before she realized what was happening, Symon had risen, taken her hand, and was leading her out of the Hall through the small door behind the dais. He quickly closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes closed.

“I know who and what you are, Elena-lass.”

“You cannot.”

“I can. You are Elena of Lamont, and you are the Lamont healer.”

Elena shook her head, though whether she denied his words or that she had been found out, she wasn’t sure.

“I do not understand how one so young could be the healer of the auld tales, but it does not matter. You are the healer, and I am in need of your skills. In exchange, I have extended the protection of my clan to you. You in turn will
heal me and thereby deliver my clan from the curse of madness we have fallen under.”