The Devil of Kilmartin Page 11

  She took a deep breath, stopping it half-drawn as her ribs throbbed and burned. Distracted by her injuries, she turned her attention inward. Focusing on the place the pain beat strongest, she gathered her strength and concentrated. Healing herself was far more difficult than healing others.

  As she struggled to ease the bruising, she remembered how it had come to be that way. The scene flooded back to her in all its vivid detail. When had Symon gotten hurt? It must have been when she ran into the wood to find a weapon. And yet he had been circling Dougal when she’d returned. Heat rose up her cheeks as she realized her return had given Dougal yet another chance to take her. She should have done as Symon said. Even hurt, he had been more than capable of defending himself against Dougal.

  Shame washed through her, cold and bitter. She was the reason Symon had been out there. She had run off, put him in danger, indeed gotten him hurt, then pulled the wrath of Dougal onto this entire clan. Of course he did not wish her tending him.

  Exhausted, she ceased her pacing and sat down. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider it, had been too busy trying to find a way to escape Kilmartin, but she realized tonight, as they neared the castle gate, that in a few short days this place was more a home to her than Castle Lamont had ever been. The people had been kind to her, happy to see her, sure she would help them, though they didn’t realize exactly how. There was something for her to do here, without her gift. But it could never be her home.

  Her gift wasn’t a secret. The Devil of Kilmartin would forever hold her in his grip, hostage to the knowledge he shared with her. And yet, she had a hard time envisioning the Symon she was coming to know with the image his by-name conjured. Of course he was mad. He claimed she had pushed back his madness, though that was impossible. But there was nothing evil about him, nothing demonic, unless you counted the effect his kiss had had upon her senses, or the way he drew her gaze whenever he was near.

  The way he made her think of a future she couldn’t have. A future she could not have because of her gift.

  Yet even as he forced her gift from her, Symon had been concerned for her safety, and left no bruises in his wake, as her father and then Dougal always had.

  The thought of Dougal and his vow to kill as many MacLachlans as it took to take her back sickened her. She remembered the burnt-out cottage, with Molly and the wee bairn, her husband missing . . . or worse. Wee Fia’s elfin grin flashed through her mind, and she knew she could not let Dougal do anything to harm these people who had taken her in, trusted her with their hope.

  She could not let him hurt these people any more than he already had. Which meant she had to leave, but not to return to him. She must leave in such a way that Dougal knew she had gone, even drawing his attention to her flight. But she would not allow herself to fall back into his clutches.

  She must ask Symon to help her. He would by necessity know her whereabouts when she left, which was not to her liking. It would be better if no one who knew of her gift knew where she went, but it could not be helped. It was the only way to escape Dougal and keep him from harming these people further.

  Before she could change her mind she rose from her bed, straightened her gown, and ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair.

  She opened her door and peered out into the dark hallway. No sound came from below, and the castle had the feeling of very late night about it. Quietly she knocked at Symon’s door, which swung open almost immediately.

  Murdoch scowled down at her, and she resisted the urge to flee.

  “Come in, lass,” he said quickly. “Perhaps he’ll let you tend to him. He’s angry as a cornered cat-a-mountain and won’t let me near enough to see to it.” He stepped back and revealed Symon, his plaid hanging about his hips, his upper body bare and gleaming in the flicker of candlelight. Blood oozed from the outer part of his right shoulder.

  Elena entered slowly. “I will see to him, Murdoch.” She looked at the giant. “Will you leave us?”

  His eyebrows rose and he looked from her to Symon, who nodded his assent. Murdoch shrugged. “You know where to find me if I’m needed.”

  Symon grunted and the other man left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Sit. I will bind your shoulder,” she said, turning to the clean strips of linen Murdoch had obviously brought for that purpose. A bowl of steaming water and a bloody rag sat next to them.

  “I do not want your care.”

  Elena wasn’t surprised at the sharp note in his voice. She picked up the rag and the bandages and moved to where he had sat upon the edge of his bed. Slowly she began to wash away the blood, revealing an angry-looking wound. She went to lay her hand upon his arm, seeking the extent of the wound, but he jerked away from her touch.

  “You do not need to heal me. ’Twill heal fine on its own.”

  She looked directly into his pale green eyes, snapping with anger. “Aye, no doubt. But ’twill heal faster if you let me tend it, or at the very least let me bind it so the blood will stop flowing.”

  He glowered at her a moment, like a child, told to do something he did not want to do. He drained the goblet he held, tossed it on the bed, and stuck his arm out for her to see to.

  Elena looked at him a moment, deciding. She could bind it only and that would do, or she could show her good faith by restoring his sword arm to full health. She needed his help, and ’twas not a terrible wound; indeed she could barely sense any pain. She had healed much worse than this and survived easily. If she showed him she was willing to help him, perhaps he would be more willing to help her. It was in the best interest of his clan, and her own.

  She knew he watched her, could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, but she did not look at him again. Instead, she lowered his arm to his side, then closed her eyes, slowed her breathing and rubbed her hands together. Heat gathered in them. She opened her eyes and placed her hands on either side of the puncture. Dimly she felt pain there, as if she was a great distance from it. She pushed the heat from her hands into his skin, moving her hands around the wound, willing it in her unique way to close itself, heal, heat, warmth, fire.

  She took another breath and placed her hands over the wound, imagining the breath of a fiery red dragon swirling around and around, closing the muscle and skin.

  Symon’s large callused hand closed over hers, startling her out of her trance. “ ’Tis enough,” he said, pulling her hands from his arm and holding them in his own.

  Elena looked down at her handiwork. The wound was healed completely, leaving behind only a pink line, marking where the damage had been. And yet there was more, she could see it in his eyes, and now that he had loosened his control over the pain, she could feel it in his blood, the strange blackness that ran there. She closed her eyes and felt his hands grip hers more firmly.

  “Lass—”

  “Shush,” she whispered. “Let me finish.”

  He didn’t say another word, and she let herself sink into the taint. It was unlike anything she had experienced before, black and vile, snaking through his body. She followed it, pushing it ahead of her, burning it with her gift. Slowly she overcame it, purging whatever it was from him.

  Gradually she became aware of her name being spoken, quietly, just by her ear. She opened her eyes and found her hands spread over Symon’s chest, his own gripping her upper arms, holding her close. Dazed, she let him guide her to sit next to him. Never had she experienced such a healing. There had been no hurt nor pain after the first moments, and yet she knew she had healed him. Euphoria spread through her, mixed with the exhaustion she expected.

  “Was that the madness?” she asked.

  He had one arm around her shoulder, and he pulled her tight against him. “Aye. The madness you did not think you could conquer.”

  But it did not feel like madness. If felt like . . .

  Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles lightly, pulling her attention to his mouth, distracting her.

  “Sleep now, lass.”

&n
bsp; Sleep would be good, but there was something else she needed to do, to say, first.

  Symon nudged her back onto the thick mattress, then spread a deliciously heavy covering over her.

  What had she come to tell him? She started to speak, then gave in to the weight of his finger against her lips.

  “We have all the time we need now.”

  Fatigue overwhelmed her, dragging her eyes closed. She’d sleep, then she would remember what she had come to say.

  Hounds snapped at her hems as she stumbled through the dark forest, searching for something. Teeth scraped her heels, sending streaks of terror through her, yet she raced forward. At any moment one of the huge dogs would take her down. She dashed through the last of the trees, thunder rumbling around her, and into the arms of a man.

  The hounds set up a howl as if they had lost something dear to them. The man held her tightly against him, the dark of the night obscuring his face. Oddly, she didn’t panic in his arms. There was no misery, no twisting fear striking through her.

  Safe.

  She reached for him, but her hand came away bloodied. He crumpled at her feet, and she bent, desperate to use her gift, to heal him, but it wouldn’t come. She struggled against it, forcing it to heal him, but the heat wasn’t there. Dougal stood before her, laughing, his bloodied claymore raised high over his head. Thunder clapped over them and rain sheeted down. Wind dragged at her, pulling her away as Dougal’s claymore slashed down—not over Symon, but over her mother’s head. . . .

  Elena sat straight up in the bed, her breath coming in gasps, tears coursing down her cheeks. She rubbed them away with the backs of her hands as she tried to remember what had awakened her. Thunder rumbled outside and she grasped at the wisps of the dream, a heavy sense of foreboding telling her she needed to remember. Symon had been in danger. . . .

  “Symon!” When he didn’t answer she felt the hounds of her dreams close in on her. “Symon!”

  A soft snoring stopped mid-breath, and before she could fully focus on the form lying near the fire, he was beside her, his weight dipping the mattress.

  “Do not be afraid.” His hands were warm on her shoulders. She shuddered, remembering the scene with Dougal, and the wound she’d healed in Symon. He pulled her close, cradling her against his broad chest, his arms circled about her.

  “Shh. You are safe, lass.”

  He stroked her hair, calming her and warming her at the same time. His hands roamed over her back, easing the tense muscles there.

  Sighing, she rested her cheek against his chest, the curly hair tickling her where the lacing on his tunic was open. She breathed in deeply. The scent of smoky peat fires and the dark, earthy smell of moss-carpeted forests mingled with another scent that was distinctly Symon, surrounding her, wrapping around her as securely and comfortingly as his arms did.

  She inhaled again and rubbed her cheek against his chest, enjoying the sensuous feel of his warm skin against her own. She let herself sink into the sensation.

  Symon’s hands traveled over her, trailing heat and a strange tingling. She looked up and was caught by the expression in his eyes. The flickering light of a lone candle revealed none of the clear-green eyes she’d come to know. They were black, the pupils wide. And they were fixed upon her mouth. His breathing came rapid and shallow. He looked as if a battle raged within him.

  She touched his face, disturbed and intrigued by his concentration. “Symon?”

  He moistened his lips.

  Elena’s fingers moved to his mouth, tracing the path his tongue had taken. She couldn’t help it. The sight of his mouth shook her, causing thoughts and sensations she’d never experienced before to swirl through her.

  She wanted to taste his mouth.

  She should have been shocked at her thoughts, but she wasn’t. Heat rose in her belly, coiling there, sending curling tendrils of longing out through her limbs. Her breasts tingled, aching with need. The heat sank deeper.

  Her fingers still traced his mouth. She moved her hands to his face and drew him toward her.

  “Elena,” he managed to whisper, his lips so close to hers she felt the caress of his breath there. He threaded his fingers through her hair, though she couldn’t tell if it was to keep her away, or draw her closer. His eyes, dark and serious, searched hers. He hesitated, then closed the distance between them.

  Elena had recognized the beginnings of desire in herself a moment before. Now she felt its full blinding force. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against her own. Slowly he deepened the kiss, causing a shattering storm of sensation as his tongue swirled over hers. She abandoned herself to the experience, savoring the rasp of his whiskers on her face, the heat and wet of his mouth, the circle of his arms as he pulled her to him.

  She took as much as she could, then gave it all back to him, her instincts guiding her where experience could not. She was on her knees now, though she didn’t remember how she got there. His hands were on her, caressing, kneading, demanding. He slid one hand from her back, skimming it over her ribs and up to lift the weight of her breast.

  Never had she felt the heat racing through her now. She had never felt desire—her own or a man’s—before. It was a dangerous, drugging thing that pulled at her senses, overwhelming her until she could barely think, barely remember why this could not be.

  Thunder rumbled outside, triggering the memory of her dream, and suddenly she understood exactly why she could not let this happen. She pushed away and sat back on her heels.

  “What is it, lass?” Symon reached for her again, his eyes clouded with passion.

  She swam up from the flood of her own desire burning through her veins. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself back into this man’s arms, but the image of Dougal’s claymore slashing downward over first Symon’s head, then her mother’s frightened her more than Dougal ever had. The dream’s warning was clear. She must not allow herself to care for this man, or she would suffer the same—or worse—as when her mother died.

  “I . . . we can’t do this.” Wanting would only bind her to him, and she could not let that happen. She moved off the bed, putting as much distance as possible between them.

  Symon raked a hand through his hair, and Elena could have sworn she saw it shake. “You are not wed to Dougal, are you?”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “You wish my protection?”

  She nodded, reluctantly.

  “Then let us wed. We can say our vows to each other now, here. Then you will be safe and this will be proper”—he left the bed and crossed to her, taking her hands in his—“and right.”

  Elena’s heartbeat tripled, and she had to force herself not to react to his touch. Wed him! She carefully removed her hands from his and crossed her arms in front of her. What would it mean to wed the Devil?

  “I will keep you safe,” he said quietly, “and you will keep me well.”

  Disappointment choked her before she could deny it. This seduction was just another way to make her stay. She found she had hoped it was for different, more personal reasons even as she used her disappointment to shore up her resolve.

  “I will not stay here. ’Tis too dangerous.”

  “But you are safe as long as you remain within the castle.”

  “Nay.” She was in as much danger now as she had been when Dougal held his knife to her throat. She grasped for reasons she could tell him. “Dougal has been within these walls. I could not mistake his voice. But even had he not breached these walls, I would not stay.”

  Symon just looked at her, his face stormy.

  “You heard his threat.” Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “He does not threaten lightly.”

  “You think leaving will nullify his threat?”

  “As long as he knows I am gone.”

  “And if Dougal were not out there?” He moved closer, distracting her with the effect his body had upon hers. “Could you not make this your home? My people seem to have accepted you. Could you n
ot help them as any simple healer would? You could offer them that small comfort, that aid.”

  Elena remembered her promise to Fia, and her mum, and all the others who would benefit from her herb knowledge.

  “Aye, perhaps, if Dougal were not out there. But he is. I will not give him cause to bring further harm to you”—she looked at him quickly—“or your people.”

  A smile played at the edges of Symon’s mouth, reminding her of the havoc those lips could lay upon her senses.

  “ ’Twill not solve the problem of my people. They need your help as much as I do.”

  Elena’s heart skipped, the dream once more flashing through her mind—Dougal’s claymore slashing down. Destroying everything. There had to be a way to save something.

  “Perhaps if I trained someone,” she said. “Jenny? At least she could learn a little.”

  “There is a stillroom, though like as not ’tis in need of stocking. I do not think anyone has used it since my own mum died.”

  She looked at him, wishing there were some way to solve both of their problems at once. But there wasn’t. “Will you take me away from here, find me a place to live free of Dougal and all who know of my gift?”

  Symon brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “Your destiny is here, lass. Why do you fight it?”

  “I need to be away. Dougal, once he sets his mind to something, does not release it easily.” ’Twas the truth, though not the entire truth. She would not tell him she feared if she stayed she would fall in love with him, then die with him. “He will do as he said, kill as many MacLachlans as it takes to get me back.” She looked at him defiantly. “I will not let him harm this clan, and I will never go back to him.”

  At last Symon nodded. “Very well. I will not keep you here against your will, but it will take some time to find somewhere safe for you to go.” He thought a moment. “Perhaps my mother’s people, the Munros. They live in the far northern Highlands. Yes. It will take some time to make the arrangements, a fortnight, perhaps more. During that time, will you give young Jenny what knowledge you can of herbs and such?”