The Devil of Kilmartin Page 3

  “I will not. I cannot,” she pleaded. “I cannot.”

  Awkwardly Symon took his hand from her back and rested it on her arm that was firmly clasped about him. His large, rough hand covered her smooth one. Quietly he reveled in the effect she had on him. “Shh, lass. ’Tis only a dream.”

  “A dream?” She snuggled against his back, sharing her warmth with him as if he were her lover there to comfort her. A tendril of her hair lifted on the breeze and tickled his cheek. Her scent, a curious spicy fragrance like rare cinnamon mixed with smoke, filled his senses. He felt comforted himself.

  He waited for her withdrawal, but it did not come. He stroked her long fingers with his own, allowing himself a boon he had not known for too long—the simple comfort of another human’s touch.

  He did not want to stop the incredible flow of balm coming from her, but he also knew they must find a place to stop soon, before the moon set and they were left in complete darkness. They rode over a knoll, Elena still snuggled against his back. Symon knew a silly, satisfied smile adorned his face, but he didn’t care. The lass had given him in sleep what she refused when awake. As they rounded a bend in the path they followed, the trees opened up onto a clearing.

  Symon stopped the horse and swore.

  He recognized the small thatched cottage that sat in the middle of the clearing just as the moon disappeared behind the bens.

  Elena woke slowly, pleasantly aware of the firm back she rested against and the heat radiating from it. She burrowed closer, holding tight where her arms wrapped about his waist, enjoying the quiet sounds of the horse moving through the forest. She was just drifting back into a peaceful sleep when the horse abruptly stopped. She blinked, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes, but the moon was nearly gone, and all was dark about her.

  “Damn!”

  She felt as much as heard the deep rumble of his voice, and she had the curious feeling she should react, but she didn’t want to.

  “ ’Tis not what I would have chosen, but we have little choice.”

  “What?” she asked, trying to think who this was talking to her. Knowledge snapped into place and she quickly sat up. She had her arms around the Devil. She’d nestled against his back, shared his body heat, been lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat.

  Cold air replaced the comforting warmth of a moment ago, and she felt a curious loss. Those moments of sleepy contentment were so unusual, so out of her experience, that she desperately wished them back, despite the source of them, yet she could not give in to the need. She had let her guard down. She dared not do so again.

  Symon swung down off the horse and strode across the small yard. Just as he reached the door, it swung open, but Elena could not see who stood in the door speaking to the Devil in a low gravely voice. After a moment he returned to her.

  “There’s a bed for you inside and a pot of porridge if you’re hungry.” His voice was sharp and Elena wondered what she’d done to anger him. “Come,” he said, reaching up to help her down from the horse.

  Elena had no choice but to allow his touch. The horse was very tall, but not so much that the Devil couldn’t reach her waist with ease. His hands radiated heat through her tattered clothing, and he lifted her quickly from the horse. He released her as soon as her feet touched the ground, as if he were uncomfortable touching her.

  Well, at least on that count, Dougal was correct. She was not a woman to attract the physical attention of men. But of course she did not wish the physical attention of this man, nor any other. She quickly shushed a little voice that reminded her how nice it had been moments ago, sleeping against the Devil’s firmly muscled back.

  Symon grabbed her hand and led her to the open door. “Auld Morag is within. She is a wee bit daft but harmless. Do not pay too much mind to what she says.” With that he released her hand and disappeared into the deepening darkness. Elena heard rather than saw him lead the horse around the side of the cottage.

  She shivered, uncertain whether to enter the cottage or not, when the gravely voice beckoned her. “Come in, lassie, come in and shut the door. ’Tis cold, ’tis, for my auld bones.”

  Elena realized just how cold she was and made her decision, entering the dark, smoke-filled cottage quickly.

  Symon led his horse to one corner of the byre, brushed him down with a handful of straw, and pulled a bit of oats from Auld Morag’s stores.

  ’Twas more than he would get this night.

  He pulled his plaid around him and headed back around the cottage. He had tasted salvation at the lass’s touch. He would not chance her leaving him before he could test his theory. He couldn’t help but remember the feel of her pressed against his back, her arms twined around his waist, the pleasant comfort of that simple act of trust.

  He pushed that aside. He could not let soft thoughts, nor soft feelings, fog his purpose. She could serve him well, and thereby save his clan. And he would see it so even though it meant sleeping on the cold ground at Auld Morag’s door. He dared not find a more comfortable bed lest she slip away while he slept. The doorway would suffice. And in the morn he would have his answer.

  Symon sat, his back to the door. The scent of peat smoke and Auld Morag’s burning herbs drifted to him, and he could hear the quiet murmur of women’s voices from within. “Let her sleep,” he muttered to himself. “I will need her rested on the morrow if she is to prove her abilities.”

  He loosened his belt, arranged his plaid to cover him, then laid his claymore by his side. He leaned his head against the hard door and was instantly asleep.

  Elena coughed. Her throat tickled from the strange bitter smell that hung in the air mingling with the peat smoke as it rose to the low rafters.

  Quietly she ate the porridge the old woman had offered her. She was tired, but a strange itchy feeling just under her skin told her she would not sleep soon.

  The face of the warrior formed in her imagination. She pushed it away, but it persisted, floating before her, black hair wild about his angular face, his dark eyes filled with questions, his brow furrowed in pain, a pain she could ease if she wished to.

  But she did not wish to. He was the Devil of Kilmartin, enemy to her clan, madman . . . and her rescuer.

  She pushed the vision from her mind again. She would find some way to repay his kindness in the stone circle. But to reveal herself as the Lamont healer by easing his pains would be folly.

  “Nay, lass. ’Twould not be folly.” The old woman’s creaky voice whispered near her shoulder.

  Elena gasped, nearly dropping her bowl. The woman’s lined face emerged from the darkness beside her. Quickly she scooted her stool to the side, putting not nearly enough room between them.

  “Do not fash yourself, child. Auld Morag will not hurt you.”

  “How did you know my thoughts?”

  “Ah, now, that is something I cannot tell. ’Tis simply one of my gifts, to know the thoughts of those I must advise.” The old woman pulled the only other stool close and looked deep into Elena’s eyes. “You understand the nature of such gifts.”

  Elena gasped, then ended up in a coughing fit from the acrid smoke that permeated the room.

  “Breathe deeply, child. ’Twill clear your mind, open your heart. You are too fearful.”

  “ ’Tis wise to fear that which may harm you,” Elena said quietly.

  The old woman made a hissing sound, and Elena could not tell if it was laughter or derision.

  If the old woman, Auld Morag she had called herself, knew all, then she could answer the question that plagued Elena the most.

  “What is he going to do with me?”

  “Symon? Ah, ’tis simple, lass. He wishes you to help him, make him whole and strong again. He will insist you use your gift to take the devil from his shoulders, heal his madness. Only he is too thick-headed to understand ’tis not healing he needs.”

  Fear leapt in Elena’s belly, burning up through her until her breath threatened to cease altogether.

  �
�Ease your mind, lass. He knows not what you are, though he has the thought in his mind. That one is stubborn, needing to see things with his own eyes before he believes.”

  “Why?” Her voice was quiet, unsteady, yet she needed an answer.

  “Why is he stubborn? Och, that’s a riddle I’ve yet to answer.” The old woman moved to the fire, stirred it once, then threw another brick of peat on it.

  Elena was sure the woman baited her. “Nay.” Her voice was stronger now, and she struggled to keep the irritation she felt out of it. “Why did he defend me? Why would he help me, then bring me here against my will? Does he know who I am? Do you?”

  Auld Morag drew closer, examining her face. She nodded, as if to herself, then settled on her stool again.

  “I know you are Elena, daughter of Fergus, chief of Lamont.”

  Elena waited, trying to play out the old woman’s game. When the silence stretched too tautly, she could hold her questions no longer.

  “Why, since you know the thoughts of others, did he defend me?”

  “I do not know what he would say, lass,” she said, her eyes on the wisps of green-tinged smoke tangling about her, as if searching there for the answer. “Perhaps he does not hold with hunting women? Do not expect fine words from Symon explaining himself. He is a warrior, chief of his clan, aye, and some say madman. He does what he must, seldom what he wishes.”

  So they had that in common, then.

  “Where are you bound, Elena, daughter of Lamont?”

  Indecision clouded her eyes. Should she trust this woman? It was clear she had not done well on her own thus far. Perhaps the old woman could give her counsel, guide her on her way. Elena chewed on her bottom lip, deciding. Auld Morag seemed in no rush for an answer. Indeed she waited for Elena to make up her mind, as if she had nothing else in the world to occupy her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Her voice held only the smallest quaver.

  “ ’Tis a long journey before you, then.”

  What she wanted was a safe place to live, at least until she could figure out what to do next. But what she wanted, more than anything, was someone she could trust, someone who would care for the woman, not the healer.

  She could not chance falling back into Dougal’s hands, for he had made it abundantly clear what her fate with him would be. So the question was, could she trust the Devil of Kilmartin? At the moment he seemed the lesser evil for she had sensed nothing in him except a desire to rid himself of the strange madness he carried. And since she could not cure madness, ’twould be a simple matter to keep her gift concealed. If he did not know she was the Lamont healer, if he continued to think her but a wayward lass, then she might be safe. For a while.

  “Symon will offer you the hospitality of his clan,” Auld Morag said quietly. “He’ll take you to his home at Kilmartin. Bide awhile there. Decide with care what you must do, where you must go, and who you must trust.”

  Elena nodded slowly. “I have little choice.”

  “Choices come where you least expect them,” Auld Morag said, “as does joy and sorrow. You have great strength, lass, but you do not see it yet. You have a great heart, if you but allow it to flourish.”

  The woman spoke in riddles and secrets, and Elena’s mind was too tired to unravel the words. She thanked Auld Morag for the porridge and lay down upon her pallet by the fire. She had much to think on before the sun rose. She had much to consider before she faced the Devil of Kilmartin once more.

  chapter 3

  Symon woke slowly to the sound of a steady rain dripping off thatch, the earthy smell of peat smoke, and the hard, cold stone beneath him.

  His head throbbed, and every muscle complained of hard use. He opened his eyes slowly and looked about him. Memory rushed in, crowding his aching head with images of a bedraggled lass. A lass who was either daft or foolishly brave. Another memory presented itself, one of ease and balance and a clearing of the cloud afflicting his mind, relief for his suffering body. Aye, he remembered the lass who had stilled the ravages of the madness for a time.

  Symon rose, cursing his unsteady legs. The need to touch her again, to feel the clarity and brightness she had caused, had him groping for the door latch. Cloud-softened light stabbed his eyes, increasing the hammer blows inside his skull. He paused, long enough to let his eyes adjust and his legs prove their ability to hold him upright.

  At last he raised the latch just as the lass opened the door, brushing dirt from the skirt of her grimy gown. She looked up, saw him, and stopped.

  “Good day to you,” Symon said.

  Elena nodded. Symon took the chance to really look at her here in the light of day. Her hair was flame colored. Not the color of a roaring fire, but the color of glowing embers, shifting and changing in the morning light from deep auburn to glossy brown to burnished gold.

  The urge to drag her to him shook him in its intensity, nearly overwhelming his hold on reason. He fought it, disgusted with his own weakness. He was chief of Clan Lachlan, a warrior, born and trained to lead his people. He should be the one providing for others. He should not be some weak-kneed fool looking to this lass for help.

  Yet he had little choice.

  Purple-green marks marred her pale skin, telling of someone’s hard use. Anger surged in him, tempered with an unusual softness. No one should treat a woman so.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked, needing to break the tension building in the silence. She nodded. Symon looked past the bruises. He was not so ill he did not appreciate her long limbs and narrow build. He could even appreciate the stubborn set of her chin, and the flash of determination that came and went in her eyes. He held his hand out for her to take, but she did not touch him.

  She started to back into the dark confines of the cottage, then changed her direction and edged along the rough wall a few steps. Symon moved with her, until she bumped into a stump left there.

  “Take my hand,” he said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He needed her to touch him. He needed her to prove his suspicions; to feed his hopes.

  The lass looked at him. “I don’t wish to take your hand,” she said, watching him, wariness etched round her eyes.

  The pounding in Symon’s head increased as he fought to keep his voice level and his manner mild. He fought to keep from grabbing her, testing her effect upon him, questioning her true purpose here. He stared into her eyes, commanding her with every thought to take his hand, prove him right. Save his life.

  At last she put her hand in his, lightly, barely touching, as if she were afraid to press her skin to his.

  Nothing—save the continued hammers inside his skull. No peace, no calm, no ease washing over him, not even the warmth he remembered, for her hands were icy. He had wanted so much more. A tiny hope-harboring part of him he’d thought long dead was disappointed. Abruptly he turned toward the byre, pulling her along behind him.

  “Release me, Devil!”

  Symon winced at the familiar epithet that sounded more harsh from her lips than from all the others who had named him so. She hauled back on his hand, nearly upsetting his tenuous balance.

  “Where are you taking me? I’ll not be dragged along like some animal.” She tried to pull her hand free of his grip. “I don’t belong to you.”

  Symon stared at her, then released her abruptly.

  “Lass.” Auld Morag stood in the doorway, a funny sort of look on her face. “Get your washing up done. I’ve a fine fat rabbit to help break your fast.” She glanced at Symon and cackled, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. “Do not worry over Symon’s scowling face. His head is pounding and his mouth’s like sand. You know aught of headache cures, do you not?”

  Elena’s eyes were wide, and Symon could see the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. She was afraid. Auld Morag was a bit off-putting, but surely she had not frightened the lass so much last night.

  “I have willow,” Auld Morag continued as if Elena had answered her. “Make him a tea to ease his pain. ’Tw
ill benefit us both if we cease the drumming in his head.”

  The lass said nothing, but shook free of his grasp and made to pass by him.

  Symon spun about to follow her and immediately regretted the quick movement. He grabbed her arm to steady himself and closed his eyes for a moment. He could have sworn he felt her reach out and soothe his brow with cool fingers against his sweat-sheened skin, easing his head. But when he opened his eyes the sensation vanished. She had not moved.

  Elena stepped back, away from Symon. She looked almost as puzzled as he felt. She wrapped her arms about her middle, whether in defense or because she was cold, Symon couldn’t say, but hope sparked inside him once again.

  “I know something of simples,” she said, looking directly at Symon. “A tea of willow bark will ease your head. It will stop the light from hurting your eyes—”

  “How did you know my eyes pained me?” he asked, sure he would catch her now.

  But Elena said nothing, though her skin paled, causing the sprinkling of freckles and her bruises to stand out in stark contrast.

  He stared into her eyes, willing her to speak the truth. When she didn’t speak at all, he pushed the issue. “You will heal me.”

  The lass stared at him a moment, her breathing growing more ragged. “I’ll prepare you the willow,” she finally said, “anyone can do such. But if you speak of the madness you are famous for, I cannot help you.”

  “But you can. I felt it. You are the Lamont healer, and I know what you did.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head vehemently. “Nay, I did nothing. I am nothing.” She edged away from him.

  Symon grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “I know what I felt.” He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest. “I know what you did.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes, yet she stood there, rigid, concentration etched across her face.

  “See,” she said, her voice low and strained, “nothing.” She pulled her hand free and walked deliberately toward the wood.