The Devil of Kilmartin Page 8

  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

  Symon 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.

  Symon paced the ramparts, watching Elena move slowly through the scattered people below, talking to no one, moving carefully away wh
en 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.”

  Symon looked at his gillie. “What?”

  Murdoch cocked a bushy eyebrow at him, his golden hair forming an odd sort of halo about his grinning face.

  “What do you want?” Symon asked again.

  “Is there some reason I cannot stand and gaze about, daftlike, if I wish?” Murdoch was smirking now.

  “I am not daft, at least not today.”

  “Aye, you seem back to your auld self this day. Why is that?”

  Symon saw the man look at him, but chose to continue watching Elena make her way about the bailey, avoiding answering the giant’s query. He had promised the lass to keep her secret, though he wanted to sing out the truth to the world, or at least to Murdoch. True she said she could not heal him, but she certainly seemed to have. And he did not even know for sure how she had done it. Though the kiss seemed to have something to do with it.

  The kiss. Touching her. That was what she had forbidden him to do, to touch her . . . and yet her touch was what he craved. Was it only because she was a comely lass, thin, but still rounded where a man wanted roundness? Or was this compulsion merely the effect of her healing art?

  “She says I cannot touch her,” he said out loud, forgetting Murdoch was standing there.

  “Aye, lasses often say such things.”

  “You have much experience of this?”

  Murdoch looked away, and Symon would have sworn the man blushed. “Enough. Usually it takes a slower pace, a gentler approach, when they say that. They want soft words, and promises, lots of promises. Of course, she could just be repulsed by you.”

  Symon started to defend himself, then realized Murdoch was grinning broadly at him again. “Aye, that must be it,” he agreed. “I do not know how to soften her toward me. I have had little experience with gentle words.”

  The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Elena wander below. She seemed to be searching for something, while still avoiding all who came near. Symon’s attention was caught by a child skipping across the open space, singing tunelessly. She skirted the well, then broke into a strange almost dance, twirling and skipping and jumping and running, one after the other until she seemed unable to stop. She was heading straight for Elena, who seemed unaware of the child as she examined the bricked up remains of the old postern gate. As the child crashed into her, Elena grabbed her, steadying the wobbling wean.

  Symon watched, amazed, as a smile broke out on Elena’s face, her obvious amusement clear even this far away. He could not take his eyes off her, the transformation from grim determination to quiet pleasure shook him. That is what she should look like always, carefree, open, happy. She squatted down to look the child in the eye, and the two spoke for a moment, then the child’s laughter pealed out, echoing off the cold castle walls. Elena rose and the little girl took her hand and led her away.

  “Aye, she’s a bonny lass,” Murdoch said quietly. “If she does not want you, perhaps she’d be interested in me.”

  Symon rounded on the giant.

  “Just teasin’ you, Symon. Just teasin’. I would not interfere with one of Auld Morag’s prophecies!”

  Symon took a slow breath and nodded.

  “But you may have witnessed the way to the lass’s heart, there, lad,” Murdoch said, turning his attention back to the scene below.

  “I cannot give her a wean to bind her to me.”

  “Well, it has been done before”—Murdoch winked at him—“but I agree ’tis not the way of things this time.”

  Symon pondered the man’s words a moment, then understanding dawned. Of course. “If she’ll talk to the weans, then they can soften her to our need.”

  “Aye, lad. Why waste your time bashing your head against a stone wall if you can let someone else take it down bit by bit for you?”

  ’Twas not Symon’s preferred way of doing things, but at the moment he did not have a better plan. “Do you ken the lassie that broke through?”

  “Aye, ’tis wee Fia. Mairi’s youngest. She’s a fey thing, small and pale, and knowing beyond her years. She might just do your work for you.”

  Symon nodded. “Come on, then. We’ll let wee Fia do her work. I’m sure we’ve something needs doing.”

  Murdoch nodded. “Aye, Ranald’s returned.”

  “Why did you not say so?” Symon glared at the giant and headed toward the stair.

  “I was enjoyin’ the view.” Murdoch snorted and followed his chief back into the castle.

  Elena examined the blocked-up gate, easing one way or the other as MacLachlans moved around her. Blocking up a perfectly good gate was a bloody stupid thing to do. She looked about and a weight settled over her. The only way out appeared to be the main gate, well guarded, and obvious.

  She did not trust Symon’s word any more than she would trust Dougal’s. She had learned that lesson too well. She could only depend upon herself to secure her future, which did not include living in this castle full of hopelessness and fear. She had enough of those on her own.

  She eyed the old gate once more. Ducking out through a postern gate would have been a much less public way to make her exit than the main gate, but it wasn’t a possibility now. Perhaps she could plan some sort of diversion, something to distract the guards. She’d have to ponder that problem for a while.

  Just as she turned to continue her circuit of the curtain wall a child bounced against her, nearly falling until Elena caught her.

  Looking down, she saw a slight girl of no more than four or five winters standing next to her. Shyly the child slid her small hand into Elena’s and smiled. It was the first friendly face she had seen in days.

  “Me da made me a doll. Would you like to see it?”

  The timid smile on the child’s face warmed Elena even as the ache of partially healed scrapes and bruises surged through the small hand into her own. She squatted down so she was eye to eye with the child. ’Twas not a huge hurt. She could heal it easily with no one, not even the child the wiser. “That would be grand.” She sought to distract her with some conversation. “How are you called, little one?”

  Elena looked deep into the child’s sky-blue eyes and concentrated on the healing heat, seeking out the bruises and a half-healed scrape on her knee, mending the hurts quickly, easily shielding herself from the child’s pain.

  “I’m called wee Fia. Your hands be warm, mistress.”

  “And yours are very cold, wee Fia.” The child’s hands were cold, but the color was ruddy in her elfin face. “Will you call me Elena?”

  The child nodded. “Are you a fairy queen . . . Elena?”

  Elena stood, one small hand still in hers. “Nay, lassie.” Children were more perceptive than adults about some things. Had she noticed the healing? “Why would you think it?”

  “You made the Devil smile. Everyone saw it. Me da says only a fairy queen could do that.”

  “Ah.” Elena let out her breath and leaned close to the child. “ ’Tis not so hard to make Symon smile, wee Fia. Ye need only speak the truth.”

  Fia’s laughter pealed through the bailey, making people turn and stare. It seemed laughter was a rare thing in Kilmartin Castle.

  The sound of it warmed Elena’s hungry soul, and she could not keep herself from grinning foolishly back at the child.

  “Where is this fine dolly of yours?”

  “Follow me.”

  Elena nodded her assent, and the child tugged her toward a decrepit-looking shed next to the stable.

  Symon slammed open the door to his brother’s chamber. “What did you discover?” he demanded before he’d even closed the door behind him.

  Ranald continued chewing, forcing Symon to wait, bending him to his will at least in this small way. Ranald always took the advantage when he could. At last he swallowed, took a long swig from his mug, and wiped the ale froth from his mouth
with the back of his hand.

  “Not as much as you might wish.”

  Symon glared at him, his irritation growing by the moment.

  “Fine.” He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, where a flagon and mug stood ready on the ledge. “Here, have some wine. ’Twill calm you, brother,” he said handing the drink to Symon. “Elena runs from a man called Dougal of Dunmore.”

  “The Lamonts’ champion,” Symon said.

  “The chief of Lamont.”

  “What? Fergus One-Hand is chief of Lamont.”

  “Fergus was found dead near Castle Lamont . . . his neck broken . . . the day after you rescued Elena from this Dougal.”

  “But he is not Fergus’s heir.”

  “Nay, that would be the lass you keep here.”

  “What is this man’s connection to Lamont?” he asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

  “ ’Tis complicated, that. He appeared five years past, selling his services to the Lamont. ’Twould seem he served well, for he quickly became champion and the Lamont’s trusted adviser.”

  “Five years,” Symon said to himself, sipping on the spiced wine. “ ’Twas not long after that our troubles with the Lamonts began.”

  “Aye, my thoughts as well,” Ranald said.

  “Where was he before that?”

  “I could not find that out. It seems he appeared from the mist without a background, nor a clan to claim him.”

  Symon paced the room, stopping briefly to refill his goblet. “And his claim to the chiefship?”

  It was Ranald’s turn to pace, though it appeared he wished to place more distance between himself and his brother. “There is some . . . dissent . . . among those I spoke with. The very day Elena went missing, he claimed they were wed.”

  Symon’s hand froze, his cup midway to his mouth. She was the chief’s child, his only child, and by Highland custom she would be chief at her father’s death, at least until she married. A strange dread spread like fire in dry tinder through him. “Wed?”