Devil of Kilmartin (14 page)

Symon glanced quickly at her. In the castle? Impossible!

“I was not in the castle, you daft bitch. I’ve been in these woods for two days now, but I had not figured out how to gain entrance yet when you came running into my waiting arms.”

“I never—”

“She’s a bit off in the head.”

Symon jerked the other man’s head again, causing him to gasp. “Then you’ll not be wanting her back.”

“Nay, I’ll have her back, if I have to kill every last MacLachlan to have her.”

Something in Symon snapped. He jerked the man to his feet and shoved him away. “Then start here. Start now, for you’ll have to come through me first.”

Dougal took one look, then turned, and sprinted away. Symon started after him.

“Nay, Symon, don’t leave me here!” Elena cried out.

Symon stopped, torn between hunting down the dog and killing him or staying with the frightened woman. He listened as the crashing of Dougal’s passage faded and the night closed in around him.

“Come. We need to get you back to safety before your Dougal finds his courage again.”

She looked at him strangely, her eyes glistening as if she might cry, but she didn’t. “He is not my Dougal, nor will he ever be,” she said quietly, pushing past him in the direction of the clearing.

“Then you’d best not run to him again,” Symon said, unable to stop the frustration he felt from slipping out.

She rounded on him, anger snapping in her eyes. “If you had not forced my gift—”

“ ’Twas necessary—”

“ ’Twas not madness!”

He closed the distance between them, and she took a half step backward. He wanted to shake her, to make her understand, but he forced his hands to remain at his side.

“I do not know what experience you have of madness, but what you saw earlier—what you stopped—was the beginnings of my curse. You pushed back the devil. You say you cannot, but you did, at least the worst of it.”

Elena shook her head, confusion masking her face. “I have tried to heal madness before. ’Twas nothing like what you endure. Never has pain been part of it.”

“I do not know of others’ madness, but mine, mine has many parts, beginning and ending with pain.”

She nodded. “Then I was wrong to fight you. ’Twill not happen again.”

“I thank you for that. And I am sorry to have scared you so much you felt you must escape.”

“Escape, aye, but I did not run to Dougal. I did not know he was out here.”

“I know that, lass. I have seen how you feel about the
man. I shall hope you never come after me with such a weapon.”

Elena looked at the ground. “I could not let him hurt you.”

Symon reached out to raise her chin when a deep pain reminded him of Dougal’s single victory. He lowered his arm again. The wound was not so great as to impair his movement. He looked at the tired lass, remembered seeing her collapse, even as he had. Saw the evidence, once more, of Dougal’s harsh treatment of her. She had been through much this day, and he would not call upon her to tend him now.

“Besides, I thought he was within Kilmartin Castle.” She quickly recounted what she had overheard this afternoon.

“We need to get back to Kilmartin,” he said, his mind spinning with the news. “If Dougal of Dunmore really was able to enter the castle, we need to find out how he did it before he tries again.” He helped her up onto the horse, then climbed up behind her and urged the horse homeward.

chapter 9

E
lena paced the
confines of her chamber, her prison. True, there was no lock upon the door, but with Dougal somewhere out beyond the castle walls, leaving on her own was no longer a possibility. Her safety might not even be assured within the castle. She knew she had heard Dougal within the undercroft. Positive. Yet his denial had sounded so . . . honest? Symon acted as if he believed her, but she knew she must not let down her guard.

And what of Symon? It wasn’t until they were back inside the castle and he had helped her down from the horse that she had even realized he had been hurt. It was uncanny how he was able to shield his pain from her at times, almost as if he sensed it could hurt her. But that was impossible. He didn’t know. And yet, he hadn’t mentioned his
wound to her. Hadn’t asked her even to bind it for him, much less to heal it.

And what did that mean? Was he sticking to his part of the bargain, even though he claimed she had not done her part? More likely, he simply did not trust her.

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.”

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.

H
ounds 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.