Devil of Kilmartin (15 page)

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. . . .

E
lena 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 not 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?”

“What of Dougal?”

“I will take care of Dougal. He will not get inside Kilmartin again.”

Elena reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I will find Jenny and start right away.” She turned, desperate to get away from him now, lest the wanting that filled her, making her heart pound and her breath come too rapidly, overcame her good sense once more. At the door she looked back. The expression of sadness on Symon’s face stopped her.

“What of you, Symon? Will you be all right—the madness—when I’m gone?”

“I do not know,” he said quietly. “I know you have cleared my mind and my body of the affliction, but I do not know how long ’twill last.”

It was strange, the way this madness reacted to her gift. What little experience she had with the unbalanced was that the affliction was in the mind, not in the blood—

She felt the blood drain from her own face, and she quickly crossed the room back to Symon.

“What is it, lass?”

Silently Elena placed both palms against his chest. She tried to ignore the skitter of excitement the feel of his warm skin beneath hers caused and instead forced herself to focus on the internal. She closed her eyes, concentrating, searching, but there was nothing. No madness, no evidence of anything wrong with his mind. She tried to remember exactly what she had done to overcome the blackness in his veins. She had burned the blackness from his blood . . . and she could never do that with madness.

Her eyes flew open and she found herself staring into his brilliant green gaze.

“What?”

“Symon, ’tis . . .” The ramifications of what she was about to say hit her, throwing all that she had thought of
this man, and his clan, into turmoil. “ ’Tis not madness you suffer under.”

“Aye, ’tis—”

“Nay,” she said quickly, “I can do naught for the devil-ridden. ’Tis not madness. ’Tis poison.”

chapter 10

“P
oison? Impossible.” Symon
pushed her away and strode across to the window, where the first rosy tinges of dawn were washing the sky. “Poison would not cause madness. I’d be dead.”

“That depends on what poison was used, and what the poisoner wished to accomplish.”

“Who would poison me?” He turned to face her, and found her before the fire, warming her hands. “And why?” He reached for her, spinning her to face him. “Why steal my sanity? It would be so much simpler just to do away with me.”

“I do not know. I should have seen the truth much sooner, but you were so sure ’twas madness, I did not question what I felt.”

“And what did you feel?” he asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

She shook her head. “You do not believe me.”

“You ask me to deny my own experience, trust in a
Lamont
”—the name was like a curse—“believe that one of my own kinsmen, one of Clan Lachlan, would stoop so low as to poison his chief?”

“You are the one who bade me heal you, Devil.”

Her words smacked him as hard as any hand could. “Aye. And you did. For that I am grateful. But this . . .” He could not even begin to imagine the consequences of such a thing.

“You should be relieved,” she said, as if trying to soften the blow.

He glared at her. Relieved? When someone he had trusted, served, was poisoning him?

“Think, Symon. If ’tis poison, then all you need do is find the source and you will solve your problem. You do not even need me.”

Something in her words caused his stomach to clench, but he could not focus on feelings right now; he had to think, and think clearly.

“Is there no one here who wishes you harm?”

Symon shook his head once. “Nay.”

“You are universally loved by everyone?” Her voice held a note of derision.

He glared at her and began to pace the length of the room. “ ’Twould have to be someone who wished me ill before the madness—before my afflict—” He cast about for a new way of describing what had happened to him. “Before all this happened. There are plenty who would see
me gone from these walls now, but not when this first came upon me.”