Devil of Kilmartin (23 page)

Shocked by the child’s request, Elena shook her head quickly. “That I cannot do, sweeting. When your da returns, he will need you with him. And I will not be here long enough to be a mum to you.”

“Nay!” Symon and the child said together.

“Nay,” Symon said again.

Elena glared at him. “We have a bargain, you and I. I will hold you to it.”

“Things have changed,” he said, barely suppressed fury thick in his voice. “I have changed. Circumstances between us have changed.”

“But I have not.” She looked pointedly at the child in his arms. “I’ll take her. You can stay with me until your da returns, Fia. I’ll teach you what I may of herbs until then.”

The child said nothing, though she allowed Symon to pass her into Elena’s arms.

“I have not,” she said again as she passed him, heading to her original chamber, too close to his chamber for comfort, but the quiet would be good for Fia. Perhaps she could get the child to sleep a bit, then with luck, she might coax her into eating a little something. She would not see this child fall sick from grief.

S
ymon paced outside
Elena’s chamber, waiting until the quiet voices inside ceased, waiting until he was sure the child slept. When he heard the thunk of a peat brick
landing in the fire, he opened the door and stepped inside. Fia did sleep, curled up on the bed, her thumb tucked firmly in her mouth. Elena stood at the hearth, staring at him.

He told himself he had come to speak sense to her, bring her around to understanding that she belonged here, that wee Fia was but one MacLachlan in need of her gentle influence. It’s what he’d come to do, but instead he crossed the room in three strides and swept her into his arms, his mouth descending greedily over hers. He was gratified when she molded herself to him, hugging him fiercely, kissing him with the same intensity, matching him as if they were made for each other.

Slowly the flare of heat between them calmed to a steady flame. Symon hugged her close, eased by her presence. “Do you ken that you need the lass as much as she needs you, Elena-mine?”

She said nothing, but rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He smiled, sensing a softening in her, a yearning even. Yes, she would come around. Soon she would know how much they needed her and she them. Soon.

He kissed her again, then smoothed her fiery hair away from her face. Dark circles under her eyes marred her creamy skin. He ran his thumbs over her high proud cheekbones, marveling at the silky soft feel of her. “You need to sleep.”

“Aye. ’Tis hard to sleep when guilt torments me.”

“Ah, lass. You did your best. I heard what you told the wean today. ’Twas difficult for you to share that bit of yourself, I wager. I’m thinking you have not done so before.”

“ ’Twas not necessary before,” she whispered. Her eyes
were closed and she nuzzled against his hands. If she’d been a cat, she would have purred for sure. He chuckled at the image, knowing that all sweet kitties had a wild streak and sharp claws to go along with the soft fur and quiet ways. He’d gentle this one soon enough, and enjoy the doing of it. They both would.

But not tonight. Tonight the wean needed her more than Symon did, though that was hard to imagine. Tonight Elena needed to sleep, to forgive herself, to understand. Wee Fia had worked her magic on Elena before; perhaps the fragile lassie would do so again.

“Sleep you well, love.” He kissed her again, hoping she felt all the tenderness he had for her, the caring. He tried to hide the need, though he doubted such a strong need could be hidden completely. He left her there, by the fire, as he had found her. As he reached the door he turned back.

“I do not think Dougal of Dunmore can find another way in, but nevertheless, I’ll be sleeping just outside your door here. Rest well and do not worry any more.”

“I don’t think ’tis necessary, Symon. Find your own soft bed this night. We will be fine.”

“I’ll sleep at the door,” he said, unwilling to take any chances with her safety. He closed the door behind him, rolled up in his plaid, and lay down on the cold stone floor.

T
he next few
days were frustrating and exhilarating for Symon. Frustrating, because Elena kept wee Fia with her through the nights, and through the days. Symon never got more than a few stolen kisses from her.

Exhilarating, because Elena truly had banished the madness—or the poisoning, as he had to keep reminding
himself. He was clear-headed and even-tempered as he hadn’t been in a year. Just watching the woman move about the castle, brewing teas for the sick, tending a wean’s scraped knee, or taking a moment to soothe her shadow, wee Fia, made him think his luck had finally turned and all would be well for his clan.

At first, when he stopped and allowed himself these thoughts, people had scowled at him, skirting around their chief as he stood like a silly love-struck lad, gazing at the lass. But after a couple of days they began to look at him curiously, then they would glance at Elena and smile. By the end of the week he found them grinning at him, and he would grin back. There was a lightness about the castle that had not been there since his own mother died. Perhaps it was just a woman’s touch upon the clan, or simply relief that their chief was no longer a threat to them.

Whatever it was, Symon did not care. The clan was more at ease and he was well. Now if he could convince Elena to marry him, all would be guaranteed.

Symon was leaning against the wall, accepting the passing grins of his kinsmen, when Murdoch appeared, grim-faced at his shoulder. Symon glanced to him, the grin sliding off his face. “What?”

“Ranald has returned. I think you will not like what he has discovered.”

“You could not let me enjoy myself a few days longer, eh?”

“You should go now, Symon. ’Tis not a thing to laugh over.”

Aye, little about his life was worth laughing over, except the last week. “Very well. Is he in his chamber?”

Murdoch nodded.

“Do not let her out of your sight,” he said, pointing in Elena’s direction.

Elena must have seen his movement, for she glanced up, concern on her face. Not wanting to burden her until he’d found out Ranald’s news, he forced a smile to his lips, then signaled her that Murdoch would be watching over her while he was gone. She nodded her understanding, though the look of concern did not leave her lovely eyes. Symon gave himself a mental shake. He had other things to think about than the lass’s eyes.

Moments later he opened the door to his brother’s chamber. Ranald stood in the corner, his back to the door, pouring something. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Symon, and turned his attention back to his task.

“Close the door, brother. What I have to tell you does not need to be tonight’s gossip in the Hall.”

Symon did as his brother asked, then stood, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for bad news.

Ranald turned, holding a flagon before him. “Murdoch told me you’d been asking for my spiced wine. I didn’t realize how low the supply was. I could’ve sworn there was another barrel in the storeroom when I left.” He handed the wine to Symon, then turned to retrieve a cup. “This will not be as good as it might a sevenday hence, but ’twill be to your liking still. I think you may desire it, once you hear what I have to tell you.”

Symon grunted as he took the cup from Ranald. “We shall see,” he said, putting the wine on the hearth to warm, setting the cup next to it. “Well?”

Ranald looked nervous, which did not bode well for his news. “It took some doing, but I have discovered who exactly Dougal of Dunmore is.”

chapter 14

A
candlemark later the
flagon was empty, and Symon was pacing the wall-walk atop the battlements, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of Dougal of Dunmore. The prophecy ran through his mind.
When flame and madness mingle
. That part had come true in more ways than one.
When cast out thorns grow strong
. That riddle was solved, too, though he did not see how there were any old wrongs that could be righted with Dunmore.

That part of the prophecy would make sense eventually, just as the others had. For now, though, at least he knew whom he faced. He would not be lax in his vigilance. ’Twas no wonder the daft bastard vowed to kill whoever stood between him and Elena, for he had ever been so.

Ranald had implied that Elena was in league with Dunmore, a spy of sorts, seeking out MacLachlan weaknesses,
then feigning the violence of her encounters with Dunmore, when in fact they had arranged those meetings for her to pass him information.

For a moment Symon had been beguiled by Ranald’s tale of deceit and disloyalty, but then he remembered all that Elena had done for him and for their clan during Ranald’s absence. He had very nearly told Ranald of the discovery not only that he was being poisoned, but that the poison had been found.

But he didn’t tell Ranald any of this. Nor did he tell him that Elena had cleared the poison from him, nor that they had become lovers. It did not sit well with him, this feeling of uneasiness with his brother, but he held his counsel, at least for now. He did however tell him he had asked Elena to marry him, telling Ranald only that it was necessary to keep her safe, not that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

Elena’s laughter tinkled up from below. Symon peered over the edge of the wall to find wee Fia dancing about her, laughing and giggling. He smiled, realizing how everyone seemed to be laughing and smiling of late. ’Twas a wonderful change, and one he would ensure continued. No matter what Ranald suspected, or Dougal of Dunmore threatened.

Symon quickly found his way down to the bailey. He picked his way through the people, carts, and animals so that Elena would not see his approach. As he neared, he caught Fia’s eye and quickly raised a finger to his lips, recruiting her into his game. The lass’s eyes twinkled, though a tinge of sadness still muted them from their usual brightness. She continued chattering away with Elena and another child. Slowly Symon crept up to Elena, then deftly
grabbed her about the waist and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around in a circle.

Elena squealed. Fia and the other child laughed and clapped their hands. Smiles met Symon from every corner, except for the glittering green eyes of his brother, watching from a shadowed corner nearby. Symon did not care if his brother approved of his choice of wife. He wanted her. He would have her, and together they would insure that laughter and joy always overcame sorrow and sadness within the walls of Kilmartin.

Elena pummeled his arms, laughing and demanding to be put down all at the same time. Symon obliged, then spun her in his arms and kissed her soundly in front of the entire crowd. There was hooting and hollering, whistles and impertinent comments, until Symon realized that she had gone still in his arms. Alarmed, he pulled back. Concern filled her brown eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Aye, lass. Can’t a man kiss his intended?”

He expected a denial, but instead she placed her hand upon his chest. Her eyes went hazy, as if she didn’t see what was before her. At that very instant a vise twisted in his gut, sweat popped out on his brow, and the world went black around him.

E
lena desperately tried
to hold Symon upright when he doubled over. The pain in his gut echoed so strongly in her own she had trouble keeping them standing. The people who had gathered close only a moment before, scattered, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and their stricken chief. Sweat poured from
Symon, and he staggered, nearly pulling them both to the ground. Panicked, Elena looked around for help. Murdoch was loping toward her, concern etched on his face.

“Help me lay him down,” she said when the giant reached her side and took Symon by the shoulders. Symon jerked, trying to break free of the other man’s grip. “Wheesht,” she said to him, “lie down, Symon. ’Twill be right soon.” She murmured to him as Murdoch struggled to get him to the ground. When he would not lie down, Elena put her hand upon Murdoch’s arm. “Sit behind him. Hold him still.” The giant did as she instructed, pinning Symon’s arms back when he would have escaped and wrestling him down.

Elena looked about quickly. Most people had retreated indoors, but she knew the doorways and windows would be crowded with anxious eyes. She regarded Symon; the wild-eyed expression on his face was terrifying, but she knew she had to help him. She could not allow him to suffer, nor could she allow the clan to believe he was mad any longer.

It would seal her fate, what she must do, but that was no longer important. This clan deserved to know their chief was sound of mind, that the trials that had befallen them were not Symon’s fault. Indeed, that one amongst them was responsible for the calamity that had come upon them. Anger surged through her. Who would do such a thing to these people? To Symon?

Symon struggled in Murdoch’s grip, kicking out and catching her in the shin. A gasp escaped her, but the fact that Symon, so gruff on the outside, but the keeper of a soft heart on the inside, could do such a thing just proved he was not himself. Murdoch grunted and hooked his own
legs over Symon’s, so that he was wrapped about his chief, restraining this man who only moments before had been swinging her in circles, laughing and carefree.