Devil of Kilmartin (6 page)

He could keep his suspicions.

She’d not give him his proof.

chapter 4

E
lena peered over
her shoulder at the wide valley stretching out below. A stubborn morning mist clung to the hollows along the path of the burn where it cut its way through the glen. Symon still led the horse with Molly and the bairn perched in the saddle. Elena, however, had taken to her feet a short while earlier, needing to put some distance between herself and the angry, worried Molly. They traveled a well-worn path up a small ben that commanded the head of the valley. Great gnarled trees overhung the path, their branches decorated with tiny pale green leaves, newly sprouted, obscuring the view up the steep slope.

The faint smell of smoke and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer told Elena that the castle, Kilmartin, was near. Symon led the horse around a bend where the
path doubled back on itself. The trees opened up, revealing an imposing gray structure crouched menacingly just below the summit.

Elena shuddered.

She was about to enter a strange castle. She had put herself into the hands of another warrior—a mad warrior.

A warrior who defended a lass he did not know.

Elena knew the stories she’d heard of the Devil of Kilmartin were evil, terrifying. Yet the man before her seemed . . . desperate. She had seen no evidence of evil. Indeed, he had handled Molly’s wee bairn with gentle care and had shown great concern for both Molly and her missing husband. Of course, she also had not seen him mad. Could it be that was just a battle-lust distorted story? Nay, she had seen Dougal back down. He would not do so lightly.

Still, if she could lose herself in the castle, keep her distance from this man, this devil, she might yet be able to keep her gift to herself.

They passed through the castle’s outer gate and up a short, dark tunnel lined with arrow slits and murder holes, and back into the bright mid-morning light in the bailey. Guards at the gate clearly knew Symon, though none said a single word of welcome to him. Elena could see people bustling about the bailey, but no one looked up to see who entered.

The hair on her arms and at the nape of her neck rose. Where was the shout of welcome for their returning chief? Where was the idle curiosity so common in castle life? At home there was rarely anything more interesting than the arrival of a stranger in the castle’s midst. Yet here the people gathered about the bailey appeared to studiously ignore
the travelers, purposely averting their eyes and keeping their backs turned, as if to keep from catching anyone’s notice.

Perhaps the tales of the Devil were true. Perhaps he was lulling her into trusting him with his heroic rescues. Maybe she was more gullible than she thought. She would have to be careful. She would have to be wary.

The horse came to a halt. Symon handed the reins to a giant, golden-haired man, then went to help Molly down.

“Do not touch me, Devil.”

Symon stepped away, his back stiff and a scowl on his face. Molly handed her bairn to the other man and dismounted.

“Take them to the Great Hall, Murdoch,” Symon said to the giant. “I must speak with my brother.” Symon strode across the open courtyard, people parting before him, seemingly without knowing he was there.

Until he passed.

Elena watched as person after person, young and old alike, turned after Symon passed and followed his progress with baleful glares. She had never seen such a reaction before, especially to a chief.

Murdoch nudged her forward, following in Symon’s wake.

She had always assumed it was her own kinsmen who had dubbed him the Devil of Kilmartin. Now it seemed perhaps it was Symon’s own clan who claimed that honor. But why did he remain as chief if he was so scorned? The clan could choose another chief at any time—unless. Perhaps they feared Symon too much to remove him.

Fear skittered down her spine, yet her own experience did not match the thought. This same man had protected
her, shown her, if not exactly kindness, care. He’d fought for her, offered her hospitality without even knowing precisely who she was, nor what she was.

And she owed him her life.

Nay, she’d not let soft feelings dull her thinking. She owed him a debt which she would repay when she was able. But she’d not let that debt cloud her judgment. First she would keep herself safe, whatever it took to do so.

“Sit ye here, lass,” Murdoch said, breaking into her thoughts. Elena sat on a rough-hewn bench, dimly aware of her surroundings and of the man’s quiet departure with Molly and the baby.

S
ymon banged open
the heavy door separating a small private audience chamber from the Great Hall. The loud noise startled a serving girl out of his brother’s lap. Rapidly covering her exposed breasts, she scurried past Symon, her eyes firmly downcast. The door slammed shut behind her.

Ranald MacLachlan, Symon’s younger brother by a mere eleven months and nearly his twin in looks, rose quickly from the only chair in the confining room. A dying fire glowed behind him. He quickly covered his frustration at Symon’s interruption.

“You have recovered?” Ranald carefully laced his trews and righted his tunic.

“Aye. I’m as recovered as is possible.”

“There must be news, else you would not seek me out above your bed and bath.”

“ ’Tis true, my brother.” He bit down on the word, irritated that Ranald knew the nuances of his bouts with
madness so well. “I do have news. The Lamonts have burned young Callum’s cottage to the ground.” He quickly recounted the tale.

“ ’Tis not unexpected,” Ranald said, moving to the flagon of wine set on a small table near the fire. “They have been here again in your absence. Strange how you are always taken with your madness when they attack us.”

His brother’s jibe struck home, but he would not let him know how much. It was no secret that Ranald thought himself a better chief for the clan than mad Symon. But Symon could not agree, in spite of his troubles; he still believed his brother would not lead the clan well. Ranald’s heart was in the right place, but his methods left much to be desired. For all the clan feared Symon, they did not trust Ranald.

Ranald turned back to him, handing him a cup of dark wine. “But I digress. There is more, aye?”

Symon winced inwardly at the callous dismissal of the Lamont attack, though he kept his face neutral. “Aye.” He drank the slightly bitter wine. It did little for his dry throat. “I’ve brought Callum’s wife and bairn here—”

Ranald nodded, his gaze riveted to Symon’s face. “And?”

“I brought someone else.”

Ranald quirked an eyebrow at him, though his eyes remained carefully attentive. “And who might that be? A lusty wench to quench your appetite? Or is it a fairy, come to mend the ill luck of the clan?”

“Nay. ’Tis a lass,” Symon said, not rising to his brother’s bait. “Auld Morag claims she is part of the prophecy.”

Something flickered across Ranald’s face, though it
passed so quickly Symon could not determine if it was interest or disapproval, or perhaps both.

“Auld Morag sent her?”

“Nay, but she believes Elena is the flame.”

One corner of Ranald’s mouth twitched. “Elena? What is her clan?” The gleam in his brother’s eyes bothered Symon.

“I believe she belongs to Lamont.”

Ranald’s eyes glittered with interest in that piece of information. “Is she the healer?”

Symon noted his brother’s heightened regard. “Aye,” he said slowly. “I believe she is, or perhaps she is an apprentice.”

“How many did you kill for her?”

“None.”

The surprise on his brother’s face sliced through Symon, hurting more than he would have thought possible. When would he be immune to these slighting insults?

“She was fleeing when I found her. I’ve not gotten the tale from her yet,” Symon said.

“What makes you believe she is the healer?”

Symon thought back to that first moment she had crashed into him, and the feeling of calm and peace she had wrapped about him in that moment. But he kept that to himself for now. “She has some little skill at simples, for she has demonstrated such upon my own head.”

“Then it could be she is not the healer, but only some lass with a bit of herb lore?”

“Aye, she could be, but I do not think so.” He was reluctant to say more until he had proof.

“You clearly have made up your mind about the lass. Why then do you bring this news to me?”

Symon was surprised it had taken Ranald so long to ask this question.

“If she is who I believe her to be, ’twill not sit well with the clan. Yet I
will
keep her, Lamont or no.” He had never been so sure of anything in his life. He would keep her and once more control his destiny. The prophecy made that clear.

“Do you really think she is the healer?” Ranald’s pale green eyes sparkled as if he was pleased with the possibility, even as he twisted his words so they mocked the idea.

Doubt briefly flitted through Symon’s thoughts. What if she wasn’t what he thought her to be? There was still the problem of her apparent age, and the long-held rumors about the Lamont healer. And yet he felt certain she could settle that mystery, if she would. She held her identity close, but not close enough. At the very least she was a skilled apprentice healer. If he had to keep his hand on her for the rest of his life in order to fend off the madness, ’twas a small price to pay.

“Symon?”

He felt Ranald’s eyes on him as he crossed the room again and again. He finally stopped at the window and looked out over the bailey crowded with people struggling to overcome a twist of fate, struggling to remain a clan. His loyalty and duty to that clan had kept him here, despite the growing mistrust and fear. Despite the loneliness. He was tired of being feared. Tired of feeling outside, even amongst his own people. Tired.

“You would keep this lass on a suspicion?” Ranald’s voice came from just behind him.

Symon turned to face him. “I would, and I will.”

Understanding dawned in the younger man’s face. “You really do believe she is the—”

“Aye. But she is trying to keep it a secret. Her true nature betrays her, though.”

“Then your madness is no more?” There was a strange note in Ranald’s voice that Symon could not name. It wasn’t hope, nor joy, nor even curiosity. It sounded more like desperation.

“I do not know yet if she can cure me. But I do know she can dampen the effects. ’Tis most amazing to have a completely clear head again—even though ’tis only for a brief moment so far.”

Ranald reached for the wine flagon and refilled his brother’s cup. “It must be welcome. But you say you do not know if she can cure it?”

“Nay. She is able to withhold her skill when she wishes. Force has not worked.”

“Then what will?”

Symon looked at his brother carefully. “She runs from something—or someone. I wish to know who. I wish to know why.” He drank from his cup. “Which is why I came to you.”

Ranald nodded. “What exactly do you need me to do.”

“I need you to find out what happened at Castle Lamont to send her fleeing into the forest, chased by hounds.” He had his brother’s complete attention now. “Or indeed, if anything happened. I know you have more . . . subtlety . . . than I do. Use that ability to find what I need to know, then bring it to me.”

Ranald considered his brother for a moment. “And if I find this information, what then? Will it give you what you need to force her to aid you?”

“It will give me the leverage I’ll need if she does not bend to my will on this matter. With this information I will know her weakness, her fear. Then she will have no choice but to help me, and that will help the clan.”

Ranald paced the chamber for long moments, then turned to face his brother. “Very well. You are yet chief.” Symon winced. “It may take some time, but I will discover this news.”

Symon drained his cup then rose from his chair. “I’m counting on it. Now, I’ve a lass to woo.”

“Woo?” Surprise stopped Ranald on his way to the door.

“Aye, there is more than one way to gain a lass’s help. I would have it willingly, and if not that, then what you seek will insure her acquiescence.”

Ranald nodded. “Perhaps you have learned something from me after all these years.”

“Aye, perhaps I have.” Symon wasn’t sure he liked the implications of that. Quickly he left his brother where he’d found him, his mind already working on the problem of wooing a skittish lass.

E
lena sat on
a narrow bench in the nearly empty Great Hall where Symon’s man had left her. A few people had entered the hall, only to glance at her and hastily retreat.

After a while she began to notice her surroundings. She looked up at the beautiful, timbered ceiling, then down the length of the huge hall. Empty trestle tables lined either side of the room, flanking a huge fire basket in the very center of the space. When lit, the smoke would rise to the
high ceiling, and escape through a hole there where the sunlight now winked through.

The basket was empty, bare, as were the walls. There were no fine tapestries hanging, no rushes on the floor, no torch-filled sconces to light the space, nor candlesticks, as there were in her father’s castle. The people she had passed in the bailey looked lean, hungry, hopeless, yet the dais at the far end held a finely carved table and included a chair so large it seemed a throne.