Devil of Kilmartin

by Laurin Wittig

  Murdoch found them there. He sat next to Symon and waited.

  “Well?” Symon demanded. “Did you find anything?”

  Murdoch looked at the lass, then back at Symon.

  “Elena can hear whatever you have to say, lad.” He glanced at her and she nodded. They both leaned forward, anxious to hear what Murdoch had to say.

  The giant cleared his throat. “There is another bolt-hole.”

  Symon couldn’t move. How was this possible? Another bolt-hole, one that no one, not the weans, not the older warriors, no one knew about? “Where?” he finally ground out.

  Murdoch tilted his head at Elena. “Right where she said. In the wine cellar. Mind you, we had to move near every cask and bottle in there, but ’twas there, cleverly hid behind a pile of casks. Even looking for it, I do not think we would have noticed it except for the footprints in the dirt, leading right into the wall, or so it seemed. ’Tis a clever fit door, made to look like the very wall itself.”

  “How is it we didn’t know of this?”

  Murdoch shrugged. “That part of the castle is very auld. Perhaps it was merely forgotten.”

  Symon looked at his gillie for a moment. “And?”

  “And we have not figured out how to open it yet.”

  Symon stood abruptly and headed toward the door. Just before he got there, he stopped, turned, and pinned Murdoch with an angry glare. “Do not sit there, man. We’ve got to get that door open, find out where it leads.”

  Murdoch rose slowly. “Aye,” he said as he followed his chief. “In the meantime, there are several braw lads working on the problem, and another four ready to stand guard whether they get it open or not. ’Tis sure the next time the daft bastard tries to gain entrance, he’ll have a surprise or four waiting for him.”

  Symon nodded. The man had a point. When he looked at Elena, still sitting at the table, her stew gone cold in front of her and her eyes big, he knew he could not drag her back down into the undercroft where she had been terrorized. And he could not go without her. He had promised to keep her safe.

  “Get you back down there,” he said to Murdoch. “Send word if it opens, I’ll”—he looked back at Elena—“we’ll be in my chamber.”

  Murdoch strode past him and Symon reached out, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “When Ranald returns, send him to me immediately.”

  “Aye, Symon.” The man turned and looked at Elena. “Keep the lassie safe. I’ll see to the rest.”

  Symon gave silent thanks that Murdoch had never forsaken him, then returned to sit across from Elena.

  “Do you think he’s left the castle?” she asked.

  “Aye. Else he would have been found.”

  She stirred her stew, lost in thought. “Something is not right.”

  “Aye. There are many things that are not right just now.”

  “Nay, I mean with Dougal.” He waited for her to say what was bothering her. “Why would he know a secret way into this castle? I didn’t know I would be coming here. How is it that he can secretly enter a castle he has had no reason to enter before now?”

  “I do not know, but ’tis a very perplexing problem. Perhaps there is someone here who knew of the secret bolt-hole. Someone he bribed for the information?”

  “ ’Twould not be above him to do just that, but then why when he found me alone did he lock me in? It would have made more sense for him to take advantage of the opportunity and take me away with him.”

  The lass made a fine point, if only he had the answers to her questions. “It does not make sense.” He turned to her. “I sent Ranald off to find out where Dougal came from before he joined the Lamonts. I don’t know what he will find, but I cannot help but think ’twill answer many questions.”

  “I have often wondered as much,” she said quietly. “I asked my father once. He said it did not concern me.” She looked away, her eyes darting around the empty Hall. “I didn’t dare ask Dougal, not after . . .”

  “Do not fash yerself, Elena-mine.” He smoothed a stray tendril of her hair from her cheek. She whirled around at the touch. “We will figure this out. In the meantime,” he said, wishing to distract her from her past, “there is this other mystery, this poison. Have you thought further on it?”

  “Nay,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You were distracted,” he finished for her and was rewarded with a shy smile.

  “Aye, that’s it.”

  “ ’Tis late. I think you need a good night’s sleep. We’ll tackle my problem in the morning. Perhaps this other trouble will be resolved by then.”

  She agreed and quickly followed him up to their hallway. Outside their chambers she hesitated. Symon guided her silently into his chamber. Once inside she stopped.

  “You can have the bed, lass. I’ll be sleeping in front of the door.” He turned his back and stoked the fire while she slipped off her gown and climbed into the big feather bed.

  When he was sure she was settled, he stripped off his plaid, then rolled himself in it and settled his back against the door. ’Twas a fortunate thing that he could not see her lying in his bed from his vantage point upon the floor. His thoughts wandered far too easily in that direction without the visual stimulus to go with them. Strange how quickly things could change. Just yesterday it was he, looking to her for his safety and salvation. Today she looked to him. If he was honest with himself, he was well pleased that she had finally decided to trust him. ’Twas a pity Dougal of Dunmore had to be the cause.

  Symon shifted to a more comfortable hard spot on the wood floor. At least it was not stone. One had to be thankful for small favors.

  Elena woke slowly the next morning and for a moment didn’t know where she was. The bed was so big, and so soft, she thought she must still be dreaming. A soft snore from the direction of the door reminded her of where she was. And why. Quietly she sat up and looked over at the sleeping Symon, still sitting up against the door, as he had been last night.

  A curious softness washed over her as she watched him sleeping. She indulged herself, finally allowing herself to admire this warrior who had done so much for her in such a short time. Never before in her entire life had anyone cared enough to allay her fears, protect her, even as she slept. She remembered the heated kisses they had shared and felt her core heat. The desire she had so newly discovered spread through her, heating her, giving her wild ideas. If only . . .

  If only there was no Dougal, and no gift. She might be happy here. She could be useful, and Symon might, just might come to feel something for her other than pity. She did not want his pity. What she wanted was the fire that had flared to life between them wiping out all other thoughts, all other feelings. When she had been in his arms she had known complete abandon, at least for a moment.

  She would give anything to feel that again, to be so lost in the wonderful sensations his lips and tongue and hands brought to her as to forget all else in this world. She rose quietly from the bed and padded across the cold floor. She crouched in front of him, her shift puddling about her feet. He looked so peaceful in sleep, so content. Did he feel the same way she did when they touched? She thought he must. He had seemed bemused when she had pulled away, as if overwhelmed by his senses. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his lips with her fingertips.

  Symon’s eyes snapped open and his hand gripped her wrist. Elena’s breath stopped. Confusion passed swiftly over Symon’s face, then he released her wrist, watching her. Gingerly she let her fingers move over his lips and was pleased to see heat in his eyes and feel his breath quicken at her touch. He did feel it. She smiled to herself, then explored his face with her fingers, running them over his strong jaw, his thick dark slashes of eyebrows, his high, sharp cheekbones. Slowly she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  Symon groaned and she started to pull away just as he snaked an arm about her waist and pulled her into his lap, deepening the kiss.

  “What do you see, Elena-mine?” His breath whispered
over her skin.

  Elena thought about his question. What did she see? “A warrior. A chief. A man.”

  “Not a devil?”

  “Nay, no devil. A man who takes in strange lasses and offers them his hospitality, his protection. . . even his bed.”

  His pupils widened and he took her hand, still resting on his cheek, bringing it to his mouth. He planted a gentle kiss in the center of her palm, then held her hand in his. “I would give you more, if you would but let me.”

  Elena wasn’t sure what he meant. “You don’t need to give me more, Symon.”

  “I would protect you always, could protect you always if . . .” He let the words hang between them.

  “If?”

  “If you would marry me.”

  Elena stood, breaking the contact with his warm hand. She returned to the bed and pulled her woolen gown over her head, then arranged the sleeves of her shift underneath.

  She felt Symon’s eyes on her, then he rose and arranged his plaid, wrapping it about him with a wide leather belt. “You still will not consider it?” he said at last.

  Elena felt torn between what she wanted and what she knew had to be. She could never stay there, become the wife of the chief of MacLachlan, and keep her secret safe. And then there was Dougal. As long as she remained, he would take his anger out upon the MacLachlans. But most of all, if she allowed herself to feel what he stirred in her, she would suffer as she had when her mother had died. She shook her head, unable to voice all the reasons why she could not hope for the happiness she had always craved.

  Symon was next to her before she even realized he had moved. He grabbed her, kissed her with all the pent-up frustration they both had felt for days. She struggled free of him and tried to ignore the arousing effect his mouth had upon her body.

  “We have a bargain, do we not?” She tried to make her voice cold, hard, but a slight wobble threatened to expose the turmoil she was feeling. “You will find me a new home, somewhere far away from the likes of Dougal of Dunmore? And I will help you find the source of the poison.”

  “Aye. I will not go back on my word.”

  “Fine. If you think ’tis safe enough, I would like to return to the stillroom. I had not finished examining the contents yet. There may be something there that will be of use in neutralizing your poison. At the very least I promised wee Fia’s mum I’d bring her a tea of nettle to ease her swollen ankles. There was some there, though I don’t know if ’tis fresh enough to do much good. I need to find some wood-rasp to ease her way when the bairn comes, too.” Elena rattled off this list, more to distract herself from the large man looming over her than because she needed to tell him.

  He huffed out a breath, then turned and opened the door, waiting there for her to accompany him. She did, leading the way down the stairs and out into the pale early morning light. A few people watched their progress across the bailey to the undercroft that kept the wine.

  At the dark entrance to the chamber Symon stopped Elena and stepped in front of her. “Wait here a moment.”

  He did not have to tell her twice. Her heart was hammering, and the last place she wished to go was into the dark maw of this chamber. Yet she did not know what else to do. The auld stillroom was not well stocked, but then, she had no stores at all. Given a little time she could determine what was most needed, then perhaps Murdoch would go in search of the herbs for her. For she could not set foot outside the gates. It did not matter if Symon accompanied her or not. She could not take the chance of falling into Dougal’s hands again.

  “Come,” she heard from the depths of the darkness. She stepped out of the sun and let her eyes adjust. Symon stood at the back of the chamber, a lamp in his hand. Elena jumped when she realized he was flanked by four Highlanders, two on either side. “We will be well guarded here. Come.”

  Elena moved deeper into the dank space. With each step she trembled more, until Symon held out his hand to her and she lightly placed hers upon it. His large hand curled around hers, and she felt much safer for the contact. “We have much to do,” he said to her, ushering her into the stillroom.

  Elena stood perfectly still as Symon moved about the room, lighting the oil lamps as he had done yesterday. When they were burning brightly, she moved past the shelves and cupboards she had searched already, stopping at the corner cupboard she had opened just as Dougal arrived. The cannister at the back bothered her, though she couldn’t figure out why. She lifted a lamp, lighting the space, and noticed a lack of dust. Everything else was covered with a thick coat of dust, even inside the cupboards. Yet this one looked as if someone had dusted it yesterday. She ran a finger over the clean wood. Someone had cleaned this recently, but only this cupboard, stuck in a dark corner of a room no one used anymore.

  She reached for the pottery jar, lifting it gingerly, the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

  “What have you found?” Symon asked as he helped her lift the heavy jar to the worktable in the middle of the room.

  “I do not know for sure, but I think maybe one of the answers you are looking for.”

  Symon lifted the lid for her, and they both peered inside. A woodsy, moldy aroma drifted out of the jar. Elena motioned for Symon to draw a lamp closer. Carefully she tipped the jar, spilling a little onto the table. A small puddle of brown liquid rested there, spreading out slowly.

  Elena leaned down until her nose was almost in it, then took a long sniff, inhaling the aroma, trying to match the scents she discerned to her experience with herbs. When she could not, she dabbed her pinky in the puddle and tapped a drop of the mixture on her tongue. She waited. No burning, no numbing. She drew her tongue in and breathed through her open mouth, intensifying the flavors and scents by the flow of air over her tongue.

  “Cinnamon,” she said at last, “cloves.” She considered the flavor another moment. “Thyme . . .”

  Symon leaned down to sniff the open jar again. He began to chuckle. “ ’Tisn’t poison there, lass.”

  She looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “I think you’ve found Ranald’s hiding place for his secret recipe.”

  “Secret recipe?”

  “Aye. He makes the finest spiced wine this side of Loch Awe, but he will not share the recipe. He makes his mixture up, then hides it, mixing it only with the proper wines and in precise amounts, or so he says. We could hide the jar somewhere else.”

  “Why would we do that?” she asked, interested in the amusement flashing in his eyes, crinkling around his eyes.

  “Ah, you’ve never had a brother, have you, lass?” She shook her head. “Well, you see, brothers take great delight in tormenting one another, playing tricks, getting them in trouble and the like. Ranald and I may be grown men, but that doesn’t mean we do not still enjoy a bit of horseplay.”

  “You and Ranald are close,” she observed.

  “We once were; there is more between us now.”

  “Are you the only two?” She placed the top on the jar and put it back where she found it, looking quickly through the rest of the empty cupboard, just in case she’d missed something.

  She realized he had not answered her, and she glanced over her shoulder. He leaned against the worktable, a brooding look upon his face now, his shoulders squared and tense.

  “Symon?”

  “What? Oh, aye, we are the only two, though for a time there was another who claimed to be our brother.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. He was banished from here when I was but seventeen summers.”

  “Banished?”

  “Aye. He had been amongst us since I was seven and Ranald was six. He was eight.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He called himself Donal. He appeared at the gate one winter’s day, eight years old, but ordering men about as if he were chief himself. He said his mum had told him he was the son of my father. When she died he made his way here to Kilmartin, demanding to see the chief, demanding to be claimed as the
rightful heir.”

  “He was eight?”

  “Aye. His mother had schooled him well in arrogance and swagger.”

  “Was he your brother?”

  “My father said no, though whether ’twas to appease my mum or ’twas the truth I never knew. He did let the lad stay, but the fact that he would not claim him as his firstborn son only rankled Donal more as he grew older. When he was eighteen he tried to kill my da. Ranald and I stopped him. We nearly killed him, beating him until he could not stand.”

  “But he didn’t die?”

  “Nay. Da stopped us, banishing Donal as soon as he was able to drag himself from his bed. Da told him he would learn humility at the hands of the world and sent him out. We never heard of him again.”

  “Ten years is a long time to consider someone family, then send them away.”

  “Aye, though to be honest I do not think either Ranald nor I ever missed him for a moment. Da spent a long time drunk that summer, but he finally accepted it and we moved forward.”

  “How did your mum feel about Donal?”

  “She never liked the lad, though I think she tried to hide it, at least at first. She did not have to try for long.” He looked up at Elena. “She died when I was ten.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know for sure. ’Twas a stomach complaint. Auld Morag tried to help, but Mum wasted away over a few months. ’Twas a blessing when she died. At the end the pain alone was enough to kill her.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Aye, though I have not thought of her in a long time.” He pushed away from the table and scanned the room. “There are more cupboards over here,” he said, obviously unwilling to dwell on this any longer. He opened another cupboard and began pulling jars and bottles and cloth sacks out, shoving them willy-nilly on the worktable.

  Elena sighed at the jumble, but did not stop him. Sometimes keeping your hands busy was best. She reached for the first bottle and began her investigations.

  chapter 12