“You know what I wish. I want you to stay here, with me. We should wed. ’Twould insure your safety, for even Donal would not—”
“Donal? You mean Dougal, do you not?”
Symon looked confused for a moment. “Aye, Dougal. Even Dougal would not steal another man’s wife.”
She pressed her palm to his cheek, quickly determining that there was no poison at work; just simple fatigue confusion had him mistaking the name. And mistaking what must happen.
“Marrying me would only anger Dougal. I ken him well. If we wed, he will double his attacks. No one will be safe. Dougal does not ever give up.”
“Aye. ’Tis why I must free my brother. I cannot leave him in Dunmore’s hands. I couldn’t live with myself. But first, we must marry, to keep you safe.”
Elena didn’t trust her voice. He could not wed her, though she could cherish no dream more. To do so would seal the fate of Clan Lachlan and their chief, whom she loved so much. Once more, Dougal controlled her life, though he was not even here. He would take all that she had come to love, all who had come to love her, and destroy them, and only because she thwarted him.
Only because she hadn’t submitted to Dougal’s will. And now he sought to bend Symon to his will, by forcing him to choose between Ranald and Elena. And Symon refused to bend at all.
If he married her, Dougal would kill Ranald, or worse. She was sure of it. She had seen his temper, his ruthlessness. If she allowed Symon to marry her, his brother would pay the consequences, and Symon would hate her forever for causing such a horrible choice, such a horrible outcome.
She would do what she must to help Symon retrieve Ranald, for she could do no less for the man she loved and the clan who had taken her in.
As soon as Symon slept this night, she would retrieve her things and slip out through the weans’ bolt-hole once more. This time she would not be afraid. She would leave just enough of a trail south, to mislead Symon, and distract Dougal, making sure Dougal knew she was gone from Kilmartin and gone from the MacLachlans’ keeping, drawing him away from Lamont Castle so the MacLachlans could retrieve Ranald.
Then she would head north, into the Highlands. When she was beyond where anyone knew of her clan she would find a place to live, making her living from simples or perhaps as a midwife, for women always had need of a midwife.
“We can tell the clan in the morn.” Symon’s deep rumble dragged her back from her plans. “We’ll have to wed in the auld way, saying our vows before the clan. There is no time to call the banns.”
“Are you hungry?” She kept her voice light, belying the sadness and despair that threatened to overwhelm her. “I had Jenny send your meal up.”
Symon pulled her to him, kissing her until her head spun and her body ached for him. “I will eat, lass, for I fear I’ll need my strength again this night.” He grinned at her, and she knew she would remember this last time in his arms for the rest of her days.
chapter 16
Symon reached for Elena, missing her warmth, but only cold bedding met his questing hand. He opened his eyes, searching for her. She was not within the chamber. He grinned. Of course. It was her wedding day. No doubt she was in the kitchens, selecting the wedding breakfast, or in Meggie’s chamber, borrowing a pretty gown. Symon bounded out of bed, a weight lifted from his shoulders by the prospect of having Elena by his side for the rest of his days.
It was too bad he would have to kill Dougal of Dunmore—as Donal called himself these days. In some ways he owed his current and future happiness to the bastard. If he had not chased Elena from her home, she would not have ended up in his arms—and his bed.
His bride’s ardor of the night before brought a huge grin to his face. Aye, he owed Dunmore a thanks. And he would give it to him, gladly, as soon as Symon freed one of his brothers, and ran the other through with his claymore. Pity Dunmore would die before hearing the words from Symon’s lips.
Symon took his time preparing himself. He brushed the dirt from his plaid and pleated it carefully, wishing to please his bride with his appearance. He scraped the whiskers from his face and even combed his hair, leaving it free as Elena seemed to prefer it.
As Symon went to leave the chamber, a quiet tapping sounded on the heavy door. He opened it, half hoping Elena had been unable to stay away longer. Instead he found Murdoch, his huge hand holding a tiny one. Wee Fia shrank backward and Murdoch squatted down.
“Do not fret, lassie. He is not near so fierce as he looks.” But Murdoch looked worried as he stood and faced his chief. “The wee lassie saw something this morning you might have an interest in, Symon. I told her you would not be angry, since ’twas not her doing.”
Symon motioned the two into his chamber. Murdoch lifted the little girl into his arms. “Go on. Tell your chief.”
The child swallowed, then pulled her thumb from her mouth. “ ’Tis the mistress, Elena, she left, through the weans’ hole.” She quickly stuck her thumb back in her mouth and laid her head on Murdoch’s shoulder, though she never took her eyes from Symon.
Symon heard the words, but could not understand them. Elena was preparing for their wedding, then he’d go off to the Lamont stronghold and free Ranald, end Dunmore’s life. He’d be free to look forward to the future. With Elena by his side, he did not even worry over who had poisoned him. Eventually the culprit would slip up, and they would discover his identity and purpose. In the meantime Elena would keep him sane, free of poison. She must. She was the key to the future. She was critical to the prophecy.
She was his heart.
“When did you see her, sprite?” He winced when he realized he had used Elena’s pet name for the child. She knew it, too, for she blinked, her eyes tearing up.
“ ’Twas just afore the sunrise, when the sky is still gray.”
Which explained why the bed was cold. She had been gone for several hours by now. Numbness climbed into his chest, circled his heart, then breathed a chilling frost there. He nodded at Murdoch, who took the child from the room, murmuring something to her, gaining her smile.
Symon scowled and paced. He would have to go after her. She was in great danger all alone in the wood. Dunmore could find her, she would be frightened, running scared again. Why? He wanted to scream the question aloud, wanted to demand an answer. Why?
He had it planned out perfectly. Marry Elena, retrieve Ranald, do away with Dunmore. Together he and Elena and Ranald would discover the source of the poison, then that too would be finished, done. Life would return to the path it had once taken, only it wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
He wasn’t the same man he had been before all this started—mad or not. He had experienced too much this past year to return to the callow lad he had been. And there was the matter of the lass he would spend his life with. No simple lass would suit him anymore. He wanted more than a pretty face and a willing body. Aye, he wanted a sharp mind. . . .
A sharp mind, one that knew their common enemy as well as he did, but she did not know the truth. Realization shook him. She had left to keep him safe. To keep his clan safe. It was her way. Dunmore would never stop in his quest for revenge on Symon, and Symon’s taking of Elena was just the latest excuse. Symon knew this as well as he knew he would never give Dunmore what he really wanted. But Symon’s way was to get rid of the man. Elena thought to rid Dunmore of his reason for tormenting the MacLachlans.
Guilt crushed him. If he had but told her the truth about Donal—Dougal of Dunmore—she would have understood that leaving would solve nothing, would only put her in harm’s way, in Dunmore’s way. Dear God, she had left the only safety she had found, and Dunmore was out there waiting for her. He was sure of it. Symon raced for the byre, shouting for Murdoch. He hastily saddled his horse as Murdoch slid to a stop in front of him.
“I ride for Lamont Castle. Gather any able to fight and follow as quickly as you can.”
Murdoch agreed.
“Gather your mounts as fast as you may. I cannot wait!” He leaped onto his horse,
shouting for the gate to be opened, then raced out of the castle and headed for the valley where he had first met Elena.
Elena pushed on, her steps faltering a little with fatigue. She had left before dawn, having spent her last hour with Symon watching him sleep, memorizing the details of his face, the sound of his breathing, the musky-sweet smell of their loving. She gathered her memories about her like a thick Highland blanket, holding them close to warm her in the days to come.
A branch pulled at her hair, and she stopped to free herself and listen briefly, as she had all morning, to see if anyone followed. No unusual sound came from the forest, so she continued.
No one had followed her from the castle that morning, she was sure of that. She had set off south, leaving just enough broken branches and a long red hair or two to entice any of the Lamonts lurking about to think she had headed that way. When she was sure no one was following her, she doubled back, passing near the castle once more, and heading north at last, toward a new beginning, though she did not feel she had ended this part of her life well.
Leaving Symon and his clan had been the hardest thing she had ever done. Leaving without warning or explanation chafed her. The MacLachlans had taken her in when she was in need, and allowed her amongst them even these last few days. She owed them so much more than to simply disappear into the early morning mists.
And yet it was the best thing she could do to repay their kindness. She could not let Dougal hurt them further. She would not be the cause of more suffering for them. Dougal would never give up until he had her back. A shudder ran down her spine. He would have to at least give up harassing the MacLachlans when he discovered she was no longer with them. She would have to keep moving until she was sure he was no longer looking for her, keep moving so as not to endanger anyone else.
Elena tried not to think about Symon when he awoke to find her gone. She tried not to imagine the depth of betrayal he would be feeling, the loss, the hurt. She had to remember why she was doing this, and keep going.
Otherwise, she would turn right around and beg his forgiveness, plead with him to marry her then and there so they would be together always. But she couldn’t. For she knew if she did, he and his people would pay for her weakness. Dougal would make sure of it.
As the sun rose nearly overhead, Elena could barely keep her eyes open. She had not slept at all that night, wishing to spend every moment with Symon awake, aware. She stopped at the burn that ran down the heart of the glen and drank her fill, then pulled one oatcake from her small store of food and ate it. She looked about for a place to hide, to rest, just for a bit, but she was in the wide glen, and there was little beyond the trees and bracken. She walked on, looking for someplace to rest.
At last she came to a pile of stones forming a large hill. It was in an opening in the forest, oddly free of trees and bushes. Even the early spring wildflowers seemed reluctant to bloom within that circle of sunshine.
Elena skirted the edge of the stone pile, and when she reached the far side, she saw an entrance, a small tunnel built into the hill. When she bent down to look within, she could see sunshine streaming in to the center of it, illuminating what appeared to be an open chamber in the middle of the pile. Curious, Elena climbed the rocky mount and peered down into a small sun-filled, circular space. She would not be seen in there, she realized, unless someone troubled themself to climb to the top and peer in. Perhaps she could rest awhile here. She climbed down and then shimmied through the tunnel on her hands and knees. Once in the roofless chamber, she wrapped herself snugly in the blanket she had taken for her cloak and pushed her back to the wall on the shadowy side of the space.
“ ’This is a fitting place you choose to sleep.”
The harsh voice jarred Elena from a deep slumber. The shadows that had barely touched the floor of the space when she lay down now stretched to the middle of the circular space.
“There’s not many a wench would choose to rest in the burial place of the ancients.”
Elena gasped and sat up, looking about her wildly. It wasn’t the words that disturbed her, but the speaker. At last her eyes adjusted, and she saw Dougal sitting on the rim of the chamber, where the roof once joined the walls.
“Ye do not have any words of greeting for your husband?”
Elena rose to her feet, her eyes firmly on Dougal. “I have no words of greeting for you, Dougal of Dunmore.” She wasn’t sure what he would do to her, now that he had found her, but she didn’t care. The moment she had heard his voice, she knew her life was over. He might not kill her body, but her spirit would die swiftly.
He signaled her to crawl out of the cairn. For a moment she hesitated. What if he had others with him? They would grab her as she left the tunnel. And if there weren’t others? Then Dougal would grab her. The alternative would be to stay put. She looked about and realized that if she forced Dougal to join her, she would be lost for sure. There would be no way to escape him except through the tunnel, and he would be able to keep her from that easily enough.
She cast him an uneasy glance, then stooped to exit her temporary home. When she rose to her feet at the other end, he was standing there, a nasty leer on his face.
“So you’ve had enough of the Devil’s staff, have you?”
Elena bit back any retort she might have thrown in the man’s face, knowing it was better to hold her tongue, wait for an opportunity, than to give in to his baiting.
“You’ve caused great hardship to your clan, Elena,” he said, reaching for a lock of her hair.
He let it slide through his dirty fingers, and Elena struggled not to let him know how much he revolted her. Once she had understood that other lasses might find Dougal attractive. But she could not see it any longer. Her contempt for him colored his appearance more strongly than any other consideration.
She looked at him carefully now, trying to understand how someone’s attitude could so affect their appearance. He wasn’t as tall as Symon, and Dougal was more whiplike in his build. But his hair was the same dark brown, though Symon’s held a glossy sheen and was silky to the touch, where Dougal’s appeared more coarse. And his eyes—
“Do you like what you see?” He used the lock of hair he had been fingering as a leash, pulling her close against him.
“You do not see what is plain before your eyes, do you?” He smashed his mouth against hers, and every instinct in her screamed in protest. She flailed against him, but he had her arms pinned to her side, his own wrapped vise-like around her. Desperate, she bit the tongue that probed her mouth.
“Arg! Bitch!” He backhanded her. She stumbled to the ground, her hand screaming in pain where she landed on a loose stone. “How can you go to his bed and not come to mine!” he screamed. Carefully she rose to her feet, the stone clutched in her uninjured hand.
“Do not touch me again, Dougal.”
“I’ll do what I wish.” He lunged at her. She stepped aside, crashing the rock down on him, barely missing his head and instead hitting his shoulder.
Swiftly she moved away from him, keeping the cairn at her back. If she tried to escape into the forest now, he would have no trouble catching her. Nay, she had to stay and face him, here and now, somehow knock him out, then she could once more disappear. ’Twas her only hope of escaping him. At least now he knew she had left the safety of the MacLachlans. At least now they would be free of his harrying.
Dougal worked his shoulder, a deadly glare in his eyes, eyes that were the same as Symon’s. The color was different, but the shape, the way the eyebrows slashed over them, they were the same. How could she have missed that before? The cool green of Symon’s eyes, so full of love, had distracted her from the obvious resemblance to Dougal’s hate-filled mud-brown glare.
Dougal began to move around her, obviously intent on moving her away from the cairn, into a less defensible position. But she would not give in to his bullying anymore. He had ruined her life, and done his best to hurt the MacLachlans.
“Why?” The questi
on popped out before she knew she wanted to ask it.
“Why will I do as I wish?” He sneered at her.
“Why do you wish me harm? Why do you persecute the MacLachlans, when ’tis my gift you want?”
“If ’tis harm you think I wish you, then perhaps the Devil is far more stupid than I thought. I would have thought he’d taught you about a man’s needs by now.”
Elena felt her cheeks heat, but did not take her eyes from her foe. “Can you not answer a simple question? Perhaps you do not know why you are so evil?”
He advanced on her, murder in his eyes. Elena raised the stone, prepared to hurl it at his nose and run. He stopped and seemed to compose himself a little. “I am not evil, Elena. I am chief of Clan Lamont, and you will be my wife. You will secure my position by both your wedding me and through your power.”
“So you cannot answer my question?”
“Aye, he can answer it.”
Elena gasped and turned toward the voice she would know anywhere. Symon stood like an avenging angel at the edge of the clearing, his dark hair loose about his shoulders, his strong legs firmly planted on the ground and his eyes, full of vengeance, fixed on Dougal. Never had he looked more sure of himself, more like the powerful man he was. Elena’s heart filled with love, and she took a step toward him.
Symon shouted. Elena whipped her attention back to the forgotten Dougal, but it was too late. He grabbed her, pulling her backward, pinning her to him, his dagger at her throat.
“Ah, now the tables have turned, Devil. ’Tis my dirk at her throat instead of yours at mine.”
“I should have slit it years ago instead of letting you be banished, Donal.” Symon stepped into the clearing, the bright midday sunlight glinting off his drawn claymore. “Release her.”
She felt Dougal—Donal?—shake his head and his arm tightened about her. “Nay. Cannot you see you’ve lost at last, brother?”
“Brother?” Elena asked, confused and afraid.
“Aye,” Dougal said, his hot breath singeing her ear, “did he not tell ye? Surely that whelp Ranald ran back to you with the news, Symon. But you did not think anyone else needed to know, did you? Ah, and I had heard you thought yerself in love with my lass, my betrothed. You’ve had everything else that belongs to me.”
Devil of Kilmartin Page 20