Devil of Kilmartin

by Laurin Wittig

  “I have naught that belongs to you,” Symon said, moving around, forcing Dougal to turn with Elena in order to keep facing him. “You chose your path, Donal. You could have stayed at Kilmartin, even been champion, but ’twas not enough for you.”

  “Aye, ’twas never enough. ’Twas less than my due. But you, you have taken it all, always have. And now I will take what is mine, Elena, Lamont Castle, and even Kilmartin Castle, for I have earned them all.”

  Elena felt Dougal tremble, felt his breath come in agitated gasps, knew he barely held himself in control. Knew by the easy way Symon moved about them that he understood Dougal as well as she did, knew he would not back down, and only waited for him to snap, to attack, then Symon would be able to act, to save her once more. But he could not do it alone, for she also knew he would not risk her life.

  But she could. It would be worth her life if it meant Dougal would no longer threaten those that she loved.

  “You have earned nothing, Dougal, or Donal?” she said. “Which is it? You cannot even claim one name. You will never claim Castle Lamont. My cousin, Ian, will be chief. ’Twas always intended to be. I will not marry you and you will never be chief. I have already married Symon.” The lie came surprisingly easy since, in her heart, it was no lie.

  She saw a glint in Symon’s eye, then felt the prick of Dougal’s dagger at her neck. She closed her eyes then, hoping it would be quick. She was confident he wouldn’t live long enough to see her body hit the ground.

  When he did not act, she pushed him further. “I carry his bairn.” ’Twas more hope than lie, but it served the purpose.

  Dougal flung her to the ground and lunged at Symon, a guttural cry like that of an animal wrenched from him. The two men grappled, their blades quickly discarded in favor of fists. They rolled, too evenly matched to be sure which would prevail.

  Elena rose and realized she still clutched the stone. Carefully she moved closer to the fray, prepared to crash her primitive weapon down on Dougal’s head as soon as she could be sure it was the right brother. Brothers? It explained so much, and not nearly enough.

  She watched as the two wrestled, landing thudding punches. Suddenly they were moving toward her. She couldn’t scramble out of the way quick enough and found herself knocked to the ground, her skirts pinned under the fighting men. In danger herself, she quickly decided which was which and brought her weapon down on the closest head.

  For a moment she wasn’t sure if she had actually hit anything, then the man on top slumped and the one on the bottom shoved him off.

  chapter 17

  “Daft lassie,” Symon said, rising to his feet and pulling her into his embrace. “He nearly killed you.”

  “But he didn’t. And now your clan is safe from him.”

  He was so stupid not to have told her the truth when Ranald first came to him. Symon glanced at Dougal, whose chest rose and fell, though all else would have indicated he lived no longer. “Nay, Elena-mine, as long as he lives, Kilmartin and Clan Lachlan will be in danger, as will you and your kin.” He stroked her hair, holding her close to his heart, as he tried to figure out how to explain the complicated person who lay on the ground beside them.

  “I will go far away,” Elena whispered against his chest. “He will not bother you. He will come for me.”

  Symon sighed. “Aye, he will come after you. Donal is not the type to forget someone who can further his grasp for power.” He found her lips and tried to reassure her with his kiss. A crashing sounded in the wood. Symon pushed her quickly behind him. His claymore lay across the clearing, so he pulled his dagger and prepared to fight whoever would threaten them further.

  Murdoch rode from between the trees and surveyed the clearing. “Och, lad, put that blade away. ’Tis only me and the lads, come to save you from yon thug.” He grinned. “I never would have thought to see Donal again.”

  Symon sheathed his dagger, then reached behind him, wanting Elena safe in his arms. “How did you find out ’twas Donal?”

  “And when am I going to learn why Dougal called you brother,” Elena asked, “and why do you call him Donal?”

  “I think I can answer both questions.” Ranald moved into the sunlight.

  Symon felt Elena tense and remembered the conversation—the accusations—the last time the two faced each other. “Not now, lass,” he murmured to her.

  Defiance flashed in her eyes, but she held her tongue.

  Ranald moved closer, until he stood just on the other side of Donal’s body. “Donal is, claims to be, our half brother.”

  Elena looked at Symon, who nodded.

  “But how did he become Dougal of Dunmore?”

  Symon took over the story. “I told you he came to us in his eighth year. By the time he had reached his eleventh winter, he began to persecute our mum, blaming her for our da not treating him as he deserved.”

  A snort sounded near their feet. Donal lay there, rubbing his head. “You are so stupid, still, brothers,” he said, a sneer in his voice. Symon pushed Elena behind him again as Donal slowly sat up, looking about him with contempt clear on his face. “I did not persecute the bitch—”

  Symon grabbed him by the front of his tunic and pulled him up until they were nose to nose. “You deny you bedeviled her, throwing your own mother in her face day after day?”

  “Nay, but she did not die of persecution.”

  Symon’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?” He watched as pride glinted sharply in Donal’s eyes.

  “There are many ways to poison, Devil.”

  He heard Elena gasp behind him as Donal’s meaning sank in. Ranald pulled the bastard from his grip, turning him around long enough to punch him in the face. “You killed her, poisoned her?” He punched again, but Donal ducked this time, and Ranald nearly caught Symon in the jaw. Murdoch moved his horse to block Donal’s escape, but he did not interfere with the brothers’ interrogation.

  “You poisoned their mother?” Elena’s voice was quiet, almost calm, though Symon could hear a hard edge to it that had not been there before.

  “Aye.”

  “And my da?”

  Donal snorted. “It took no poison to rid myself of that auld man. It took only a flagon of whiskey and a walk to the edge of Lamont’s Peak. I thought ’twas a fitting place for the Lamont to end his days, don’t you?”

  Symon risked a look at her and was surprised at the cold hatred he saw there. Gentle Elena, skittish healer, glared at Donal, her fists clenched at her side. Elena wanted blood. He wanted some himself, but there was one more question to be answered before he allowed his blade the privilege of ridding the world of this evil.

  “What is your preference for ridding yourself of me?” Symon asked Donal.

  The pride was tinged with a self-satisfied smirk. “Ah, humiliation is the best revenge, do you not think so?”

  “Nay, but I know you would.”

  “ ’Tis a nasty bit of poison, fly-bane. Drives one mad with pain. Muddles the mind so that everyone believes the madness. Brings the strong down into the mud with everyone else. And it is so easy to hide, in your food, in Ranald’s precious wine. Especially in his wine.” Donal laughed, sharp and jagged. “I humiliated you, and you never knew what was happening.”

  Symon nodded, but it was not a nod of agreement.

  “The mystery is solved, then. Elena, Ranald is not responsible for the poison in his wine.”

  Now he saw the hate Elena carried mirrored in Donal. “If she hadn’t interfered, Kilmartin would be mine by now, and you would be a raving lunatic, dead on the moor, or locked away in some dank hole in the ground for the rest of your days. Aye, ’twas fitting you should die of humiliation, since that was the fate your da gave me.”

  “He sought to keep your life, give you another chance to find your way. Were it up to me and Ranald, you would be long dead.”

  “Nay, those are pretty words, but they do not cover up the truth. You and that brother of yours hated me from the first day I showed up at yo
ur gate. You would not rest until I was humiliated, and banished, left to rot in the snow or beg for a louse-infested bit of straw to sleep in. No one would take me in, feed me, help me, until I reached the sea. I had to change my name, for your blighted da had spread word of my humiliation.”

  At those words another crashing came through the wood. A dozen Lamont warriors burst into the clearing, weapons drawn.

  “Ian, nay!” Elena shrieked.

  The leader hesitated, looking from Elena to Donal, then taking in the gathering. “Are you all right, Elena?”

  “Aye. I am fine. Do not harm these men, they seek to help us.”

  Symon turned to Elena, a question on his lips that did not make it out before he felt the sharp cold bite of a blade between his ribs.

  Elena watched as first a question, then surprise crossed Symon’s face. In a sudden flurry, Murdoch and Ranald ran their claymores through Dougal as Symon reached for her, nearly falling on her, collapsing in her arms.

  “Symon!”

  She helped him to the ground, vaguely aware of the commotion around her. She saw the carved hilt of Dougal’s—Donal’s, she corrected herself—sgian dhu sticking from his back at the same moment she felt the mirrored pain in her own. Quickly she laid him facedown on the ground and moved near the wound. Gingerly she pulled the small knife from him, feeling every slice of steel against flesh. Blood welled quickly, and she knew he had been mortally hurt.

  Anger spiked into her, fear forced it deep. ’Twas exactly what she had feared. Only Symon’s whispering her name let her focus on what must be done and done quickly.

  “Do not, lass, do not heal me. ’Tis too bad, too deep. You cannot—”

  “Quiet, Symon. I can and I will. You will not die on me, I will not allow it,” she said fiercely, meaning every word, even as fear knotted her belly. “We cannot let Donal win. Lie still now, let me work,” she said, sending him a sad smile. “ ’Tis what I do.”

  Quickly she ripped the bloody tunic away from the wound, then warmed her hands, rubbing them rapidly together. Every ounce of strength and courage she had, she poured into that healing, every hope, and wish, and desire she had allowed to blossom in his company, she drew upon. Over and over again she forced the healing gift into him, over and over again she reinforced it with the depth of her feelings for this man. Still blood welled, and his skin grew more ashen.

  Elena sobbed and began again. “You cannot die, Symon, you cannot,” she whispered as she worked. “I failed with my mum, I will not fail with you. I love you too much to let you go.”

  Suddenly she felt the heat in her own heart, as if someone used her gift upon her, closing the old wounds there, the hurts and fears, the loneliness she had held close to her all these years. She used that power, poured it into Symon, letting all her love for him flow from her freely, like a clear mountain burn, rushing gaily down to the heart of the glen.

  The bleeding slowed, then ceased, and before long, Symon’s skin glowed pink and healthy once more. Relief coursed through her. She sat back on her heels, exhausted, but giddy. She was free of all that pain she had carried with her, the guilt, the fear. It had all washed clear of her in that moment of overwhelming love that had surged out of her, bottled up for so many years she had forgotten the power of it.

  She reached to push the hair from Symon’s face. He lay quiet, resting, not quite sleeping, she knew, but not quite awake. Somewhere in between, where all was peaceful, calm, serene. He would rouse soon, still weak, but whole, and alive.

  She looked about her, suddenly aware of where she was. Circled about her were several dozen warriors, Lamonts and MacLachlans, all standing shoulder to shoulder, absolutely still, utterly quiet. Only the leaves rustling in the wind broke the silence. She took a deep breath, marveling at the fresh breeze that played over her skin, and brought the smell of damp earth, cold rock, and death to her.

  Quickly she stood and looked about her. Murdoch stepped aside, revealing Dougal/Donal sprawled in the dirt, a bright red puddle gathering around him, turning the ground black where it seeped into the dirt.

  “ ’Twas up to me to stop him,” Ranald said quietly. He rubbed his wrists absently.

  Elena moved to him, lifted his hand away, and closed her eyes, touching her fingers to his abraded skin. She did not have the strength left to do more than take the pain away. “Murdoch, bind his wrists. ’Twill heal quickly.”

  Ranald nodded at her, his eyes wide. “And Symon?”

  “He rests, but will rouse soon. He will need your help for a while, but he will be fine.”

  Ranald swallowed hard, then took her hands in his. “Thank you for saving Symon’s life. He is truly lucky to have your love.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “I am sorry I accused you of the poison. He was sure all along that you would not do such a thing.”

  Ranald squeezed her hands and released her.

  Elena moved to her cousin Ian, standing nearby. “How came you here, cousin?”

  “We were searching for you, and him,” he said, pointing at Donal’s body. “When we found his camp, we found that one”—this time he pointed at Ranald—“held hostage. When we freed him, he told us that you were safe with the MacLachlans. We were on our way to Kilmartin to find you when he”—he shoved his chin in Murdoch’s direction—“came raging through the forest. He bade us all follow, promising answers when we found the Devil.”

  “And have you found your answers?”

  “I do not know. Have we?”

  Symon roused then, groaning, but insisting on sitting up. “You will be sore, but all is well,” she whispered to him, helping him to his feet, then depositing him on a large rock.

  “Dougal is dead,” she said quickly. “Murdoch and Ranald can return you to Kilmartin Castle.”

  “And what of you, Elena-mine?” He lifted a hand to her cheek. “Will you not return with me as well?”

  Elena looked about the gathered warriors, their faces full of respect when they looked at her. She glanced at Donal, lying in his own blood. He would no longer persecute her, but would the others?

  She thought about the way the MacLachlans had treated her the past few days. There had been no fear, curiosity, yes, and—she examined the faces around her again—and the same awed respect she saw here, only she had not recognized it for what it was. Would her own clan see her the same way now that Dougal/Donal was not there to say when and how she could use her skill? She tried to remember before Dougal, but then her father had treated her nearly the same. Could it be different now that she was strong enough to control her own destiny?

  “Why did you do it?” Symon’s voice broke into her thoughts. “You could have died with me.”

  Elena touched his face, ran a lock of his hair through her fingers, and pondered his question. At last she understood the root of her own courage. “I did it because I would rather die with you than live without your love.”

  “Ach, lass—”

  She kissed him, a smile tugging at her lips. Together they had changed so much. Together they would find a way. At last she knew exactly what she wanted, and she was going to get it.

  “Ian,” she said to her cousin, though she did not let Symon out of her sight. “By right, I am chief of Clan Lamont, am I not?”

  “Aye.”

  “But my father wished you to lead the clan.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then so do I.” She looked about at her kinsmen and planted her fists on her hips. “Is there anyone here who thinks otherwise?”

  No one said a word.

  “Fine. Ian of Lamont, as is my right as the only child of Fergus, chief of Lamont, I decline to become chief. I designate you to take my place, to lead our people well, and fairly.”

  “I accept.”

  “Not so quickly, cousin, there is one more thing you must do if you wish to be chief.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her and waited.

  “You must agree to abide peacefully, and as allies, with Clan Lachlan.”<
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  An uproar broke out, voices raised in disagreement, until Symon rose from his seat. “Silence!” Everyone stopped, tension thick in the air.

  He moved toward her, and she felt his love as clearly as she had felt it when they had joined together in the healing, as clearly as when they made love. He took her hands and kissed them lightly. “Are you proposing something, Elena-mine?”

  She smiled up at him. “Aye. There was a wee lie I told, which I would make the truth.”

  “And what was that?”

  She looked about at the mingled clans, enjoying the feeling of drawing these people together in peace. “I told Dougal, Donal, that we were wed.”

  A gasp flew through the Lamonts.

  “I would make that true.”

  Symon pulled her close, kissing her soundly, as the MacLachlans cheered. The Lamonts were not so pleased.

  “What has the Devil done to you to make you wish to wed our enemy?” Ian asked.

  Elena went to him, stood before him, proud and sure of herself, her people—all of them. “He has made me love him, Ian. ’Tis no crime, that. If I understand what has happened here, Donal was responsible for the strife between our clans. He caused the madness in Symon by poisoning him. He sought to harm the MacLachlans, and did not mind harming Lamonts to do so. ’Twas he who killed Da.”

  Lamont voices rose in disbelief, and Elena let them rail against it for a moment.

  “He killed Symon and Ranald’s mother, too. He made sure the clans had reason to fight, then used my power—aye, my power of healing—to keep the fight going. We need not fight longer. I will marry Symon, you will lead Clan Lamont. Joined together we shall be greater than either clan was before.”

  She stilled, then turned to Symon. He stood before her, whole and confident, his love for her shining like a beacon fire.