Symon calmed the animal, sharing its dislike for the silent, pensive circle, hunkered here at the edge of the glen. He wished to deny the sight as well. But that was impossible. He knew this cursed place. He knew the madness had led him back here.
The stones stood silently in their primeval ring as if standing in judgment of him. All the ills that had befallen his clan these past six months, even his own hated reputation, had started here, in this circle, on that fateful day of his father’s death. Symon clenched his shaking hands. The past could not be changed.
But it could be faced.
It was madness to enter the circle again, but madness was his near-constant companion. What more harm could come from this place than the death of his father and the torment his life had become these past months? Symon would not let his weakness get in his way. Something had brought him here, and he was determined to face his fate. Perhaps then he would find a way free of his curse. If he did not, he would lose all that he had ever worked for in life: his position, his honor. It had already stolen his self-respect.
Symon slid from the horse. As he tied it to a tree, a hound bayed in the distance and was quickly answered by another, adding to the horse’s already nervous shifting. It pulled at its lead, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast.
“Shh,” Symon said, grateful that his voice obeyed him. He scratched the horse’s cheek for a moment, quieting the animal and himself.
Finally Symon took a deep breath and moved toward the accursed rocks, drawn by the circle as a lodestone draws iron. The hounds bayed again, the sound echoing off the stones, warning him away. The hair at the base of his neck prickled in response.
“ ’Tis only a ring of mighty rocks.” The sound of his own voice, though gravelly as always after the madness, calmed him.
Determined to meet his fate, he strode between two of the tall rocky sentries and into the circle.
A bare pace within, he stopped.
Gone was the clear air of spring, nor was the remembered blood-stink of battle present in the circle. It was like walking into warm, thick water. Sounds were muffled and the smells of a moment ago, damp, boggy earth and sharp, dusty rock, were muted here, more like the memory of a smell than the actual smell itself.
Mist began to rise about his feet, swirling up from the ground, reaching out and embracing the huge moss- and lichen-clad stones. Damp wisps of reflected moonlight filled the gaps between them with a transparent wall of white moonglow.
Hounds bayed once again, closer, accompanied now by a long wailing cry. The stallion stamped the ground.
Symon remembered to breathe.
It was only a trick of the wind, that wailing. It was only the remnants of madness that made that wail sound human.
Symon rolled his shoulders, noting the weight of his claymore high against his back, and the lesser weight of his dudgeon dagger tucked at his belt. At least his affliction did not extend to leaving himself weaponless.
A branch cracked. Symon whirled in the direction of the noise. Something hurtled from the mist and threw itself at him, hitting hard enough to force the breath from him. He staggered and his arms encircled the all-too-solid form of a woman.
Long-fingered hands gripped his tunic. Leaf-tangled hair caught in the stubble on his chin even as a peacefulness he no longer believed possible washed over him. Calm, like a healing salve on weather-raw skin, pushed the lingering confusion and pain from him. He felt clear-headed, balanced, and strong as he hadn’t since the madness had first come over him in this very place.
Hounds bayed just beyond the mist, and the stallion snorted its misgivings. The unearthly wailing sounded again, this time from just under his chin. The woman pushed away from him, stumbling when he released her.
Peace deserted him.
He reached for her again, grabbing a bony wrist. Peace stole up his arm and briefly fluttered in his chest. She tried to stumble backward, her eyes fixed over his shoulder.
“Help me, I beg of you!” Desperation at odds with the peace he felt colored her low voice.
His decision was made in an instant. He drew his dagger and spun in one smooth, practiced motion to face the direction she had come from.
Huge, gray wolfhounds strained at the edge of the mist-shrouded circle, slavering like the hounds of hell, but they did not enter. Symon heard scrabbling as the woman moved to the far side of the circle. There she could easily slip into the mist and away from the hounds while Symon held their attention.
The easiest thing would be to let the hounds continue their hunt, but Symon had never been one to take the easy road.
So he would dispatch the dogs, and the keeper he was sure followed them. He would dispatch them by word or by blade, it mattered not, and retrieve the woman himself. Then he would regain that momentary peace. A peace he was suddenly determined to have.
He sheathed his dagger and drew forth his claymore, feeling calmer with the massive sword in his hands. Any reprieve from his own private hell was worth a fight. Even a fight in this circle. Especially a fight in this circle.
He planted his feet, balancing his stance, his claymore at the ready. A muttered curse came out of the mist, quieting the dogs, and sending them skirting the edge of the circle. A shaggy-haired man stepped between the stones, his dagger glinting in the moonlight, his heavily bearded face cast in shadows.
“Where is she?” the stranger demanded.
The voice was almost familiar, teasing his memory as if he should know it.
Symon said nothing as he moved slowly toward the man.
“ ’Twas a lass ran this way. I will have her back.”
Still Symon did not answer. Something about the rumble, the thick burr, not entirely of these parts, picked at him, but he couldn’t call the memory forward.
“I saw her come this way.” The other man’s voice grew threatening. “The hounds tracked her. I’ll have her back!”
Symon took in the man’s stance, the way he shifted slightly foot to foot, his dagger hand swaying back and forth as if he was unsure which way Symon would come at him.
“Just point the way she went,” the man said, “and I’ll leave you be.”
Symon took another step toward him. The stranger stepped back deeper into the shadows.
“I’m after the lass.”
“You are on MacLachlan land. If you do not leave now, you will die on MacLachlan land.”
“Where I die is between the devil and myself, you bloody bastard.”
“As you wish,” Symon said.
Elena filled her lungs, trying to take advantage of the moment to catch her breath. She peered around a great stone, watching Dougal challenge the huge, dark-haired warrior. She knew Dougal’s injuries from the hot tallow and the heavy candle stand had been the only reason she had escaped the castle, and the only reason she had stayed ahead of him and his hounds until now. He must be desperate indeed, to follow her onto MacLachlan lands alone. But then, Dougal was not one to give up, and he would be even more determined—and dangerous—now that she had injured his pride, and his backside.
Her own skin felt flayed from the hours she had spent racing through the thick wood. She was cold, dirty, and scared. Dougal was as handy with a weapon as he was with those dogs, while the warrior who was defending her was not well. In that half-a-moment they had touched, her gift had asserted itself, sensing pain and soothing it.
And yet she had felt calmed, too, almost as if he held some power himself. Or perhaps it was his unquestioning defense of her that calmed her. But why would he do that when he was so clearly unwell? Did he know what she did? His eyes had held wonder in their black depths. She shivered at the intensity of the image. An angry Dougal was nothing compared to the barely contained need she had witnessed in that moment.
The two warriors exchanged threats, and Elena knew this was her chance. She could escape while they distracted each other. She stepped backward, her eyes fixed on the men, but a hound’s low growl jolted her to stillness.
&nbs
p; Dougal, his face cast downward just enough to keep the moonlight from illuminating the familiar rage she knew was there, edged around to the MacLachlan warrior’s right, but the warrior engaged him, swinging his mighty claymore close enough to knock him off balance. Before he could parry, the MacLachlan was upon him, wrenching Dougal’s knife arm up behind him, then resting the sharp edge of his own blade against Dougal’s beard-covered throat.
It was over so fast, Elena did not even have time to react.
“Drop your dagger.”
Dougal dropped it with a muttered oath.
“You see, lad, you were right,” the warrior said.
“How’s that?”
“You said this was between you and the Devil.” The warrior paused, as if waiting for Dougal to understand his words. “I am the Devil of Kilmartin. Have you not heard of me?” The simple question belied the sharp concentration on the Devil’s face, and the promise of violence in his posture.
Elena began to tremble. The hounds growled again, only an arm’s length away. The Devil of Kilmartin.
She had run from one madman to another.
She watched as Dougal started to nod, just a bare movement else he would have slashed his own neck. He stopped, chin raised.
“Aye,” he said instead, his voice unusually low.
“Do you wish to continue this, then?” the Devil asked.
“Nay.”
“ ’Tis as I thought. Give me your word you will leave the lass be and take yourself away from MacLachlan lands.”
“You have it.”
Shock coursed through Elena. She had never seen Dougal back down from anyone, or anything.
“Good.” The Devil stepped back, but kept his claymore ready. A Highlander’s word should be good enough, but apparently he didn’t entirely trust Dougal. He was wiser than she would have guessed.
“Get you gone, and your hounds with you.”
Dougal whistled, three sharp rising notes. The hounds whimpered but reluctantly abandoned their quarry. “You may have her now, Devil,” Dougal said, his strangely altered voice carrying over the mist, “but you’ll not keep her long.” He raised his voice more. “You won’t find anything easier with the Devil, Elena. You belong to me!”
Her skin prickled. The image of what she had fled scrambled through her mind. The knowledge of who had defended her terrified her. She’d be no safer with the Devil of Kilmartin than she would be with Dougal of Dunmore. She would never be safe.
A sob escaped her and she once more forced her tired legs to a run.
chapter 2
Symon sheathed his claymore. The heady rush of battle fever waned rapidly. He listened for the woman, Elena. A hazy pain filled his head again, but it did not increase to the earlier pounding. It had eased in that momentary contact with her. He looked around, ready to track her himself if necessary.
Anything would be worth even one more moment of that peace.
A scrabbling sound told him she was getting away. Symon cut across the circle in four long running strides, then passed through the barrier of the ancient stones. Instantly sounds brightened, shadows darkened, and the forest closed around him. He stopped, gaining his bearings, listening for the telltale crashing of someone running through the black wood.
There. He turned in the direction of the noise and tore through the bracken. In moments he had caught up to her. Another and he had her round the waist, picking her up off her feet, dodging her flying elbows, kicking feet, and scratching nails.
“Be still!” He struggled to contain the flailing woman. “Bloody hell, cease this now!” She did not so much as flinch at his bellow, though his own head threatened to leave his shoulders.
At last he pinned her to him, her stiff back to his chest, his arms wrapped about her middle, securing her own arms at her sides. Her chest heaved, and he thought he heard a muffled sob.
“I’ll not hurt you, lass.”
She said nothing. She was tall but over-thin. Her hair was a mass of tangles decorated with bits of pine straw and dead leaves, its color uncertain in the wash of moonlight. Her gown was ripped and mud-spattered. He sensed a fragility to her despite the pitched struggle they’d just been through. Why was she running? Why did that man want her back so badly as to track her with hounds?
And where was the peace he had felt before when they touched? He took stock, waiting for calm to wash over him. The lass remained rigid in his arms.
“What do you want of me?” she said at last, her voice rising and cracking as if she fought to control it.
Symon spun her in his arms so she faced him. She gasped and managed to wedge her hands between them. Warmth radiated from her palms. He waited for that fleeting clarity of mind to follow the heat, needing to prove to himself he had not imagined it.
But clarity did not follow. She balled her fists and shoved against him.
“Release me.”
“Nay.”
“ ’Tis true? You are the Devil of Kilmartin?” She stood, her head held proudly, concentration etched on her face. For a moment he fancied her a priestess of the ancient builders of the stone circles.
“I am Symon, chief of Clan Lachlan.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, physically forcing the returning stabs of pain back. “He called you Elena, but of what clan are you?”
She did not answer.
The surge of power he had experienced in the scuffle with the lass’s hunter was gone and all the effects of his madness stormed back through him like a battle-crazed army bent on destruction. Symon’s head was splitting asunder. His mouth was dry and his throat begged for water.
If he wanted to learn the truth of who this lass was, and what had caused that strange, wonderful moment, he would have to act quickly, before he once more lost his grasp on reason. He must secure the lass until he could question her. Most likely, she was a witch, but he did not care. Anything that would dampen his madness, give him even a few extra moments of clarity, would strengthen his position with the clan. It did not matter the source. Sweat broke out on his brow and between his shoulder blades. His stomach heaved and the trees threatened to bend and bow to him once more.
“Come.” Symon dragged the girl by one thin wrist.
“Why should I go with you?”
Fear radiated from her, and he could feel her glare aimed at his back. Still he pulled her along. She could glare all she wished as long as she obeyed his command.
As they passed into the circle once more, she dug in her heals, forcing him to stop or risk snapping her wrist. “Where do you take me, Devil?”
He had to admire her courage, though her eyes showed the fear of a cornered animal. But he did not have time for pretty words to bend her to his wishes. The madness could crash around him again at any moment, and he must get her to safety before that happened. He could not guarantee she would live to see the next morn if he did not. And he desperately wished her to do so.
Symon released her arm and quickly scooped her over his shoulder.
The lass had fought him all the way to the horse but became sullenly compliant when he told her she could flop like a sack of oats across his lap, or she could behave and ride behind him in relative comfort. She had chosen the latter, but just in case she changed her mind about cooperating, Symon kept a firm hand on her arm where it wrapped stiffly about his waist.
Every so often he would feel her relax, then jerk awake again. At last her arms fell slack about his waist as she finally succumbed to sleep. Her gentle weight settled against his back, her body heat mingling with his own. After a few moments he realized his head had begun to subtly ease and his unruly stomach had calmed.
Surprise roused him. He had not imagined the influence of her touch upon him. Though apparently she was strong enough to control this strange effect her body had upon his, at least some of the time. Anger mingled with grudging admiration. Few would deny him anything, yet she had denied him relief from his affliction, even when he had defended her.
And what was the sou
rce of her effect? Rumor held that the Lamont healer used aught but her touch to heal even the mightiest of wounds. Could this bedraggled lass be that healer? Nay. Since before he was born stories had filtered through the glen of the wondrous skills of the Lamont healer. And while he couldn’t discern her true age, she was not as old as his score and five he was sure.
She could be daughter to the healer, or apprentice. But it made no sense that her clan would hunt her like a criminal if she possessed this skill.
He almost woke her, demanding she prove her abilities and work whatever magic she possessed to halt the next round of debilitating madness. But she had only eased the effects before, and then only briefly, while they touched. Could she do aught against the full force of his madness?
He took a deep breath, calming his seething emotions, trying to think through the possibilities the lass presented. If his suspicion was true, she owed him the use of her skills. He had saved her from her hunter; it was only right she would repay him in the way that would serve him best.
Of course, once before a healer had tried to help him, but she had quickly declared him beyond hope and hied off with a passing tinker. If this woman was the Lamont healer, would she do the same? Would she put an end to any hope for reprieve? Nay, if she did prove to be the fabled healer, she would heal him. He would make sure of it.
Symon rode on, lost in his thoughts, the lass sleeping against his back. The full moon was sinking quickly behind the bens. The pale light would be gone soon, and they would have to stop until daylight.
All at once his companion jerked awake, nearly tumbling from the horse’s back. Symon whipped his arm behind him, steadying her with his hand on her back, pressing her to him.
Symon stiffened, prepared for abuse from her lips at the forced contact. Instead she gripped him tightly about the waist and buried her face against his back, bringing the full force of peace and clarity with her.
The Devil of Kilmartin Page 2