Symon watched her go.
Nothing. Frustration raked across his skin, but he remembered the night before. While she remained awake, he had suffered, but when she finally succumbed to sleep, that curious calm had descended over him, soothing his mind and his body. Somehow he would have that peace again.
He would have to learn a bit more about her in order to discover a way to make her trust him. He could start by listening to the women’s chatter he was sure would accompany the preparation of the meal and tea. His head would pound, but he just might learn what he needed. Symon waited until she returned then followed her into the cottage.
He’d never met two more silent women. His bowl was nearly empty. His head was much improved from the willow tea. And these two women had said less than a score of words between them in all the time their preparations and meal had taken.
“Who are your people?” he blurted out, needing at least that much confirmation of his suspicions.
Elena started. “Why do you wish to know?” She put her bowl down and clasped her hands in her lap.
“You are called Elena, aye?”
She looked from him to Auld Morag and back. At last she nodded.
“And your clan?” he persisted.
“ ’Tis not important. I am of no clan now.”
“Be that as it may, I still desire to know who your people are.” He took a large bite of rabbit and chewed it slowly, giving her time to answer. But she did not. Exasperated he dropped his bowl next to hers. “I think it fair to ask whom I’ve angered by defending you. Do I not deserve an answer?”
“Your reputation will serve to keep you safe from any anger, I’m sure.” She rose, her meal unfinished. “I need some air,” she said as she slipped out the door.
Symon started after her.
“Sit, Symon.” The strength in Auld Morag’s voice surprised him enough to stop him. “Sit! She will not run away. She has nowhere to go.”
“Who is she, then?” he asked as he picked up his bowl and refilled it.
“I did not know you were blind as well as mad.” The old woman watched him like a cat about to spring on a mouse. “Can you not see?”
“I see a lass in trouble. I see a lass who may be the answer to my prayers.”
“But you do not see the obvious.”
“Then tell me, what am I missing?”
“The prophecy.”
Symon sat on his stool with a thud. The prophecy.
“Aye, now your eyes are opening, lad. Do you not remember?”
He cast back, trying to bring forth the exact words. It had been nearly ten years since Auld Morag had scared the wits out of him, going into a trance and spouting nonsense. At least he had always thought it nonsense.
“ ‘When flame and madness mingle . . .’ ” he said, the words coming to him slowly, “ ‘when cast-out thorns grow strong, then old wrongs will be righted, and MacLachlans prosper long.’ ”
“Aye, ’tis it, lad. Do you now see?”
“Elena is the flame,” he said quietly, working it through. “Her hair is testament to that, and I, no doubt, am the madness.” He glanced up to see a smile growing on Auld Morag’s wrinkled face. “But the rest makes no more sense than it ever has.” He shoved his fingers into his hair and tried to physically force back the pressure building in his skull.
Auld Morag shook her head. “You are still blind, but understanding will come.”
“Why can you not tell me what it means?”
“ ’Tis not mine to reveal, lad. The prophecy was meant for you. ’Tis your destiny you must discover.”
Symon stood. “Fine, then I will go and discover it.” He strode to the door, then stopped and turned, unwilling to anger the seer. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
The sound of cackling laughter followed him out of the cottage.
A short time later Elena was seated behind Symon on his huge black horse. He had offered her the hospitality of his castle and clan. She had had no choice but to accept it. Now it took every shred of concentration she possessed to hold herself away from him, though the movement of the horse made that difficult indeed. Part of her wished to touch him again, to curl against him where she could hear the beat of his heart and feel the heat of his hands upon her.
It had been worth enduring the pain in his head for those moments of contentment, for that feeling of being protected, cared for, for the heat of that contact.
But she would not indulge herself again.
Thrice she had seen the effect on his face, felt the healing in his body. Thrice his touch had sliced easily through her control, threatening to reveal her secret. He already suspected too much.
She should not be going with this man. But the memory of one day spent crashing through the rough wood of Scotland, chased by hounds, afraid for her life, was enough for now. Elena had never before been out of sight of Lamont Castle. The world was a much bigger, more frightening place than she had imagined. And she was finding herself ill-prepared for it.
Despite Auld Morag’s cryptic words, she had little choice but to go with the Devil.
Symon stopped the horse abruptly, jostling her out of her thoughts and pushing her forward into his back. Quickly she pulled away. Why was it like fire on her skin whenever they touched?
“What—”
“Shh. Listen.”
Elena listened carefully, but all she could hear was the cold breeze whistling through the trees and the sound of a burn near by. “I don’t—”
“There.”
The sound of a baby crying carried on the wind, and with it came the distinct smell of wood smoke.
Symon turned the horse in the direction of the crying.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“ ’Tis too much smoke for a simple hearth fire. Something is amiss. Hold on!”
Elena had no choice but to wrap her arms tightly about him as he kicked the horse to a gallop. Branches whipped at them. Dirt and rocks flew behind them. She knew she should be frightened, but she wasn’t.
They erupted out of the forest and into a clearing. Symon pulled up on the horse quickly, stopping him neatly at the edge of the dooryard. Elena peered over his shoulder. In the middle of the clearing stood the still-smoking remains of a cottage.
Heather thatch and wattle walls burned quickly and hot. Nothing was left save charred posts, ashes, and broken pottery. One blackened cauldron lay settled on its side in what was once the cook fire, its contents surely as burnt as the rest of the cottage.
“Who did this?” Her voice was hushed.
“I do not know. It could be Lamonts,” Symon answered. “Or it could be the work of the Sassunach, the English. They think nothing of burning out a Scot.”
Symon walked the horse around the ruin, never taking his eyes from it. Elena watched his profile as grief, guilt, anger all washed across his features in quick succession. Never had she seen Dougal, nor even her father, react to anyone’s misfortune so.
“I should have been here,” he said after a moment. “I should have stopped this.” It was what she expected from a warrior, a chief, but the emotions that went with the responsibility were different in this man.
A quiet mewling sound caught her attention. She gave Symon a nudge, only now realizing she still gripped him about his waist. He slid off the horse and quickly helped her down. His hands lingered at her waist, threatening her control, though his touch was gentle and her gift unmoved. Elena closed her eyes and imagined a stone wall surrounding her, separating her from the warrior.
He stepped back, releasing her, and she opened her eyes, already missing his touch. The questions were back in his gaze, but the muffled squall of the infant kept him from speaking them.
Symon ran toward the sound with Elena close behind. She braced herself, just in case.
Beyond the far edge of the clearing, behind a huge boulder, the bairn fussed again along with the hushed sounds of a woman trying to calm it. Elena stopped.
“Molly?�
�� Symon called, his voice loud enough to carry, but gentle enough not to terrify the hidden pair. “Molly! ’Tis Symon. You know me, lass. Come out now,” he coaxed. “They are gone.”
The baby quieted further and after a long moment, a woman’s face appeared. A gash on her forehead oozed bright red against her smoke-smudged skin.
“Get away, Devil.” The woman’s voice was gravelly, and tight with anger. “ ’Tis all your fault.” She stumbled around the boulder now, a plaid-wrapped bairn in the crook of her arm. “You brought this curse upon the clan, and now you’ve brought it down upon me Callum. ’Tis the Devil’s fault the Lamonts bedevil us.” Her eyes lit on Elena, and recognition flashed there. The woman pointed directly at her. “They were searching for you!”
Elena gasped. Before Molly could say more, she swayed, her eyes rolling up in her head. Symon scooped the child from her arms and caught her about the waist just as she swooned. He laid her awkwardly on the ground, but Elena kept her distance. Symon watched her. She must not give in to the pull of her gift.
“So, ’twas Lamonts hunting you,” Symon said.
She swallowed. “Is the bairn hurt?” she asked, desperate to turn his attention away from her.
“Nay, ’tis only worried that its ma is not coddling it.” Symon gently bounced the tiny baby in his huge arm. It quieted, overcome with hiccups now. “Here, lass, take the bairn. Molly needs tending.” He shifted the baby to her care.
Symon pushed the woman’s hair away from her face, then wiped the blood from her forehead, examining her wound. He slanted a look at Elena. “Do you think ’twas relief that made her swoon? The cut is not so bad.”
Molly’s eyes fluttered opened, and she raised a hand to her head.
“Are you all right?” Elena asked, rocking the baby in her arms. She kept her feet firmly planted and fought the urge to help as Molly struggled to lean against an alder tree. Blood trickled from the gash, and Molly pushed it away with her hand, smearing it over her forehead and cheek.
“I do not want you holding me bairn,” she said with a scowl. “I do not know what you did, but ’tis as much your doing, this burning, as ’tis the Devil’s.” She shifted her scowl to Symon. “You must be a good match to cause such trouble.”
Shaken, Elena handed the bairn to her and quickly stepped back.
“Where’s Callum?” Symon asked Molly.
“I do not know.” She raised a hand to her mouth as if to stop the wailing sound that followed her words.
“Keep her calm, Elena. I’ll have a look about.”
Elena found herself examining the woman’s injury from a short distance. She had helped the Devil with the willow tea; perhaps she could do something similar for Molly. The wound was typical of a head wound—more blood than was warranted from such a small gash. A bit of moss, tied with a strip of cloth, would quickly stop the flow.
“I’ll be right back,” she said quietly and headed for the burn they had crossed. She returned quickly with a piece of green moss. She handed it to Molly. “Press it to your forehead,” she said as she ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of her gown.
“Hold it just so. I’ll tie this cloth about your head to hold it in place for a bit.” She deftly tied the cloth as Molly sat stiffly, allowing it. “Sit quietly until the bleeding stops.”
The woman’s eyes drifted closed, but she held the bairn close to her heart.
Symon returned and shook his head at Elena’s questioning look. “If I know Callum,” he said to Molly, “he’s running a merry chase through the glen, drawing the Lamonts away from you and his bairn. We’ll take you to the castle. He’s sure to come looking for you there.”
He watched the woman cuddle her bairn close.
“Did the Lamonts say ’twas this lass they sought?” he asked quietly.
She opened her eyes and glared up at Symon. “Aye. They said our Devil had stolen a lass from them. Said ’twould be like this and worse until you returned her to them. ’Tis your blight upon this clan that causes such trouble, Devil. Why do you not leave us be?”
Elena couldn’t help but notice the change in Symon at the woman’s harsh words. All gentleness left his face. All concern left his eyes.
“Can you ride?” Symon asked.
Molly nodded without looking at him.
“We’ll take you to Kilmartin. You and your bairn will be safe there.”
Molly turned her icy gaze upon him then. “Aye, we’ll come because we cannot stay here, but you cannot keep us safe from your curse. You spread it amongst us again and again, and now you’ve brought this lass to cause more trouble.”
Symon’s face was hard as a mask and just as unreadable. “We must haste to Kilmartin,” he said. “The Lamonts may still be somewhere near. We need to return and see to the safety of the rest of the clan.”
Molly rose slowly, accepting Symon’s help stiffly when he lifted her and the bairn up onto his horse. Elena climbed on behind, afraid Molly would not be able to balance on the high horse by herself. She was grateful that the woman did not want to lean back against her, for that would mean sharing her aches and pains, and a struggle to keep her gift concealed. Though it distressed her not to help Molly, she would not give Symon any further cause to wonder. Auld Morag said he needed to see in order to believe.
He could keep his suspicions.
She’d not give him his proof.
chapter 4
Elena 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.
Symon 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.
The Devil of Kilmartin Page 4