Devil of Kilmartin (20 page)

S
ymon grunted as
he laid the lad on Elena’s narrow bed. Elena stood near the door, her arm around wee Fia, who had followed them, clinging to Elena’s skirts. Symon looked expectantly at the healer. She had looked so concerned when he had brought the boy out, but now she hesitated to cross to the room.

Of course. She did not want an audience.

He crouched down and motioned for Fia to come to him. She hesitated, glancing from Elena to Symon and back.

“ ’Tis all right, Fia. Symon will not harm you.” Elena waved her hand in his direction, as if shooing the wean to him. Fia looked at him again and finally approached, blue eyes wide, her little face serious.

He whispered in her ear, “I have an important job for you, wee Fia.” She nodded and leaned toward him. “Mistress Elena will need some bindings for the lad’s burns. Can you find Mistress Jenny and ask her to give them to you?” The little head bobbed rapidly. “ ’Tis very important, this job, but you’re a fine wee lass, so I think you can do it. Aye?” The small head continued to bob. Symon took her hand and led her to the door.

Fia looked over her shoulder at Elena, then smiled timidly at him. “She’s a fairy queen, you ken?”

A smile escaped before he could stop it, and Fia’s eyes widened further. “A fairy queen?”

Fia’s face was very serious. “Och, aye. Me da says so. Will you wed her?”

Even the weans had hopes. Symon sighed, ignoring the tightening in his stomach. “I do not know. Go now. Find Jenny quickly.” The girl disappeared down the stair, and
Symon shut the door firmly. He stood with his back to it and nodded to Elena. “I’ll make sure no one enters while you heal him.”

“I cannot—”

“Of course you can.” He almost yelled at her, his emotions too raw where she was concerned. All his softness had been spent getting the child away. He lowered his voice with effort.

“Nay, you don’t understand,” she said, her chin trembling slightly.

“You are right, I don’t understand how you can stand there and let this lad suffer when you know you can help him.”

“Do not judge what you do not ken. You promised you would not hurt me, aye?”

“And I will not, I appeal to your conscience, not with violence against you.”

She stood, staring at the lad, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle.

“Why would God have given you such a gift if it wasn’t to help the weans and the bairns?” he asked quietly, standing behind her. “Why? Is this not what you would choose to use your gift for?”

He watched the battle rage through her. It was obvious she did not want to heal, but he was sure the need to ease the suffering of the lad was equally strong. She may refuse to heal a warrior, but she was soft-hearted where the weans were concerned.

“I can see it in your eyes, Elena. Go on, now, before that little one returns. I’ll keep guard at the door so no one will discover what you do here.”

She lost the battle as he hoped she would and sat beside the moaning lad, on the edge of the bed.

Gently she placed his injured arm in her lap and pushed the tattered sleeve clear of the oozing blisters.

Symon found himself mesmerized as she began the healing. He watched her rub her slender, long-fingered hands together, her eyes closed in concentration. A slight hesitation, then she let her hands hover just above the worst of the blisters. She gasped, though he doubted she was aware of it. Tension gripped her shoulders, and she let her head lean to one side, stretching her pale neck, as if in pain herself, almost as if, in the healing process, she took the pain into herself. He had thought perhaps a glimmer of the pain reflected from her patient onto her, but this was something deeper, more dangerous. Guilt ate at him. He had caused her pain, had hurt her, by convincing her to do this.

He could see her struggling to breathe, and a dull sheen of sweat rose on her skin. He had to stop her. He crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder.

A shock of agony lanced through him, and his left arm burned as he jerked his hand free. He searched his arm, but there was nothing there except a hollow echo of pain. Hesitantly he placed his hand on her shoulder again. Again the pain lanced through him, sharp as the slice of a well-honed dagger, but this time he forced himself to leave his hand there.

How did she stand it? A warrior knew he must withstand such pain. His life taught him how to bear it. But not a woman. Not this kind of pain. Yet here was a woman who, despite knowledge of what she would feel, chose, however hesitantly, to heal this boy.

Symon’s respect for her rose.

Sweat gathered at her temples and trickled down the side of her face as she worked. Symon gathered his courage, sat behind her, and placed his other hand upon her shoulder. He used his warrior’s training to let the pain flow through him, focusing his mind away from it and onto the battle at hand. He did not know how he could help her, but perhaps if he could feel the pain through her, he could help her push it away. He poured all his formidable battle-trained concentration into easing Elena’s burden.

Immediately Elena’s shoulders began to relax. Her back seemed less rigidly held. Her head straightened and her breathing eased. She continued her healing. Slowly the blisters disappeared. The skin sank from angry red, to healing pink, and the boy seemed to drop into a deep sleep. Symon did not know how long he sat, hands on her shoulders, attention focused on shielding her from the pain. Finally she removed her hands from the now healed injury. Carefully she placed them in her lap and took a deep shuddering breath.

Symon kept his hands on her shoulders, searching for any more pain, but he could feel nothing more than the heat of her skin beneath his palms. She trembled and he pulled her back against his chest.

“Ah, Elena-mine, can you forgive my ignorance?”

She said nothing, just leaned into him, her arms wrapped tightly over his about her middle. After a moment she turned, still keeping his arms about her. “What did you do?”

He looked deep into her eyes and tried to find the words to describe the experience. “I do not know. I touched you as you healed the lad, and I . . .” The enormity of what he
had just experienced humbled him. He understood the pain she felt was real, vivid. That she chose to help in the face of that told him more of her spirit than anything he knew about her so far. Her courage was formidable.

“You understand now.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I am sorry to have pushed you to it, Elena-mine. I would not have done it if I knew how much you suffered.”

“ ’Tis true. I do suffer, but when you touched me . . . ’twas as if someone had thrown a wet blanket on a fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what you did, but somehow you took the pain and held it away from me. Never before has such a thing happened. Such a joining . . .” She looked up at him, her eyes awash with wonder.

Her words shook him. They had joined, and yet they were separate. He had to bind her to him. He could not give her up. Not after what had just passed between them. What would pass between them. And he wanted so much more to pass between them. Reason had little to do with it. That she could heal him was wonderful, but what he was feeling for her, with her, went so much deeper than his need of her gift.

A small knock came at the door, and Jenny pushed it open, wee Fia at her side.

E
lena pulled herself
from Symon’s comforting embrace and beckoned the girls into the chamber. She took the bandages from Fia.

“Can you spread some fat on his skin to keep it soft,” she said to Jenny, “then bind it well with the linen?”

Jenny nodded.

“Do not try to move him. He has much mending left to do. Does he have a mum?”

“Aye, she fainted dead away when she saw Jamie carried out. She hit her head,” Fia piped up.

Concern twisted in Elena’s stomach. “Is she recovered?”

“Aye. Me mum’s with her.”

“Sprite, will you go to her, tell her young Jamie will be fine in a few days time?”

Fia nodded.

“Off with you, then.” Elena kissed the child’s forehead and pointed her toward the door. “Stay with him, Jenny,” she said to the other girl. “When he wakes, he will be thirsty. Let him drink as much water as he will. A broth would be good for him, too, though he may not want that right away.”

Jenny moved to the lad’s side as Elena and Symon moved toward the door.

“Let me know if he does not wake by morning.”

Elena wavered on her feet, and Symon caught her around the waist, then scooped her into his arms. “She will be in my chamber,” he said.

Jenny nodded mutely as Symon carried Elena out of the room.

A
strange kind of
euphoria filled Elena. Never had she experienced anything like she had just shared with Symon. Never had she felt so at peace with her gift. She had saved the boy’s arm. Symon had helped her.

She rested her head on his shoulder and savored the feel
of his arms holding her. If she could stop time, now would be the moment she would choose. Somehow his simple assurance that this was what she was meant to do, his belief that helping that boy was the right thing to do, not because of any strategic advantage, or political alliance, simply that it was the right thing to do and she was the one who must do it, gave her the courage and the strength to face the pain she knew would come. And it had.

But then something miraculous had happened. At Symon’s touch she had felt his strength join hers, had felt him pull the pain away until it was but a distant buzz, annoying, but easily ignored. His strength had joined with hers and together they had healed the boy.

Suddenly she had found a purpose for her gift, and a way to practice it without all the pain. If only she could stay here and practice it. Dougal would not go away simply because she had found a place she wanted to be, a clan she could help. Nay, as long as she was here, he would seek harm to these people, and her.

But that was the future.

For now, if they were discrete, she and Symon could help his clan. Her fear had been transformed in an instant, making her feel calm, and sure, and strong. And the man who had ignited those feelings held her safe in his arms, ready to protect her, willing to stay with her. For now she would revel in that.

Symon came to a stop and Elena opened her eyes. They were in his chamber, beside his bed. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor, letting her body slide down the length of him. He seemed as moved by what they had shared as she was.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, gently,
sweetly. “Is it not clear, Elena-mine? Can you not see what even the weans know to be true?”

Elena didn’t want to talk, just now. Didn’t want to break the magical web that spun about them, separating them from time and place, giving them this moment.

“Will you be my wife?”

Elena’s heart lurched. In this moment she wanted nothing more than to stay here, where she had purpose and friends, and a man who valued her gift beyond his own immediate needs. But she couldn’t. Dougal wouldn’t give up the strategic advantage of her gift even if she was married to Symon. He wouldn’t leave Symon and his clan alone as long as she remained with them.

And there was the message of her dream. If she dared love this man, she would suffer as she had when her mother died—but only if she remained here in Kilmartin Castle.

A sense of freedom floated down over her. She could not stay because of Dougal’s threat, but since she could not stay, she could indulge her feelings, if only for one night.

For this single night she could pretend that this was her home, Symon was her husband, and that she was wanted and loved as any simple woman might be. Morning would come soon enough. She would not tempt fate by wishing for more.

She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, trying to let him know all that she felt, though she dared not put it in words.

S
ymon leaned down
and met her lips with his own, kissing her gently, nibbling at the corners of her mouth,
tasting her lips. He pulled her against him, deepening the kiss, coaxing her lips open, dancing his tongue over and around her willing one. She tilted her head, greedily feasting on his mouth as he did on hers. He groaned as she inexpertly, but oh, so enthusiastically participated in the kiss. Triumph filled him at her response. He would have Elena by his side.

He felt his body harden quickly, but held himself in check, slowing the kiss. He explored her lips, then moved to the sensitive place behind her ear, and the exquisitely delicate length of her neck. He allowed his hands free roam of her back, enjoying the way her body had subtly softened since coming to Kilmartin. Gradually his hands swooped lower until he cupped her round bottom in his palms, pulling her against him.

He was pleased by the soft moan that escaped her and the almost reluctant thrust of her hips against him. He caressed the side of her breast, lifting its weight in his hand, flicking a thumb over the rough cloth separating him from her hardened nipple. He felt her intake of breath and repeated the movement, more slowly, pausing slightly to catch the peak between his thumb and finger, then moving back to her lush backside.

He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue against her, relishing the feel of her hands gripped tightly on his shoulders, as if that contact was all that kept her on her feet.

Slowly he began to raise her skirts, gathering the worn fabric above her bottom, exposing the back of her legs to the chill air of the room. She responded with another moan and a slow grind of her hips against his own hardness. Her eyes were closed and a dreamy concentration played across her features. He had never seen her so. It was akin
to the concentration when she was healing, but this was focused completely on pleasure, not pain. She was focused entirely on him and what he was eliciting from her anything but cold body.

At last he had the skirts raised and his hands directly against her skin. He moved his hand around until it was between them, his fingers brushing the springy hair between her thighs. He wanted to lay her on the bed and bury himself in her, but it was too soon.