Devil of Kilmartin (9 page)

“I cannot,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes then, and their green depths were filled with hope and determination. “You can, and you will. Auld Morag foresaw it. You will heal the madness so I can lead the clan back to prosperity and power.”

“I do not care what Auld Morag foresaw.” Elena backed away from him, shaking her head. “I cannot heal you.”

He crossed the room, wobbling slightly midway. She backed up as far as she could, but he continued until she was against the wall and he was a breath away from her. “You can and you will,” he said, his voice low and tight.

“I cannot heal madness. I have tried before. ’Tis not possible.”

“Then explain this.” He grabbed her hands in his and pressed her palms to his chest.

Elena sucked in her breath as her vision blurred, her stomach threatened to empty itself, and her head felt as if someone had sliced into it with a heavy Claymore. She tried to escape, but the warrior was too strong. He held her to him as she struggled against her gift, for his affliction called out to it. Instinctively she built a wall of stone in her mind, imagining it wide and tall and very strong.

“Do not fight me, Elena,” he said. “I have felt your touch upon me. I have felt you lift the devil from my shoulders! Do not deny you can heal me!” Desperation had him shaking her, reminding her all too clearly of her recent confrontation with Dougal. Fear overcame her concentration and her wall crumbled. Her gift surged through her hands and into the Devil.

“Naaay!” she yelled, wrenching herself free in that instant of healing. “I will not be used, forced. I will not!”

Symon supported himself against the wall with one arm, a stunned look on his face.

“ ’Tis true,” he said. “You truly are the healer. I felt it. ’Tis true.”

Elena stared at him, fighting tears of despair. She was right back where she had been only a few days before. What was she to do now? She could not stay here, yet the attack on Molly’s cottage told her that Dougal clearly knew she was amongst the MacLachlans. How far could she get with both Dougal and the Devil of Kilmartin determined to have her? She started to shake.

Symon pushed away from the wall. “Do not cry.” He moved slowly toward her, as if he was afraid she would bolt. Elena tried to move away, but despair seemed to have nailed her shoes to the floor. Symon moved closer.

“Lass, I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you so.” He touched her cheek gently, wiping away a tear. The gesture was so gentle, so filled with the softness missing in her life, she found herself wishing to burrow into his arms again, as she had that first night. But she couldn’t. He was just like Dougal, manipulating and using her for his own purposes. Just as Dougal had forced her healing gift from her, made her do his will.

He had forced her healing gift. . . .

She looked at him, examining his eyes, the color of his skin, the tense set of his jaw. She had not healed him, not entirely, though ’twould seem in that single moment she had done something. Yet before, when she had tried to heal madness, naught had come of it except a strange disoriented feeling in her own head. Nay, this time something
had happened. She reached out a hand and laid it on his chest, curiosity overcoming her fear.

Pain pounded in his head and her own stomach echoed the turmoil of his. Those were things she could do something about. Sweat sheened her skin and her vision wavered. There was naught she could do for madness—but if by healing his head and gut he thought she had healed him. . .

Symon laid his own hand over hers. Swiftly her gaze met his curious stare. “What is it, Elena-lass?”

He knew she was the healer. There was naught she could do to change that. She slid her hand free and stepped back. She would no longer be held hostage to her skill. Indeed, she would use it as ruthlessly as these warriors would. She could heal his head and his gut, and she would.

For a price.

chapter 6

S
ymon sensed a
change in the lass, a spark in her eye that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Elena?”

“What do you offer me for my help?”

Surprise whipped through him. “What do you wish?”

“My safety.”

He watched her square her shoulders, as if she braced for a fight, and was startled to realize she was nearly as tall as he. “Did I not offer you hospitality?” he asked, circling around her.

“Aye, but ’tis not what I wish.” She turned to face him. “If I help you, and I am not saying I will, you must ensure my safe passage to wherever I choose.”

“Wherever?”

“In Scotland. I do not wish to venture beyond the
Highlands.” She looked away, twisting her hands nervously. “Just away from all who know me.”

“Why does your clan hunt you?” He watched as she glanced back at him, and the determination in her eyes wavered, then burned even brighter than before.

“That has naught to do with this, Symon. Will you give me what I ask?”

He thought it over for a moment. How could he see the prophecy fulfilled and promise her what she asked? “Where do you plan to go?”

Confusion slipped into her eyes, and fear. “I have not decided as yet.”

“You have nowhere to go,” he said quietly, sensing an opportunity.

“I have not decided.”

Symon nodded knowingly. Perhaps he could convince her that Kilmartin Castle was where she wished to be, in that way he could gain the time to unravel the rest of the prophecy. He needed time, but the only way he would get that was to accept her terms. “Very well. But you must stay until my affliction is gone.”

“Nay. I told you. I cannot cure your affliction, but I think I can dampen its effects, at least for a while. I stay only until I deem it time to go. I will not be bound to you, no matter what Auld Morag’s prophecy has to say.”

Symon moved toward her slowly, indirectly, weighing her strengths and weaknesses as if he faced her in armed combat. “Yet the clan expects you to stay until all is well.”

“That is due to your own folly. I care not what your clan expects of me. I will help you as I can, but you must assure me of safe passage when the time comes that I decide to go.”

“Very well. But for now, we will allow the clan to believe you will stay.” She started to interrupt, but Symon, close now, stopped her with a finger to her lips. The heat of her breath seared his skin. “My clan needs hope for the future.”

“You’ll not tell of my gift?” Her lips moved softly against the pad of his finger sending trails of fire up his arm. “Nor force me to use it on any other person?”

“Only Ranald knows of my suspicions.” He was close enough now to feel her breath on his face, to measure its rapid pace. “I will instruct him to say nothing. You have my word.”

“The word of a madman.” Her voice was husky, a whisper. “The Devil of Kilmartin?”

“Nay.” He moved closer now, the urge to place his lips upon hers overwhelming. “The word of Symon, chief of Clan Lachlan.” He dipped his head to hers and sealed his promise with a chaste kiss. At least that’s what he had meant to do.

Rapidly the simple kiss heated, and instead of Elena stepping back and slapping him soundly, as he had fully expected, she leaned into him. ’Twould be good for the clan if she found him attractive. ’Twould be good for the clan. Yet it wasn’t the clan that wrapped his arms about the lass and deepened the kiss. Symon gave himself to the moment and the pleasure of this woman, allowing his hands to roam her back, pulling her closer. Heat swelled in him, along with a curious feeling of lightness. Elena moaned just as the door flew open, startling the lass out of his arms.

E
lena felt her
cheeks heat as Ranald entered, ushered in by the buzz of many voices still in the Great Hall.

“My apologies,” he said to Symon as he glanced at her. “I did not mean to interrupt your . . . discussion.”

Symon looked at her with a heat in his eyes she had not seen before. An answering heat flamed in her belly, but she would not let it show. Never had she felt what she had just shared with this man. Never had she felt so alive, yet consumed. He burned brightly, singeing her, muddling her thoughts, confusing her body.

Yearning pulled at her. This was so much more than the simple comfort he had given that first night. She wanted, what exactly she wasn’t sure, but a need had sprung to life within her. A need she had not been aware of until this moment, yet she could not name it precisely. Nor did she want to, for naming it would give it power.

“There are many questions amongst our people,” Ranald said to Symon. “They wish to know more of this woman. Will you return and answer those questions?”

Symon looked at Elena. She waited, sure he would trap her now with her confession. Sure of his victory when she succumbed so quickly to his assault on her senses. He crossed to her and lifted her hand to his lips. Fire burned up her arm and downward, fanning the flames that glowed in her belly. “I will answer no questions,” he said, though she wasn’t sure if he said the words to her or to Ranald. He turned to his brother. “And neither will you.”

“Ah, you are bewitched by the lass already.” There was no sneer upon Ranald’s face, but Elena heard it clearly in his voice, and from the way Symon stiffened, he did, too.

“You will do as I asked before, nothing more. Take care of the task on your own. Do not involve any others.”

Ranald inclined his head. “You are chief. I will do as you bid me.”

“Let us return to our meal,” Symon said, “and reassure the clan that all is well, both with our guest and their chief.”

“Aye. But I do not think you will be keeping any secrets looking like that,” Ranald said.

“What do you mean?”

“You look . . . better. ’Twill not take much for them”—he nodded in the direction of the Hall—“to see there is a change in you and guess she had some part to play in it.” Ranald came closer to his brother, examining his face. “I would not say she has knocked the Devil from your shoulders, but she has surely given him a shove.”

Elena knew she had healed him slightly in that moment when he had forced her skill from her, but now . . .

“Am I so frightful, lass?” Symon asked.

Ranald was correct. The tense lines about Symon’s eyes had softened, and the sallow look to his skin was gone, a rosy healthy glow in its place. But how, she had not—

The kiss, the power in that simple kiss, and the haze it had drawn over her mind even as it illuminated every smell and sound and touch. Of course. Her gift manifested in touch. Somehow her gift must have done its work while her body was overwhelmed by her senses . . . and yet, even as those senses had been heightened, there had been no pain, only pleasure.

“Very well”—Symon smiled at her and the effect was dazzling—“perhaps you should return to the Hall with
Ranald.” To Ranald he said, “Make my excuses. ’Twill not be hard to do. I shall retire. You can tell them I was not well. ’Tis a necessary deception for now.” Symon turned to Elena again. “Your secret is safe. Ranald will show you back to your chamber after the meal.” He moved to a small door leading away from the Great Hall. “Then attend me in my chamber, brother, and bring food. I find I am suddenly famished.” He grinned and quietly slipped out the door.

“Shall we return?” Ranald asked her.

She nodded, still stunned by all that had passed in this tiny room.

S
ymon broke into
a tuneless whistle as he crossed the bailey toward his chamber. He hadn’t felt this good in nearly a twelvemonth. He wasn’t sure how the lass had accomplished such a feat, but it didn’t matter. The madness was pushed back, at least for now. He could feel it still, at the edges of his mind, but the clarity and well being he felt allowed his hope for the future to blossom.

Now he could be the leader the clan needed. The next time the Lamonts attacked, he would be here, lucid and ready to beat them back. But perhaps he would not wait that long. Perhaps the time had come to take the battle to them.

And yet, in a strange way, the Lamonts were responsible for his future. Guilt pricked at him. He had sensed the girl’s response to his touch and had pushed his advantage. Perhaps this attraction between them was part of the prophecy. If so, he could not say it wasn’t welcome. Her touch had healed him in more ways than one, and he
found himself hardening at the memory of her soft hungry lips.

Somehow he would convince her that this was where she wished to be. He had to. Only then could he keep his promise to her and see the prophecy fulfilled. The question was how to go about convincing her. He knew he could not command her, for that was what she seemed most adamant about. Nay, his usual method of attacking problems head-on would not work with Elena. This would call for the subtlety of one of Ranald’s plans. Together the brothers would plot the rise of Clan MacLachlan by the wooing of a lass of Lamont.

S
ymon sat, staring
into the fire, when a knock sounded at the door. Ranald entered with a tray. The smell of venison made Symon’s stomach rumble.

Ranald set the tray on a stool before the hearth and filled a wooden goblet with spiced wine.