Devil of Kilmartin (11 page)

Symon looked at his gillie. “What?”

Murdoch cocked a bushy eyebrow at him, his golden hair forming an odd sort of halo about his grinning face.

“What do you want?” Symon asked again.

“Is there some reason I cannot stand and gaze about, daftlike, if I wish?” Murdoch was smirking now.

“I am not daft, at least not today.”

“Aye, you seem back to your auld self this day. Why is that?”

Symon saw the man look at him, but chose to continue watching Elena make her way about the bailey, avoiding answering the giant’s query. He had promised the lass to keep her secret, though he wanted to sing out the truth to the world, or at least to Murdoch. True she said she could not heal him, but she certainly seemed to have. And he did not even know for sure how she had done it. Though the kiss seemed to have something to do with it.

The kiss. Touching her. That was what she had forbidden him to do, to touch her . . . and yet her touch was what he craved. Was it only because she was a comely lass, thin,
but still rounded where a man wanted roundness? Or was this compulsion merely the effect of her healing art?

“She says I cannot touch her,” he said out loud, forgetting Murdoch was standing there.

“Aye, lasses often say such things.”

“You have much experience of this?”

Murdoch looked away, and Symon would have sworn the man blushed. “Enough. Usually it takes a slower pace, a gentler approach, when they say that. They want soft words, and promises, lots of promises. Of course, she could just be repulsed by you.”

Symon started to defend himself, then realized Murdoch was grinning broadly at him again. “Aye, that must be it,” he agreed. “I do not know how to soften her toward me. I have had little experience with gentle words.”

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Elena wander below. She seemed to be searching for something, while still avoiding all who came near. Symon’s attention was caught by a child skipping across the open space, singing tunelessly. She skirted the well, then broke into a strange almost dance, twirling and skipping and jumping and running, one after the other until she seemed unable to stop. She was heading straight for Elena, who seemed unaware of the child as she examined the bricked up remains of the old postern gate. As the child crashed into her, Elena grabbed her, steadying the wobbling wean.

Symon watched, amazed, as a smile broke out on Elena’s face, her obvious amusement clear even this far away. He could not take his eyes off her, the transformation from grim determination to quiet pleasure shook him. That is what she should look like always, carefree, open,
happy. She squatted down to look the child in the eye, and the two spoke for a moment, then the child’s laughter pealed out, echoing off the cold castle walls. Elena rose and the little girl took her hand and led her away.

“Aye, she’s a bonny lass,” Murdoch said quietly. “If she does not want you, perhaps she’d be interested in me.”

Symon rounded on the giant.

“Just teasin’ you, Symon. Just teasin’. I would not interfere with one of Auld Morag’s prophecies!”

Symon took a slow breath and nodded.

“But you may have witnessed the way to the lass’s heart, there, lad,” Murdoch said, turning his attention back to the scene below.

“I cannot give her a wean to bind her to me.”

“Well, it has been done before”—Murdoch winked at him—“but I agree ’tis not the way of things this time.”

Symon pondered the man’s words a moment, then understanding dawned. Of course. “If she’ll talk to the weans, then they can soften her to our need.”

“Aye, lad. Why waste your time bashing your head against a stone wall if you can let someone else take it down bit by bit for you?”

’Twas not Symon’s preferred way of doing things, but at the moment he did not have a better plan. “Do you ken the lassie that broke through?”

“Aye, ’tis wee Fia. Mairi’s youngest. She’s a fey thing, small and pale, and knowing beyond her years. She might just do your work for you.”

Symon nodded. “Come on, then. We’ll let wee Fia do her work. I’m sure we’ve something needs doing.”

Murdoch nodded. “Aye, Ranald’s returned.”

“Why did you not say so?” Symon glared at the giant and headed toward the stair.

“I was enjoyin’ the view.” Murdoch snorted and followed his chief back into the castle.

E
lena examined the
blocked-up gate, easing one way or the other as MacLachlans moved around her. Blocking up a perfectly good gate was a bloody stupid thing to do. She looked about and a weight settled over her. The only way out appeared to be the main gate, well guarded, and obvious.

She did not trust Symon’s word any more than she would trust Dougal’s. She had learned that lesson too well. She could only depend upon herself to secure her future, which did not include living in this castle full of hopelessness and fear. She had enough of those on her own.

She eyed the old gate once more. Ducking out through a postern gate would have been a much less public way to make her exit than the main gate, but it wasn’t a possibility now. Perhaps she could plan some sort of diversion, something to distract the guards. She’d have to ponder that problem for a while.

Just as she turned to continue her circuit of the curtain wall a child bounced against her, nearly falling until Elena caught her.

Looking down, she saw a slight girl of no more than four or five winters standing next to her. Shyly the child slid her small hand into Elena’s and smiled. It was the first friendly face she had seen in days.

“Me da made me a doll. Would you like to see it?”

The timid smile on the child’s face warmed Elena even
as the ache of partially healed scrapes and bruises surged through the small hand into her own. She squatted down so she was eye to eye with the child. ’Twas not a huge hurt. She could heal it easily with no one, not even the child the wiser. “That would be grand.” She sought to distract her with some conversation. “How are you called, little one?”

Elena looked deep into the child’s sky-blue eyes and concentrated on the healing heat, seeking out the bruises and a half-healed scrape on her knee, mending the hurts quickly, easily shielding herself from the child’s pain.

“I’m called wee Fia. Your hands be warm, mistress.”

“And yours are very cold, wee Fia.” The child’s hands were cold, but the color was ruddy in her elfin face. “Will you call me Elena?”

The child nodded. “Are you a fairy queen . . . Elena?”

Elena stood, one small hand still in hers. “Nay, lassie.” Children were more perceptive than adults about some things. Had she noticed the healing? “Why would you think it?”

“You made the Devil smile. Everyone saw it. Me da says only a fairy queen could do that.”

“Ah.” Elena let out her breath and leaned close to the child. “ ’Tis not so hard to make Symon smile, wee Fia. Ye need only speak the truth.”

Fia’s laughter pealed through the bailey, making people turn and stare. It seemed laughter was a rare thing in Kilmartin Castle.

The sound of it warmed Elena’s hungry soul, and she could not keep herself from grinning foolishly back at the child.

“Where is this fine dolly of yours?”

“Follow me.”

Elena nodded her assent, and the child tugged her toward a decrepit-looking shed next to the stable.

S
ymon slammed open
the door to his brother’s chamber. “What did you discover?” he demanded before he’d even closed the door behind him.

Ranald continued chewing, forcing Symon to wait, bending him to his will at least in this small way. Ranald always took the advantage when he could. At last he swallowed, took a long swig from his mug, and wiped the ale froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not as much as you might wish.”

Symon glared at him, his irritation growing by the moment.

“Fine.” He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, where a flagon and mug stood ready on the ledge. “Here, have some wine. ’Twill calm you, brother,” he said handing the drink to Symon. “Elena runs from a man called Dougal of Dunmore.”

“The Lamonts’ champion,” Symon said.

“The chief of Lamont.”

“What? Fergus One-Hand is chief of Lamont.”

“Fergus was found dead near Castle Lamont . . . his neck broken . . . the day after you rescued Elena from this Dougal.”

“But he is not Fergus’s heir.”

“Nay, that would be the lass you keep here.”

“What is this man’s connection to Lamont?” he asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

“ ’Tis complicated, that. He appeared five years past, selling his services to the Lamont. ’Twould seem he
served well, for he quickly became champion and the Lamont’s trusted adviser.”

“Five years,” Symon said to himself, sipping on the spiced wine. “ ’Twas not long after that our troubles with the Lamonts began.”

“Aye, my thoughts as well,” Ranald said.

“Where was he before that?”

“I could not find that out. It seems he appeared from the mist without a background, nor a clan to claim him.”

Symon paced the room, stopping briefly to refill his goblet. “And his claim to the chiefship?”

It was Ranald’s turn to pace, though it appeared he wished to place more distance between himself and his brother. “There is some . . . dissent . . . among those I spoke with. The very day Elena went missing, he claimed they were wed.”

Symon’s hand froze, his cup midway to his mouth. She was the chief’s child, his only child, and by Highland custom she would be chief at her father’s death, at least until she married. A strange dread spread like fire in dry tinder through him. “Wed?”

“Aye. So he says.”

“You do not sound convinced.”

“My sources say he has had his eye on becoming chief since he first appeared. They would not put it past him to force the lass into marriage to seal his position, but no witnesses have come forward, and neither has the lass. More than one person speculated that he has her held prisoner, or worse.”

That would begin to explain some of the mystery surrounding their guest. The chief’s daughter, fleeing a bridegroom she did not want, and who it seemed wanted
her for the legitimacy she would bring to his claim of chief.

“Did they say naught of her gift?”

“That was most curious. When I suggested that Dunmore’s interest might be in her gift, it was as if I spoke gibberish. Either her gift has been kept a close secret, or the entire countryside surrounding Castle Lamont is invested in the secret.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“As do I,” Ranald said. “ ’Tis too good a secret to be held that closely by that many. Perhaps Fergus thought to protect her that way, keeping her apart, her gift hidden?”

“We have heard tales of the Lamont healer for . . . well, for longer than that lass has been alive. How is it possible her own people do not know of her?”

“I do not know, but no one could even describe the lass to me beyond her unusual height and bright hair, things that would be visible from a distance as easily as up close.”

It seemed the lass was more of a mystery than Symon had first thought. She was the daughter of the auld chief, perhaps wife to the new. She was a gifted healer, yet her own clan barely knew her. She seemed determined to keep herself apart from everyone, yet a wee lass drew her out with a bit of a smile and a few words. She held herself stiff, apart, bristly, and cool, and yet, beneath his hands and his lips she warmed, melting like frost in the first rays of daylight.

“The Lamonts have been formidable enemies these past years, as if they know our thoughts and strategies before we do.” He remembered the ambush that had led to his father’s death. “We need to know where this Dougal of
Dunmore came from. I would know what sorts of allies he might have, who trained him, what drives him.”

“And where he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was last seen two days past. No one saw him leave the castle, and his own champion makes excuses, but ’tis believed he is no longer within.”

“There is much still to be discovered about this Dougal of Dunmore.”

Ranald nodded. “Auld Morag said as much.”

Symon had forgotten he had sent his brother to consult the auld woman. “What did she say?”

“She said it would take more than I would find to solve this riddle.” Ranald looked at him. “She also said the chief of MacLachlan must once more face his foe. The past would meet the future, and the circle would be complete. It was utter nonsense, as usual.”

But Symon did not agree. Auld Morag was difficult to understand at the best of times, but she was nearly always right when you eventually deciphered her riddles.

“Go back. Find out where this Dunmore came from. I cannot say why, but I feel it in my bones that his origin is the key to this mystery. Find that for me, brother, as quickly as you can.”

In the meantime, he meant to get what answers he could directly from the lass.

W
ee Fia’s mum
was the castle’s alewife. She was great with child, her ankles swollen, and her time near. Elena felt the woman’s eyes upon her back as Fia
showed her the doll made of straw twisted together and dressed with a few scraps of wool.

“ ’Tis a bonny doll,” Elena said.

“Me da made it.”

They played for a bit, Elena scratching the outline of a hut on the dirt floor and Fia arranging bits of bark and rocks for furniture. Elena could not remember ever having a doll, nor playing with another child. Her childhood had been filled with the pain of others, and the keeping of her secret from all who did not need to know of it.

After a while Fia’s mum—Mairi she had said when they entered—rose from her stool and moved to stir a cauldron standing over a fire in the middle of the hut.

Elena could see the heaviness in the woman’s body, the child within carried low in her belly. A tea of nettle would ease the swelling in her feet. But ’twas not her responsibility, Elena reminded herself. She rose to leave, and as she passed, Mairi grabbed her arm.

“Is it true, mistress?” she asked quietly. “Have you come to save the clan?”