Devil of Kilmartin (13 page)

“Drink this.” She walked carefully toward him, slowly, not wishing to startle him. Not entirely sure she was safe. But not entirely sure she wasn’t, either.

Symon grabbed the cup and downed the liquid. “ ’Twill not work,” he said as if this was her fault. “Madness . . .” He flinched, dropping the empty cup to the floor and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Heal me,” he demanded.

Elena shook her head, though he was not looking at her. It took all her concentration to hold his pain at bay, to shield herself from it. Even in this strange, dim form she was affected by his physical torment. She stepped back.

Symon grabbed her before she could take a second step and pulled her close. “Heal.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, held her tightly to him, her hands spread flat against his chest.

Elena fought for breath. The barely controlled pain burst through her shaky defenses until she felt she would faint from the onslaught. Sweat popped out on her brow. She struggled to break free, to build her wall to protect herself, but she couldn’t. He’d broken through as Dougal had never been able to do, and now her only thought was that she might die if she could not gain her release.

“I. Cannot.” She pushed against him, but he was too strong.

“Help me!”

The pain was so great she did not understand how he could stand, how he could hold her so tightly against him, how he could demand her help. She could not heal madness, but she had pushed his pain away before. It would be so much easier if he just let her go. But he didn’t. She would have to ease the pain. Ridding him of it would save her, too.

She worked her hands up from his chest to his face, one hand on either lean cheek. He held her close still, but he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. Elena imagined the heat pouring from her hands into his pain, pushing it back, breaking it apart. Again and again she imagined herself tearing it apart, burning up each piece of torment until there was nothing left. Nothing but a curious blackness, a taint in his blood, but she did not care. She had released herself from the pain.

She removed her hands, but he did not let her go.

“Release me,” she said, surprised at the hollow sound of her own voice.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes. Fatigue had drawn lines about them, etching them deeply below and at the corners. His skin held a faint green tinge, and his mouth was a grim line. He let go of her and took a stumbling step backward.

Elena’s knees buckled just as Symon’s did.

E
lena sat where
she had fallen for a few minutes, trying to gain her bearings. She’d thought he was different,
was beginning to think so, at least. He had treated her with respect, bargaining with her for her gift—not forcing—until it met his needs. Madness? ’Twas not like any madness she had seen or heard of—or felt.

Symon stirred and Elena jumped to her feet, her knees wobbly but holding. She must leave now, before he roused, before he could stop her. Before he could hurt her again.

Determined not to fly into the wood completely unprepared this time, she grabbed the blanket from the end of her bed, wrapping it about her for a cloak. Her sack of willow bark was already tied at her waist. She looked about for anything else that might be of use, but saw nothing. She should take Symon’s dagger, long enough to be a good weapon, light enough for her to handle it, but her struggle with Dougal came back at her. He had been hard enough to fight off. Symon was much bigger, much stronger. She did not dare get within grasping distance of him.

Quickly she left the room and hurried down the twisting stair. The servery was busy with the evening meal, and she was able to slip through the harried workers and out the door without drawing attention. The meal must have been in full swing as the deeply shadowed bailey was nearly empty. Elena steadied her breath and headed down the stair, skirting the open area. At last she reached the byre where she had seen the children disappearing this morn. As she slipped inside, she said a quick prayer that wee Fia was correct in her estimation that Elena could fit down the narrow passage.

In the dim light from the bailey Elena could just make out a black hole, low in the wall at the back corner of the hut. She crossed to it, wishing she had a lantern, or a candle, or even a sliver of moonlight to see by. She faced the
black maw of the tunnel. She would do this. It was the only way. She would slip away from the MacLachlans and go as far away from her own clan as possible. Somewhere she’d find a clan willing to take her in; a clan who knew nothing of her.

She stared into the lightless space gathering her courage. A rustling made her start. “Who’s there?” Her voice filled the byre, reminding her of another voice, one she had heard earlier—Dougal was somewhere in the castle. It was one more reason why she should leave now. The rustling came again, a squeak accompanying it, and she relaxed slightly. Mice were no threat.

She took a deep breath of earthy-damp air. A faint coolness wafted over her cheek, sending tendrils of her hair dancing. ’Twas only a tunnel. Wee Fia said ’twas short. Weans came and went this path daily. ’Twas only a tunnel.

Elena’s breath came rapid and shallow. She swallowed. Her ears buzzed, but she bent over slightly and forced herself forward, one foot, then another, into the mouth of the tunnel. Panic grabbed her by the stomach, squeezing her, crushing the breath from her, stopping her feet. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Her hand shook where she braced it against the moist stone wall just inches from her shoulder. Voices sounded behind her, distant, calling. She thought she heard a horse pounding out of the castle. Panic twisted its fist in her gut.

The voices were louder. She heard her own name shouted. Symon must have regained his senses, known she would use this opportunity to run.

She had no choice. No choice. She must run. It was her only hope. But she could not force her feet to move.

The voices came closer. Suddenly the door of the byre
flew open. Elena looked over her shoulder, and into the eyes of a MacLachlan.

“She’s here!” he shouted, and Elena’s feet took over, racing her down into the mouth of the earth. She ran, down, down, her arms outstretched, her hands scraped raw where they stopped her from running headlong into the walls where the tunnel twisted and turned. Something tripped her, and she landed on her knees. Fear and darkness had her back on her feet immediately, running as fast as she dared in the utter darkness.

After an eternity Elena burst from the ground into a grove of rowan trees, rustling in the gentle night air. The burn burbled nearby, the sound of falling water danced in the distance. Elena braced herself against a tree, gasping in the cool air, desperately trying to calm her mind enough to think clearly.

Slowly she gained control. Her mind quieted into coherent thought. No one had burst out of the tunnel behind her. Fia had been right, she realized. The tunnel, just barely large enough for Elena to scurry down, was too tight for a heavily muscled man to traverse, even if they did know that’s where she went.

The moon was rising, casting pale light into the grove, glinting softly off the burn. Elena picked her way through the ferns and bushes to the side of the water, where she kneeled and slaked her thirst, then washed away the grit that had gathered in the scrapes on her hands and knees. She was free—of Symon and Dougal.

A hound bayed. Panic and fear flooded back in, shoving the momentary calm away. A horse pounded through the forest, sending Elena’s heart into double time. A whimper escaped her even as she gained her feet and pelted through
the thick forest. She had done this once before. She did not have enough luck left to escape again. The horse gained on her and her mind screamed, forcing her feet faster and faster. The horse was beside her, and she heard her name. Still she ran, swerving around trees, crashing through bracken.

Suddenly the horse was beside her again. The rider seemed to throw himself from the saddle directly at her, tackling her. They landed on the ground, and the breath left Elena’s lungs in a whoosh. Her sight wavered for an instant as she desperately drew in air.

S
ymon heard another
horse pounding through the bracken ahead of him. Irritation coursed through him. Damn her anyway, fighting him, then doing what she said she could not, ceasing the madness, thank the heavens. If she had not stopped the pain, he would be haring off against the wind instead of searching for a daft healer too stupid to stay inside the castle walls where she was safe.

Anyone could be lurking about in this wood. From the sound of it, someone was and he prayed it was not Dougal of Dunmore. He would not lose the woman back to him, no matter if they were well and truly wed or not. The lass had no love for the blackheart, and Symon had finally found a way to control the madness.

Nay, he’d not lose her to anyone, not even herself. She was his now, and that was all that mattered. His affliction demanded it. He would do whatever he must to keep her.

But first he had to find the damn lass.

A muffled scream sounded ahead of him. Quickly he
stopped the horse, dropped the reins, and drew his dagger. He ran as quietly as possible in the direction of her voice.

Not far ahead he could hear a struggle, branches breaking, harsh breathing, the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a quick cry of rage. He turned toward the sound and burst upon a small clearing. The man had her backed against a tree, his hand poised to backhand her. Elena saw Symon, but her assailant, who had his back to him, did not.

“Harlot!” The man spat the word, then swung at her. Elena ducked. His hand scraped the tree trunk, raising a howl from him. “Bitch!” He spun, grabbing Elena as she tried to run past him.

“Let her go,” Symon said, his eyes on the other man. Something about him was familiar.

“Do as he says, Dougal,” Elena said.

Symon cursed his luck under his breath.

Dougal looked from one of them to the other, though he kept his face in the shadows. He did seem oddly familiar. Symon supposed it was from the last time they had faced each other over this woman.

“I’ll not take orders from the likes of you, wife,” Dougal said to Elena, though he kept his eyes on Symon now. Elena gasped.

“Then take them from me,” Symon said. “Release her. You are on MacLachlan land, and she is under my protection.”

“You cannot protect her from her own husband.”

Symon glanced at Elena.

She stood as far as away from Dougal as her captured arm would allow. She shook her head, fury flashing in her eyes. “He is not my husband, Symon. He merely wishes it
to be so. ’Tis the only way he can rightfully claim to be chief of my clan.”

Symon nodded his head, assessing the two before him. These were the very questions he had needed to have answered. But who was speaking the truth? Something about the lass’s defiant glare at her captor and Dougal’s smug look of satisfaction tipped the balance. He did not like this man, and the nagging sensation that there was more to his dislike than his treatment of Elena would not go away.

“She does not appear to be a cooperative wife,” he said, slowly circling the pair, trying to distract Dougal’s attention long enough for Elena to get free. He wanted to rip Dougal apart, but he did not want Elena hurt in the fray.

“She is most uncooperative.” Dougal pulled her closer, placing her between him and Symon, his arms wrapped possessively about her waist, her arms penned beneath his. His leer made Symon want to clench his fists, but he did not give in to the telltale sign of his anger. “She is a feisty lass.”

“ ’Tis one word for her.”

Symon continued to circle, forcing Dougal to turn to keep Elena between them. She had her jaw firmly clenched, and her eyes bored into his, confusion eating away at her courage. He wished he could reassure her, but that would give too much away.

“I found her quite willing, actually.”

Dougal started to grin, then must have realized what Symon had said. Elena gasped as he tightened his hold on her. “You did not touch her,” he said.

“Nay, she touched me,” Symon said with what he hoped was a knowing smile on his lips. “She was a bit clumsy,
but a few lessons have smoothed that out.” He reached out as if to caress her cheek.

Dougal spun her behind him, releasing her as he pulled his dagger from his belt.

“Run, Elena!” Symon yelled to her and was pleased to see she did just that.

Dougal looked from Symon to the place where Elena had disappeared into the dark forest, then back at Symon. Symon recognized the look of pure hatred, and the face, but he could not place it. In the split second he was distracted, Dougal charged at him, catching him in the right shoulder with his blade, stabbing deeply.

Symon smacked Dougal away, surprise dulling any pain as the knife pulled out of his flesh. The two circled each other.

“You’ve taken enough that belongs to me,” Dougal said through clenched teeth.

“I’ve taken naught that belongs to you.” Symon saw a movement behind the other man.

Dougal spun, ducking the branch Elena tried to hit him with, and hooking an arm around her waist. “You’ll not have her, too!” he cried over his shoulder as he dragged her into the surrounding forest.

Symon pelted after them, catching them up quickly. He grabbed Dougal by the hair, stopping him with a vicious jerk. Off balance, the man lost his grip on Elena, who quickly moved out of his reach as he fell to his knees, Symon’s dagger at his throat.

Rage filled Symon. More than anything he wished to slit the man’s throat, both for his assault on himself and for his attempted abduction of Elena. But the idiot’s words
wouldn’t go away. “You’ve taken enough that belongs to me,” he’d said.

“What have I taken of yours?” Symon said, irritated with himself for wanting the answer.

Dougal said nothing, so Symon jerked the man’s head backward until he glared up at him.

“What have I taken?” Symon demanded.

“You always were a blind one.”

“Why were you within the castle today?” Elena’s question cut through the darkness.