Devil of Kilmartin (17 page)

“ ’Tis not much to look at, lass, but you should come in.”

Elena eased over the threshold and watched Symon move about the small cave-like chamber. A second lamp flared, then another. “I do not see anyone here but you and me, and that imp peeking in the doorway.” He winked at Elena. “I’m sure wee Fia can help you from here.” He gave the child time to scurry in the door and around the far edge of the space before he took his leave.

Elena and Fia spent the rest of the morning sorting through the scant herbs and old containers of unknown salves, decoctions and syrups. Most were so old they were long past their usefulness, even if Elena had known what they were. She sent Fia to have someone fetch a tub of hot
water so she could wash out the small jars and precious glass bottles.

While the child was gone, she opened a cupboard in the farthest corner. Surprisingly, this cupboard was nearly empty, but the lamplight revealed the recent imprint of someone’s hand in the thick dust. A pottery jar sat in a dark corner of the bottom shelf. She nearly didn’t see it, tucked under the shelf as it was. She reached for it. Footsteps sounded in the outer chamber. She turned, expecting Fia to skip into the room. The footsteps stopped just beyond the pool of light her lamps shed through the open door.

“Who’s there?” she called. “Come into the light.”

No one answered, but she was sure she heard the sound of breathing.

“Who’s there,” she called again, suddenly glad Fia was gone, but at the same time wishing someone had stayed with her. She searched around for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hand landed on the cold stone of the mortar. She hefted it, praying she could throw it straight if it came to that.

“I know someone is there. Why do you not step into the light?” She sidled around the edge of the chamber, wishing the door opened in, so she could slam it shut, putting as much of the chamber between her and whoever lurked without.

All of a sudden the door did slam. Elena jumped, a small shriek escaping her. Momentary relief raced through her, until she heard the unmistakable scrape of the metal latch being closed. She raced to the door, only to discover there was no latch handle on the inside.

“Let me out!” she yelled, banging her fist against the door. “Let me out!”

“Nay, Elena. I will not.”

Her hands went still and she fought for breath. Dougal. “Symon knows where I am,” she said at last, suddenly fearful if wee Fia should return to find Dougal holding her captive.

“Aye, and I know where he is. ’Twon’t be long now before he rides the devil’s shoulders again.” Dougal’s voice came low and menacing through the thick door. “Then we’ll see how long Clan Lachlan can withstand Clan Lamont.”

“Nay!”

“You would side with the Devil over your own clan?”

“What do you want?”

“Only what is due me.”

“You do not need to harm the MacLachlans.”

“Aye. I do. Make yourself ready for your punishment. No one thwarts me. Never again. A day or two here should convince you of my truth.”

Her fingernails bit into the heels of her hands, but she did not reply.

“Fine. I will return to release you—after I have killed the Devil and after you have learned your lesson.” His greasy laugh beat against the door, then quickly faded away to silence.

Elena forced herself to wait until she was sure he was gone, though the panic coursing through her nearly overwhelmed her. When she had not heard anything for a long time, she let the panic free and began to beat on the door and shout for help. She had to get out. She had to warn Symon. Somehow Dougal had gotten in again.

S
ymon had paced
the wall walk thrice around the castle in one direction, then thrice again in the other. Still he could not make sense of Elena’s pronouncement. It made no sense. Who would poison him and why? If someone hated him that much, why did they not just kill him outright. Clearly they had the means to do so without being exposed as the killer. And that made Symon even more nervous. If she was right, then there was a sneaky bastard amongst them. But she couldn’t be right.

There had to be another answer. And somehow she was the one who would see it. Symon descended the stairs to the bailey. He had not seen her come out of the undercroft that housed the stillroom. Wee Fia had danced her way out and across to the kitchen tower, clearly on some errand, then a short time later a man exited, a wine cask balanced on his shoulder.

But Elena remained inside. He rounded the corner and entered the darkened storage chamber. A muffled pounding met his ears long before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

He raced to the back of the chamber and jerked at the closed door. The latch scraped free and he swung the door open. Elena fell into his arms, tears running down her face and her fingers bloodied.

“Shh, lass.” He held her trembling form, awkwardly patting her back. “Elena, I’m here.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and full of fear. “He was here again.”

Symon looked at her, and understanding hit him. “Dougal was here?”

She nodded, hiccupping quietly and wiping tears from
her cheeks, leaving bloody smears like some pagan princess. “He locked me in. He’s waiting for you to go mad again before he attacks.”

Symon turned and headed for the bailey. Elena squeaked and quickly followed. “Do not leave me here.”

“I’ve got to warn the guards.”

Elena trotted along, trying to keep up with his long strides. “What will you do?” she asked.

“Double the guards,” he said as they reached the gate tunnel. He looked back at her. “And keep you in my reach at all times.” He bellowed for the man in charge and explained the situation. “I want every chamber and stair searched. The gate is to be kept closed at all times and only those known by you personally are to be allowed in.” The man nodded. “Report to me when the search is complete.”

“Aye,” the man said, then turned and started barking out orders, sending kilted men running to all corners of the castle.

Symon turned back to Elena and took her hands, holding them up before him. “Did he do this to you?”

“Nay, I . . . I . . .” She looked at her feet and tried to curl her bloodied fingers away from his view.

He reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “What happened to your hands?”

She swallowed, then raised her chin a bit higher. “I cannot stand to be locked in. I would rather claw my way through the door than endure that.”

“Can you endure it if you are the one with the key?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean to keep you safe, but it seems, despite my doubts, that the bastard can enter this castle at will. Until I can determine how he does that—or capture him—I need
to make sure you are safe. If you are locked in a chamber, but you hold the key, can you bear it?”

“You would lock me up?”

“Only when I cannot be with you. I have duties. You have to sleep.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I cannot bear a locked door.”

“Very well.” He dropped his voice. “Can you heal yourself?”

Elena nodded. “When I have to, though ’tis more difficult than . . . than the other.”

“Come, we’ll clean away the blood and see how bad they are.” He took her hand and led her toward their chambers.

“And will you lock me in then?” she asked. Her voice trembled slightly.

He stopped, took both her hands once more in his, and looked her straight in the eye. “Nay, lass. I will not.”

“Then how—” Understanding dawned and her eyes widened.

“If you weren’t sure of our marriage before, ’tis assured now. Whether we call the banns and summon a priest or keep to the auld ways, we will be wed in the eyes of the clan.”

“Is there no other way?” She swallowed and fought tears that gathered in her eyes.

Gently Symon reached out and ran his fingertips over the smudges of blood on her cheek. “Would it be such a terrible fate?”

Indecision settled over her like a heavy cloak. Symon sighed and led her to his chamber.

chapter 11

I
t was a
very long afternoon. Elena and Symon took turns pacing the confines of his chamber. At first they had been occupied with cleaning up Elena’s hands, but after that it had gotten quiet. Symon would not leave her unless she agreed to lock the door. Elena could not bear the thought of a locked door. Symon stopped his pacing and looked at her.

“Why can you not abide a locked door?”

It was more demand than question, and it surprised her that he had not asked sooner. She shrugged.

“You do not know?” he asked, disbelief laced through his words.

“It does not matter. I will not be locked in.”

He crossed to where she sat on the stool before the fire, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her roughly to her
feet. Elena flinched, ducking her head and closing her eyes. She waited for the blow, but it did not come. When she dared peek through her lashes, she found Symon staring at her, waiting.

“ ’Tis clear you were not treated well by your own,” he said quietly. “I have not hurt you yet. I will not hurt you ever.” He let go of her shoulders and stepped back. “What did they do to you?” he asked, almost more to himself than to her.

She shook her head. “ ’Tis best left in the past,” she said.

“Nay, ’tisn’t left in the past. It is here with you, and it is putting you in danger. If it has aught to do with this man who threatens you, I need to know. I need to understand what he is capable of so that I may know his strengths . . . and his weaknesses.”

Elena considered the warrior in front of her. He certainly had strengths, and weaknesses. He needed her, and, she realized with a start, she needed him. If she was ever to escape Dougal completely, she needed this man to help her. She needed him to overcome Dougal, and if opening herself up to the past would help him, then she would have to do that. He had trusted her with as much.

She turned away from him. “Dougal is capable of anything.”

“Anything?”

“Aye. I do not think he would kill me because he would not waste my gift, but he has”—she stopped and steadied her voice—“he has killed others who came between him and getting his way.”

“What did he do to make you so afraid of a locked door?”

Elena hugged herself and closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember. When she could speak she began. “Dougal came to my clan five winters past. He was ill, hungry, and he had a festering wound that should have cost him his sword arm. I do not know what passed between him and my father, but I was called to heal his hurts. I did not want to touch the man. I cannot say why. ’Twas not unusual for my father to call upon my gift for warriors; indeed, that was the only way in which I was allowed to use my strength. But I did not wish to heal this man.”

She moved closer to the fire, holding her hands out to its warmth, though she doubted anything could remove the ice from her veins. “My father was not a man of soft feelings, and I knew to defy him in this would only cause me more pain, so I did as he bade me, healing Dougal with my gift. Even so, it was some weeks before he was strong enough to be up and about. Once he was, he still was not able to wield a claymore for many months longer. But he and my father would closet themselves for long periods of time. Before I knew it, Lamont clansmen were raiding all the surrounding clans, often returning sorely wounded. My gift was required more and more often, and for more and more men.

“There was a time several years ago when my father rode to Stirling and instead of leaving the clan to my cousin Ian, as he had done so often before, he left Dougal to the task. In the course of a seven day Dougal had led three different attacks against neighboring clans. The more tired our lads became, the worse the wounds became until I could not bear it any longer.

“I made the mistake of confronting him in front of the clan, in the midst of the injured and dying. I remember
seeing his fist hit my stomach as if it happened to someone else. I do not remember aught else from that day, nor for many thereafter. I do not know how long I was unconscious. When I did awaken I had been—” Her voice hitched and she fought to control it. “I was locked in a small room. There was no light, except for an occasional flicker from under the door. Nine times Dougal brought water. Never did he bring any food.

“At first I screamed and fought against the door. Then, when he came with the water, I would beg to be let free. After a while, I only begged for food.” Tears ran down Elena’s face, humiliation flamed her cheeks, but pride kept her talking. Pride and the hope that Symon would learn something that would help him overcome Dougal.

“Enough, lass. ’Tis enough.”

“Nay.” She turned to face him. “You wanted to know what he was capable of. I am nearly finished.”

He nodded, and waited. She was grateful he stayed apart from her. If he had shown her any softness, any tenderness, she would have been lost, unable to say what she must.

“The tenth time he came he told me his terms for releasing me. I had to swear never to defy him again, neither in public, nor even in private. I had to swear to support him as chief when the time came for my father to step down. I had to swear only to use my gift at his bidding, and never to speak of what had happened to me, not even to my father. He promised worse if I did and . . . and began to tell me, in great detail.