Devil of Kilmartin (18 page)

“I was so afraid of him, so weak, so tired. I could barely speak, yet I would have sworn to take my own father’s life to make him stop, to escape that prison. Finally he took me
from the room and back to my own chamber. There he had me gather my things and move them to a small chamber near his own. A chamber with a door and a strong lock.

“For a long time he kept me locked in, though I was brought food and drink. I was only allowed out to mend the horrors he wrought upon my kinsmen. When my father returned several months later, Dougal stopped locking me in during the day, though still at night the door would be barred. And he never left me alone with anyone except when he was away raiding other clans.

“He recently took to acting the smitten suitor, almost as if he dared me to break my promise not to defy him. When my father’s body was found, Dougal . . . he sought to make me his bride in the very way he had described to me. That’s when I ran.”

Symon waited while she gathered her emotions. When she had calmed and wiped her tears away once again, he said, “I will not lock you in. This I promise.”

The words were simple, spare, and she trusted them completely. She nodded, not trusting her voice. Symon stood, watching her, as if deciding whether he dared approach her or not. At last he moved slowly toward her. He reached out, lightly touching her shoulder, inviting, offering. She turned into his chest and relished the strength of his arms closing about her. He rested his cheek against her hair and murmured soothing nonsense, as if she were a fussy bairn.

“He will not hurt you again, Elena-mine,” he said quietly.

She nodded, comforted by the reined-in anger she heard there; comforted by the way he turned her name into an endearment. Just as she had instinctively distrusted Dougal,
she instinctively trusted this man, this so-called Devil. A more virtuous man she had never met.

“We will figure out this mystery—these
mysteries
for they seem to multiply by the day.”

She felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Not only did he believe her, but he joined his cause to hers. Together they would sort out her problem of Dougal, and his of the poison.

Absently Symon stroked a large hand up and down her back. “We need only figure out where to start. If Ranald were here, he would know. He is a master of subterfuge and secrets.”

A skitter of dread scrambled over her. Was that not exactly what would be required of the poisoner? But she did not voice her worry. Their bond was too new, too fragile yet for her to doubt the loyalty of his brother. But she would have to consider it.

N
ot long later
Murdoch knocked at the door. “No one was found, Symon,” he reported. “The guard’s been doubled, and no one enters the castle unless they get passed by Coll or me.”

“We need to know how the bastard’s getting in and out without being seen.”

“Aye. Do we know where he’s been seen in the castle?”

Symon looked to Elena, where she sat staring into the fire, as she had for the last hour. “Elena?”

She startled, as if awakened, and looked to him.

“Where did you hear Dougal the first time?”

It seemed to take a moment for the question to sink in, then she got a thoughtful look about her. “In the wine
cellar.” She rose to her feet. “The same place I heard him today.”

Symon nodded and Murdoch left without another word. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Let’s go down to the kitchen and see what we can find there.”

She followed him out the door, saying nothing. Symon hated the lost look she carried about her. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but he wasn’t sure that was true. They had an enemy entering the castle apparently at will, and a poisoner to boot. One thing at a time. They’d eat, then see if Murdoch found anything. After that, well, they’d figure that part out when they got there.

S
ymon sat next
to Elena in the Great Hall, facing the door. She picked at a bowl of stew, eating little, mushing it around a lot. He picked up a mug of ale, not his favorite, but his supply of spiced wine had dwindled to nothing. ’Twas Ranald’s special recipe, one he’d share with no one. Symon would have to wait until Ranald’s return before his supply could be replenished.

Murdoch found them there. He sat next to Symon and waited.

“Well?” Symon demanded. “Did you find anything?”

Murdoch looked at the lass, then back at Symon.

“Elena can hear whatever you have to say, lad.” He glanced at her and she nodded. They both leaned forward, anxious to hear what Murdoch had to say.

The giant cleared his throat. “There is another bolt-hole.”

Symon couldn’t move. How was this possible? Another bolt-hole, one that no one, not the weans, not the older warriors, no one knew about? “Where?” he finally ground out.

Murdoch tilted his head at Elena. “Right where she said. In the wine cellar. Mind you, we had to move near every cask and bottle in there, but ’twas there, cleverly hid behind a pile of casks. Even looking for it, I do not think we would have noticed it except for the footprints in the dirt, leading right into the wall, or so it seemed. ’Tis a clever fit door, made to look like the very wall itself.”

“How is it we didn’t know of this?”

Murdoch shrugged. “That part of the castle is very auld. Perhaps it was merely forgotten.”

Symon looked at his gillie for a moment. “And?”

“And we have not figured out how to open it yet.”

Symon stood abruptly and headed toward the door. Just before he got there, he stopped, turned, and pinned Murdoch with an angry glare. “Do not sit there, man. We’ve got to get that door open, find out where it leads.”

Murdoch rose slowly. “Aye,” he said as he followed his chief. “In the meantime, there are several braw lads working on the problem, and another four ready to stand guard whether they get it open or not. ’Tis sure the next time the daft bastard tries to gain entrance, he’ll have a surprise or four waiting for him.”

Symon nodded. The man had a point. When he looked at Elena, still sitting at the table, her stew gone cold in front of her and her eyes big, he knew he could not drag her back down into the undercroft where she had been terrorized. And he could not go without her. He had promised to keep her safe.

“Get you back down there,” he said to Murdoch. “Send word if it opens, I’ll”—he looked back at Elena—“we’ll be in my chamber.”

Murdoch strode past him and Symon reached out, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “When Ranald returns, send him to me immediately.”

“Aye, Symon.” The man turned and looked at Elena. “Keep the lassie safe. I’ll see to the rest.”

Symon gave silent thanks that Murdoch had never forsaken him, then returned to sit across from Elena.

“Do you think he’s left the castle?” she asked.

“Aye. Else he would have been found.”

She stirred her stew, lost in thought. “Something is not right.”

“Aye. There are many things that are not right just now.”

“Nay, I mean with Dougal.” He waited for her to say what was bothering her. “Why would he know a secret way into this castle? I didn’t know I would be coming here. How is it that he can secretly enter a castle he has had no reason to enter before now?”

“I do not know, but ’tis a very perplexing problem. Perhaps there is someone here who knew of the secret bolt-hole. Someone he bribed for the information?”

“ ’Twould not be above him to do just that, but then why when he found me alone did he lock me in? It would have made more sense for him to take advantage of the opportunity and take me away with him.”

The lass made a fine point, if only he had the answers to her questions. “It does not make sense.” He turned to her. “I sent Ranald off to find out where Dougal came from before he joined the Lamonts. I don’t know what he
will find, but I cannot help but think ’twill answer many questions.”

“I have often wondered as much,” she said quietly. “I asked my father once. He said it did not concern me.” She looked away, her eyes darting around the empty Hall. “I didn’t dare ask Dougal, not after . . .”

“Do not fash yerself, Elena-mine.” He smoothed a stray tendril of her hair from her cheek. She whirled around at the touch. “We will figure this out. In the meantime,” he said, wishing to distract her from her past, “there is this other mystery, this poison. Have you thought further on it?”

“Nay,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, I—”

“You were distracted,” he finished for her and was rewarded with a shy smile.

“Aye, that’s it.”

“ ’Tis late. I think you need a good night’s sleep. We’ll tackle my problem in the morning. Perhaps this other trouble will be resolved by then.”

She agreed and quickly followed him up to their hallway. Outside their chambers she hesitated. Symon guided her silently into his chamber. Once inside she stopped.

“You can have the bed, lass. I’ll be sleeping in front of the door.” He turned his back and stoked the fire while she slipped off her gown and climbed into the big feather bed.

When he was sure she was settled, he stripped off his plaid, then rolled himself in it and settled his back against the door. ’Twas a fortunate thing that he could not see her lying in his bed from his vantage point upon the floor. His thoughts wandered far too easily in that direction without the visual stimulus to go with them. Strange how quickly things could change. Just yesterday it was he, looking to
her for his safety and salvation. Today she looked to him. If he was honest with himself, he was well pleased that she had finally decided to trust him. ’Twas a pity Dougal of Dunmore had to be the cause.

Symon shifted to a more comfortable hard spot on the wood floor. At least it was not stone. One had to be thankful for small favors.

E
lena woke slowly
the next morning and for a moment didn’t know where she was. The bed was so big, and so soft, she thought she must still be dreaming. A soft snore from the direction of the door reminded her of where she was. And why. Quietly she sat up and looked over at the sleeping Symon, still sitting up against the door, as he had been last night.

A curious softness washed over her as she watched him sleeping. She indulged herself, finally allowing herself to admire this warrior who had done so much for her in such a short time. Never before in her entire life had anyone cared enough to allay her fears, protect her, even as she slept. She remembered the heated kisses they had shared and felt her core heat. The desire she had so newly discovered spread through her, heating her, giving her wild ideas. If only . . .

If only there was no Dougal, and no gift. She might be happy here. She could be useful, and Symon might, just might come to feel something for her other than pity. She did not want his pity. What she wanted was the fire that had flared to life between them wiping out all other thoughts, all other feelings. When she had been in his arms she had known complete abandon, at least for a moment.

She would give anything to feel that again, to be so lost in the wonderful sensations his lips and tongue and hands brought to her as to forget all else in this world. She rose quietly from the bed and padded across the cold floor. She crouched in front of him, her shift puddling about her feet. He looked so peaceful in sleep, so content. Did he feel the same way she did when they touched? She thought he must. He had seemed bemused when she had pulled away, as if overwhelmed by his senses. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his lips with her fingertips.

Symon’s eyes snapped open and his hand gripped her wrist. Elena’s breath stopped. Confusion passed swiftly over Symon’s face, then he released her wrist, watching her. Gingerly she let her fingers move over his lips and was pleased to see heat in his eyes and feel his breath quicken at her touch. He did feel it. She smiled to herself, then explored his face with her fingers, running them over his strong jaw, his thick dark slashes of eyebrows, his high, sharp cheekbones. Slowly she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

Symon groaned and she started to pull away just as he snaked an arm about her waist and pulled her into his lap, deepening the kiss.

“What do you see, Elena-mine?” His breath whispered over her skin.

Elena thought about his question. What did she see? “A warrior. A chief. A man.”

“Not a devil?”

“Nay, no devil. A man who takes in strange lasses and offers them his hospitality, his protection. . . even his bed.”

His pupils widened and he took her hand, still resting
on his cheek, bringing it to his mouth. He planted a gentle kiss in the center of her palm, then held her hand in his. “I would give you more, if you would but let me.”

Elena wasn’t sure what he meant. “You don’t need to give me more, Symon.”

“I would protect you always, could protect you always if . . .” He let the words hang between them.

“If?”

“If you would marry me.”

Elena stood, breaking the contact with his warm hand. She returned to the bed and pulled her woolen gown over her head, then arranged the sleeves of her shift underneath.

She felt Symon’s eyes on her, then he rose and arranged his plaid, wrapping it about him with a wide leather belt. “You still will not consider it?” he said at last.

Elena felt torn between what she wanted and what she knew had to be. She could never stay there, become the wife of the chief of MacLachlan, and keep her secret safe. And then there was Dougal. As long as she remained, he would take his anger out upon the MacLachlans. But most of all, if she allowed herself to feel what he stirred in her, she would suffer as she had when her mother had died. She shook her head, unable to voice all the reasons why she could not hope for the happiness she had always craved.

Symon was next to her before she even realized he had moved. He grabbed her, kissed her with all the pent-up frustration they both had felt for days. She struggled free of him and tried to ignore the arousing effect his mouth had upon her body.

“We have a bargain, do we not?” She tried to make her voice cold, hard, but a slight wobble threatened to expose the turmoil she was feeling. “You will find me a new
home, somewhere far away from the likes of Dougal of Dunmore? And I will help you find the source of the poison.”