Devil of Kilmartin (25 page)

But she could not do that, even if she had the courage to allow it. For Dougal would only use her as he had before, to shore up the strength of her kinsmen so they could do battle more and more often. Dougal did not care how often they were hurt as long as they were able to fight when next he needed them. Nay, handing herself over to Dougal might slow down the pain he inflicted on others, but it would not stop it.

She had only the two choices she had had weeks before. She could take her own life, removing herself from all who would use her skill to their own purposes. Or she could find a way to lead Dougal away from these people, then disappear into the forest and travel deep into the Highlands, living as Auld Morag did, separate and alone.

But would she be alone? She placed her hands on her belly. Even now there could be a bairn there, deep inside her, growing out of the one night of complete joy she had ever experienced. If she followed the first path, she would be ending not only her own life, but perhaps, just perhaps,
that of another. How could she deny the results of that joy, extinguish any hope that it could happen again, if not for her, then for her daughter or son.

She had not chosen that path before. She could not choose it now. Though she would have liked to thwart Dougal so completely, she would not let Symon believe he had any part in such a decision.

She glanced about the chamber, searching for items that would help her in her plan. She would wait until this danger had passed, for she would not be so daft as to run straight into Dougal’s hands. She would gather those things that would help her in her new life: clothes, her herbs, a firekit, what tools she might glean from the stillroom, and a knife. If she traveled north, she would head deeper into the Highlands. And of course, she’d have to find some way to make sure Dougal knew she was no longer within Kilmartin Castle, no longer amongst the MacLachlans.

It would take some planning, but she could accomplish this. She must, if she wished to keep Symon and Fia and all the others she had come to care for safe from the wrath of Dougal of Dunmore.

chapter 15

S
ymon made a
circuit of the guards, making sure everyone was in place and aware of the importance of vigilance. He had not seen Ranald in several hours, but he was bound to be somewhere, sorting out some mess that had slipped past Symon’s attention. Murdoch waved to him from the wall heights, indicating that all was in hand. Symon waved back and signaled the man that he would be in his chamber.

He had not allowed himself to think about Elena, locked in his chamber all by herself. He couldn’t or he would not have been able to do as he must, coordinating the defense, though, in truth, he did not think anything the MacLachlans had done was responsible for the retreat of the Lamonts. It seemed they simply gave up after charging the gate repeatedly. ’Twas as if they sought to distract—

Symon sprinted up the stair, then up the circular stairwell to his chamber. “Elena!” he shouted as soon as he reached the hall. He yanked the latch on his own door, only to find it still locked. Relief flooded through him, though it did not halt him from banging upon the door.

“Symon?” Her voice came softly through the thick wood.

“Aye, you can open the door now.”

He heard her fumble with the key, jiggling it in the lock, then finally it clanked open and the door swung wide. Her face was tear-stained, but she was safe. Symon had never been so happy. He strode into the room, pushing the door closed behind him, and folded her quickly into his arms. His lips found hers, and the kiss they shared was achingly sweet.

All the fear and uncertainty of the last hours left him. He was desperate to experience the joy and abandonment they had shared in each other’s arms once more. He swept her up and was gratified to feel her arms come around him, her lips nuzzling his neck. He groaned as her teeth nipped at his ear and her hands twined in his hair. At the edge of the bed, he let her slide down the length of his body. She could not miss his desire; indeed, she pressed herself against him, her kisses growing more insistent, her hands gliding over him as if she needed to learn every inch of him all over again.

He was not sure who removed the first article of clothing, but he knew he was the last as her shift puddled at her feet and she stood in all her glorious pale skin and long fiery hair in front of him. He remembered that moment in the stone circle when she had stood, chin raised, defiance in her eyes. He had thought her one of the ancients’ priestesses.

That was nothing to the glory in front of him now.

He pulled her to him, kissing her hard, proud that she had protected herself, despite the need for a lock. Pleased that she was as eager for him as he was for her. Overwhelmed that such a woman could care for him.

As gently as he could he laid her back on the bed, trailing kisses down her neck, over her shoulders and down the valley between her breasts. Slowly he kissed her breasts, delighting at her gasps of pleasure as he brought each pink nipple to a tight bud, suckling, nipping. Slowly he slid his hand down her belly, slipping a finger inside her, unbearably pleased when he found her wet and ready for him. He moved over her, kissing her as she wrapped her legs about his waist, urging him to her.

Now she would be his. He slid into her, the heat and wet overwhelming him until he could barely form a thought. He wanted to let himself ride the wave of feeling, experience the total surrender, forget everything but this woman, and this moment. He held to one sliver of thought, waiting until she was ready, driving her slowly over the precipice until at last they raced together into the wind, their voices raised in triumph as their bodies united in joy.

Symon became aware of her hand sliding up and down his sweat-dampened back. He raised himself to his elbows and smoothed her hair back from her face. Gently he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her lips. When he finished she was gazing up at him, her eyes reflecting his own humbling emotions.

“Can you still say we are not meant for each other, Elena-mine? Can you believe we should not join our lives even as we join our bodies?”

She looked away, and a dark pit formed in Symon’s stomach. “Elena?”

“ ’Tis my gift that makes you speak so,” she said at last. The hitch in her voice scratched at him.

“Nay, lass. Can you not see how I feel about you? I cannot deny the need I have for your gift, but ’tis not why I wish you to be my wife.”

He started to withdraw from her, but she held him close. “Not yet.”

He smiled then, and moved slightly within her, settling himself in the cradle of her hips. He kissed her and knew, though she denied his feelings were true, she felt them. Returned them even, though she was not ready to admit it to him.

But she would. He knew it was only a matter of her getting used to the idea.

He had won, and the exhilaration rushed through him. He deepened the kiss and began to move within her again. She kept her eyes closed, and a sad smile played about her lips. Symon watched her, marveling at the joy and sadness that could mingle there, even as he saw passion rise once more, erasing all else. Symon closed his own eyes then, and rested his forehead against hers, remembering the joining they had shared when she healed him. Suddenly that same lightness swept through him, and he would have sworn at that moment that they joined completely—heart, mind, and soul—soaring into the bright sunlit sky, flying with the eagles high over the strife and turmoil below.

Symon arched into her, calling her name at the moment she called his own. Tears streamed down her face, and he knew she was as overwhelmed by the magnitude of the experience as he was.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when Symon fell asleep, Elena tucked firmly against him, his face in her hair, the smell of their loving surrounding them.

E
lena lay, listening
to Symon’s quiet breathing, her mind in a fog of desire and despair. Symon’s love-making was ardent, but her own reaction to him surprised her the most. Indeed, her own unrelenting response to him told her she would only hurt both of them more the longer she waited. And she couldn’t wait much longer. Not only had she exposed herself before the entire clan, now Dougal had once more caused harm to this clan because of her. She could not allow that to continue. She would have to leave, and very, very soon.

She could hold Symon to their bargain, forcing him to take her away from here. Surely there had been time by now to get a message to his kin in the north. But if Dougal remained outside Kilmartin, he would see them leaving and either attack them or take advantage of Symon’s going to wreak havoc on this clan that had taken her in, thwarting his plans.

Nay, Symon could not take her away. Either way he would be hurt, directly or indirectly. The only way to stop Dougal from harming Symon and his clan was to draw him away, draw his attention away. She would have to go alone. Somehow she would have to make sure he knew she had left the MacLachlan stronghold without allowing him to know exactly where she went. That would be tricky, a problem she would have to ponder.

For now, she’d enjoy the attentions of this man. She snuggled closer to him, content to bide with him for
another few days. Her heart contracted. Another few days. ’Twas all she would get. It would have to be enough.

R
anald was nowhere to be found.

They had stood, side-by-side, ready to defend their clan, as the Lamonts battered at the gate. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noise and commotion stopped. The Lamonts had withdrawn with nary a drop of blood spilt between them. Symon had hurried back to Elena, concern for her outweighing his need to learn the truth about the poisoned wine from his brother. Ranald could be questioned after he was sure Elena was all right.

But now Ranald was gone. Symon had searched the entire castle, but no one had seen his brother since the attack had ended. He hadn’t been seen on the heights, nor in the bailey, not even in his own chamber, nor the Great Hall. Nowhere.

Symon could hardly allow himself to think about it. Elena had accused Ranald of the poisoning. He did not defend himself. And then he disappeared. Was it possible? Nay, it could not be. Ranald had been his one loyal kinsman since the beginning of this whole blasted trouble.

And yet, Ranald had disagreed about Symon’s ability to lead the clan. Had tried to get him to step aside, let Ranald take over as chief. But there were simpler ways to take over than poison, and slow poison at that. Then why? Why would Ranald disappear just when the truth was coming out?

And where had he gone? The castle had been surrounded by Lamonts. If he left the castle, he would only land in the hands of Lamonts . . . in the hands of Dunmore.
Symon shook his head. It couldn’t be. Ranald was loyal, despite his criticisms. He would not ally himself with Dunmore. He could not.

Symon’s head pounded, though blessedly it was due only to the conundrum his brother’s disappearance caused and not further poisoning.

He tried to think about the situation from a different angle. If Ranald had not disappeared purposely, then it was possible he was taken without his consent. This made much more sense. But why, and how? What use would Ranald serve to the Lamonts? To Dougal of Dunmore?

But Ranald had followed him . . . or had he?

Symon remembered his brother by his side as he crossed the bailey, but then, in the confusion and commotion, he could not recall Ranald’s step, nor his voice after that. He had just been told of the poison, the connection with his spiced wine . . . had he gone to the stillroom? But why? It didn’t really matter. He must have headed for the stillroom, not knowing of the tunnel, for Symon had not mentioned it. Could Dunmore—or someone else—have taken him, pulling him into the tunnel in spite of the guards posted there? Could he have been taken out of the castle with no one the wiser? But why Ranald? Perhaps he had been the first that Dunmore or his men had come upon. . . .

Realization slashed through Symon. Of course. That was why the Lamonts had retreated so easily. The attack had been a diversion, a ruse, but the tunnel was well guarded. Something was not right, but Symon could believe nothing else. Ranald would not have voluntarily abandoned his clan, and his brother.

He found Murdoch in the Great Hall, a lass giggling in
his lap. At the Devil’s stormy entrance, she abruptly left her seat and headed to a table at the far end of the Hall.

“Did you have to scare the lass away with your dark countenance?” Murdoch said, grinning up at him. “I’ve been trying to steal a kiss from that one for a fortnight.” He winked. “I nearly had it, too.”

“She’ll fall for your charms, lad,” Symon said, sitting next to the giant. “But not today. I’ve a message needs delivering.”

O
n the third
evening after the attack on the castle, Elena sat at the fire in Symon’s chamber, awaiting his return. It had been a wonderful and a difficult three days. Wonderful because she had spent so much time in Symon’s company, and in his arms. Difficult because where the clansfolk had begun to accept her, include her, they now kept a distance from her. She understood how Symon had felt that first time she had entered this place. Suspicion and whispers followed her wherever she went.