Devil of Kilmartin (3 page)

It was over so fast, Elena did not even have time to react.

“Drop your dagger.”

Dougal dropped it with a muttered oath.

“You see, lad, you were right,” the warrior said.

“How’s that?”

“You said this was between you and the Devil.” The warrior paused, as if waiting for Dougal to understand his words. “I am the Devil of Kilmartin. Have you not heard of me?” The simple question belied the sharp concentration on the Devil’s face, and the promise of violence in his posture.

Elena began to tremble. The hounds growled again, only an arm’s length away. The Devil of Kilmartin.

She had run from one madman to another.

She watched as Dougal started to nod, just a bare movement else he would have slashed his own neck. He stopped, chin raised.

“Aye,” he said instead, his voice unusually low.

“Do you wish to continue this, then?” the Devil asked.

“Nay.”

“ ’Tis as I thought. Give me your word you will leave the lass be and take yourself away from MacLachlan lands.”

“You have it.”

Shock coursed through Elena. She had never seen Dougal back down from anyone, or anything.

“Good.” The Devil stepped back, but kept his claymore ready. A Highlander’s word should be good enough, but apparently he didn’t entirely trust Dougal. He was wiser than she would have guessed.

“Get you gone, and your hounds with you.”

Dougal whistled, three sharp rising notes. The hounds whimpered but reluctantly abandoned their quarry. “You
may have her now, Devil,” Dougal said, his strangely altered voice carrying over the mist, “but you’ll not keep her long.” He raised his voice more. “You won’t find anything easier with the Devil, Elena. You belong to me!”

Her skin prickled. The image of what she had fled scrambled through her mind. The knowledge of who had defended her terrified her. She’d be no safer with the Devil of Kilmartin than she would be with Dougal of Dunmore. She would never be safe.

A sob escaped her and she once more forced her tired legs to a run.

chapter 2

S
ymon sheathed his
claymore. The heady rush of battle fever waned rapidly. He listened for the woman, Elena. A hazy pain filled his head again, but it did not increase to the earlier pounding. It had eased in that momentary contact with her. He looked around, ready to track her himself if necessary.

Anything would be worth even one more moment of that peace.

A scrabbling sound told him she was getting away. Symon cut across the circle in four long running strides, then passed through the barrier of the ancient stones. Instantly sounds brightened, shadows darkened, and the forest closed around him. He stopped, gaining his bearings, listening for the telltale crashing of someone running through the black wood.

There. He turned in the direction of the noise and tore through the bracken. In moments he had caught up to her. Another and he had her round the waist, picking her up off her feet, dodging her flying elbows, kicking feet, and scratching nails.

“Be still!” He struggled to contain the flailing woman. “Bloody hell, cease this now!” She did not so much as flinch at his bellow, though his own head threatened to leave his shoulders.

At last he pinned her to him, her stiff back to his chest, his arms wrapped about her middle, securing her own arms at her sides. Her chest heaved, and he thought he heard a muffled sob.

“I’ll not hurt you, lass.”

She said nothing. She was tall but over-thin. Her hair was a mass of tangles decorated with bits of pine straw and dead leaves, its color uncertain in the wash of moonlight. Her gown was ripped and mud-spattered. He sensed a fragility to her despite the pitched struggle they’d just been through. Why was she running? Why did that man want her back so badly as to track her with hounds?

And where was the peace he had felt before when they touched? He took stock, waiting for calm to wash over him. The lass remained rigid in his arms.

“What do you want of me?” she said at last, her voice rising and cracking as if she fought to control it.

Symon spun her in his arms so she faced him. She gasped and managed to wedge her hands between them. Warmth radiated from her palms. He waited for that fleeting clarity of mind to follow the heat, needing to prove to himself he had not imagined it.

But clarity did not follow. She balled her fists and shoved against him.

“Release me.”

“Nay.”

“ ’Tis true? You are the Devil of Kilmartin?” She stood, her head held proudly, concentration etched on her face. For a moment he fancied her a priestess of the ancient builders of the stone circles.

“I am Symon, chief of Clan Lachlan.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, physically forcing the returning stabs of pain back. “He called you Elena, but of what clan are you?”

She did not answer.

The surge of power he had experienced in the scuffle with the lass’s hunter was gone and all the effects of his madness stormed back through him like a battle-crazed army bent on destruction. Symon’s head was splitting asunder. His mouth was dry and his throat begged for water.

If he wanted to learn the truth of who this lass was, and what had caused that strange, wonderful moment, he would have to act quickly, before he once more lost his grasp on reason. He must secure the lass until he could question her. Most likely, she was a witch, but he did not care. Anything that would dampen his madness, give him even a few extra moments of clarity, would strengthen his position with the clan. It did not matter the source. Sweat broke out on his brow and between his shoulder blades. His stomach heaved and the trees threatened to bend and bow to him once more.

“Come.” Symon dragged the girl by one thin wrist.

“Why should I go with you?”

Fear radiated from her, and he could feel her glare aimed at his back. Still he pulled her along. She could glare all she wished as long as she obeyed his command.

As they passed into the circle once more, she dug in her heals, forcing him to stop or risk snapping her wrist. “Where do you take me,
Devil
?”

He had to admire her courage, though her eyes showed the fear of a cornered animal. But he did not have time for pretty words to bend her to his wishes. The madness could crash around him again at any moment, and he must get her to safety before that happened. He could not guarantee she would live to see the next morn if he did not. And he desperately wished her to do so.

Symon released her arm and quickly scooped her over his shoulder.

T
he lass had
fought him all the way to the horse but became sullenly compliant when he told her she could flop like a sack of oats across his lap, or she could behave and ride behind him in relative comfort. She had chosen the latter, but just in case she changed her mind about cooperating, Symon kept a firm hand on her arm where it wrapped stiffly about his waist.

Every so often he would feel her relax, then jerk awake again. At last her arms fell slack about his waist as she finally succumbed to sleep. Her gentle weight settled against his back, her body heat mingling with his own. After a few moments he realized his head had begun to subtly ease and his unruly stomach had calmed.

Surprise roused him. He had not imagined the influence of her touch upon him. Though apparently she was strong
enough to control this strange effect her body had upon his, at least some of the time. Anger mingled with grudging admiration. Few would deny him anything, yet she had denied him relief from his affliction, even when he had defended her.

And what was the source of her effect? Rumor held that the Lamont healer used aught but her touch to heal even the mightiest of wounds. Could this bedraggled lass be that healer? Nay. Since before he was born stories had filtered through the glen of the wondrous skills of the Lamont healer. And while he couldn’t discern her true age, she was not as old as his score and five he was sure.

She could be daughter to the healer, or apprentice. But it made no sense that her clan would hunt her like a criminal if she possessed this skill.

He almost woke her, demanding she prove her abilities and work whatever magic she possessed to halt the next round of debilitating madness. But she had only eased the effects before, and then only briefly, while they touched. Could she do aught against the full force of his madness?

He took a deep breath, calming his seething emotions, trying to think through the possibilities the lass presented. If his suspicion was true, she owed him the use of her skills. He had saved her from her hunter; it was only right she would repay him in the way that would serve him best.

Of course, once before a healer had tried to help him, but she had quickly declared him beyond hope and hied off with a passing tinker. If this woman was the Lamont healer, would she do the same? Would she put an end to any hope for reprieve? Nay, if she did prove to be the fabled healer, she would heal him. He would make sure of it.

Symon rode on, lost in his thoughts, the lass sleeping
against his back. The full moon was sinking quickly behind the bens. The pale light would be gone soon, and they would have to stop until daylight.

All at once his companion jerked awake, nearly tumbling from the horse’s back. Symon whipped his arm behind him, steadying her with his hand on her back, pressing her to him.

Symon stiffened, prepared for abuse from her lips at the forced contact. Instead she gripped him tightly about the waist and buried her face against his back, bringing the full force of peace and clarity with her.

“I will not. I cannot,” she pleaded. “I cannot.”

Awkwardly Symon took his hand from her back and rested it on her arm that was firmly clasped about him. His large, rough hand covered her smooth one. Quietly he reveled in the effect she had on him. “Shh, lass. ’Tis only a dream.”

“A dream?” She snuggled against his back, sharing her warmth with him as if he were her lover there to comfort her. A tendril of her hair lifted on the breeze and tickled his cheek. Her scent, a curious spicy fragrance like rare cinnamon mixed with smoke, filled his senses. He felt comforted himself.

He waited for her withdrawal, but it did not come. He stroked her long fingers with his own, allowing himself a boon he had not known for too long—the simple comfort of another human’s touch.

He did not want to stop the incredible flow of balm coming from her, but he also knew they must find a place to stop soon, before the moon set and they were left in complete darkness. They rode over a knoll, Elena still snuggled against his back. Symon knew a silly, satisfied
smile adorned his face, but he didn’t care. The lass had given him in sleep what she refused when awake. As they rounded a bend in the path they followed, the trees opened up onto a clearing.

Symon stopped the horse and swore.

He recognized the small thatched cottage that sat in the middle of the clearing just as the moon disappeared behind the bens.

E
lena woke slowly,
pleasantly aware of the firm back she rested against and the heat radiating from it. She burrowed closer, holding tight where her arms wrapped about his waist, enjoying the quiet sounds of the horse moving through the forest. She was just drifting back into a peaceful sleep when the horse abruptly stopped. She blinked, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes, but the moon was nearly gone, and all was dark about her.

“Damn!”

She felt as much as heard the deep rumble of his voice, and she had the curious feeling she should react, but she didn’t want to.

“ ’Tis not what I would have chosen, but we have little choice.”

“What?” she asked, trying to think who this was talking to her. Knowledge snapped into place and she quickly sat up. She had her arms around the Devil. She’d nestled against his back, shared his body heat, been lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat.

Cold air replaced the comforting warmth of a moment ago, and she felt a curious loss. Those moments of sleepy contentment were so unusual, so out of her experience,
that she desperately wished them back, despite the source of them, yet she could not give in to the need. She had let her guard down. She dared not do so again.

Symon swung down off the horse and strode across the small yard. Just as he reached the door, it swung open, but Elena could not see who stood in the door speaking to the Devil in a low gravely voice. After a moment he returned to her.

“There’s a bed for you inside and a pot of porridge if you’re hungry.” His voice was sharp and Elena wondered what she’d done to anger him. “Come,” he said, reaching up to help her down from the horse.

Elena had no choice but to allow his touch. The horse was very tall, but not so much that the Devil couldn’t reach her waist with ease. His hands radiated heat through her tattered clothing, and he lifted her quickly from the horse. He released her as soon as her feet touched the ground, as if he were uncomfortable touching her.

Well, at least on that count, Dougal was correct. She was not a woman to attract the physical attention of men. But of course she did not wish the physical attention of this man, nor any other. She quickly shushed a little voice that reminded her how nice it had been moments ago, sleeping against the Devil’s firmly muscled back.