Devil of Kilmartin (2 page)

“You see,” he said, his hot, fetid breath singeing her cheek, “by daybreak, we will announce our betrothal. We will seal our union before the clan tomorrow evening. Then I will be chief—by right, and by tradition.”

Wed Dougal? Her mind went dangerously blank, then a vivid, revolting image of him in her bed flashed before her, followed by another, of her kinsmen slaughtered, one by one, her strength failing to save them. Never could she accept him.

“I will never marry you!” She snatched her hair from
his grasp and tried to push past him, needing to escape his foul odor and chilling gaze.

Dougal caught her arm and smiled, smug and confident. Elena glared at him.

“You will, witch.”

He pulled her to him and roughly pressed his lips to hers. Elena struggled, gagging, then slapped him. His release was abrupt. She stepped back quickly, stopping when she bumped the edge of the bed.

She struggled to keep from wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how he made her skin crawl. “I would be wife to the Devil before I would ever wed you!”

He reached for her, a leering grin spreading over his face as he yanked her close once more. “No one will touch you but me,” he said, running a rough hand over her hip.

“Release me.” She struggled to hide the panic quickly welling within her.

“I think not. I usually prefer well-rounded women, but there is something about you . . . perhaps it is your disgust . . . that draws me.” He ran a dirty finger over her bottom lip, and Elena snapped at him, her teeth jarring together painfully as he avoided her bite. His face went hard, all expression removed save a dangerous fire that glowed from within. The fires of hell, no doubt.

“Here is your choice,” he said through clenched teeth. “Marry me willingly, or marry me unwillingly. I care not which. But we will wed. You will make me the legitimate chief, and you will provide me with a legitimate son to follow after me.”

Elena couldn’t hide the shudder this time as he dragged her against him, one hand on her arm, the other firmly at
the small of her back. She could feel his arousal. Frantically she searched about her for a weapon, an escape, a savior. But there was none.

“You see,” Dougal continued, “we will have to be wed after we are found here together.”

Elena’s mind spun, grappling with the implications of Dougal’s words—and actions. Even if he did not bed her, the appearance of the act would suffice to seal her fate, and the clan’s. Before she could decide what to do, he pushed her backward onto her bed. Instinct took over as soon as she hit the mattress, and she rolled quickly out of his way.

She scrambled to her feet and lurched toward the door. Dougal dove. He caught her skirt, toppling her to the floor. Her hands and knees hit hard, startling a yelp from her. Then Dougal was on her, pushing her to the floor and turning her to her back in one vicious move that had her head crashing against the boards.

Elena struggled, shoving at him, thrashing, screaming. Somehow she twisted a hand free of his grasp but couldn’t swing a fist. She went for his face, scratching, desperate to do some damage to him. Dougal backhanded her, and stars showered behind her eyes. She shook her head frantically as he pulled at her gown.

Blindly she reached around her, determined to find a weapon, any weapon. Her hand scraped the cold iron of the candle stand. She grabbed it, her fear lending her a strength she didn’t know she was capable of. The candle stand toppled, pouring hot tallow over Dougal’s bare backside, then pinning him to her with its weight. His bellow ripped through the chamber, and suddenly he was off of her, sending the iron stand crashing against the wall. He charged across the room and sluiced her wash water down his back.

Elena lay on the floor, dazed. A cold draft on her bared legs roused her. She had stopped him. For a moment. She shook her head once more to clear it, wincing at the pain. Her eyes focused, and her mind grasped the danger she was in. The consequences of her actions stole her breath but fueled her feet.

Before the water finished puddling in the rushes around Dougal, she fled. Whatever else happened, she would
never
wed a man so evil, so corrupt, so mad.

M
adness clawed at
Symon MacLachlan’s soul. He battled it back with every breath his burning lungs could steal. The skirl of a wounded animal burst from his parched lips. His horse broke into a gallop. Pain pounded through Symon’s skull in time with the beat of the animal’s hooves. His stomach lurched and dipped, threatening to empty itself. Purging, purifying wind battered his disloyal body and desperate mind.

Symon slowed the horse as he tried to grasp where he was. He glanced about at the moonlit forest searching for some clue as to why he was here. All of a sudden the trees around him bowed, as if in deference to his passing. His stomach roiled. He closed his eyes and willed the grove to right itself, willed the madness away. He swayed in the saddle and a low, feral, growl escaped him.

He would not let this blasted madness win!

Symon concentrated on the things he could feel—the warm, sweat-covered hide of the tired beast beneath him, the familiar texture of his plaid, bunched at his shoulder and about his waist, the chill wash of an early spring
breeze against his fevered skin. He gathered his senses and slowly opened his eyes.

Blessedly, the trees were upright, their leaves rustling above where they belonged, silhouetted against the moon-bright sky.

It was a bloody awful way to live, never knowing when the madness would crash over him.

The horse stopped suddenly, nearly unseating him. It moved neither forward nor back, but rather danced nervously in place, shifting from one foot to another as if unsure which way to go. Symon nudged it forward, but it halted once more after only a few unwilling steps. Standing directly in their path was the dark outline of an ancient stone circle. His mount shied, snorting and shaking its head, as if denying the sight.

Symon calmed the animal, sharing its dislike for the silent, pensive circle, hunkered here at the edge of the glen. He wished to deny the sight as well. But that was impossible. He knew this cursed place. He knew the madness had led him back here.

The stones stood silently in their primeval ring as if standing in judgment of him. All the ills that had befallen his clan these past six months, even his own hated reputation, had started here, in this circle, on that fateful day of his father’s death. Symon clenched his shaking hands. The past could not be changed.

But it could be faced.

It was madness to enter the circle again, but madness was his near-constant companion. What more harm could come from this place than the death of his father and the torment his life had become these past months? Symon would not let his weakness get in his way. Something had
brought him here, and he was determined to face his fate. Perhaps then he would find a way free of his curse. If he did not, he would lose all that he had ever worked for in life: his position, his honor. It had already stolen his self-respect.

Symon slid from the horse. As he tied it to a tree, a hound bayed in the distance and was quickly answered by another, adding to the horse’s already nervous shifting. It pulled at its lead, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast.

“Shh,” Symon said, grateful that his voice obeyed him. He scratched the horse’s cheek for a moment, quieting the animal and himself.

Finally Symon took a deep breath and moved toward the accursed rocks, drawn by the circle as a lodestone draws iron. The hounds bayed again, the sound echoing off the stones, warning him away. The hair at the base of his neck prickled in response.

“ ’Tis only a ring of mighty rocks.” The sound of his own voice, though gravelly as always after the madness, calmed him.

Determined to meet his fate, he strode between two of the tall rocky sentries and into the circle.

A bare pace within, he stopped.

Gone was the clear air of spring, nor was the remembered blood-stink of battle present in the circle. It was like walking into warm, thick water. Sounds were muffled and the smells of a moment ago, damp, boggy earth and sharp, dusty rock, were muted here, more like the memory of a smell than the actual smell itself.

Mist began to rise about his feet, swirling up from the ground, reaching out and embracing the huge moss- and lichen-clad stones. Damp wisps of reflected moonlight
filled the gaps between them with a transparent wall of white moonglow.

Hounds bayed once again, closer, accompanied now by a long wailing cry. The stallion stamped the ground.

Symon remembered to breathe.

It was only a trick of the wind, that wailing. It was only the remnants of madness that made that wail sound human.

Symon rolled his shoulders, noting the weight of his claymore high against his back, and the lesser weight of his dudgeon dagger tucked at his belt. At least his affliction did not extend to leaving himself weaponless.

A branch cracked. Symon whirled in the direction of the noise. Something hurtled from the mist and threw itself at him, hitting hard enough to force the breath from him. He staggered and his arms encircled the all-too-solid form of a woman.

Long-fingered hands gripped his tunic. Leaf-tangled hair caught in the stubble on his chin even as a peacefulness he no longer believed possible washed over him. Calm, like a healing salve on weather-raw skin, pushed the lingering confusion and pain from him. He felt clear-headed, balanced, and strong as he hadn’t since the madness had first come over him in this very place.

Hounds bayed just beyond the mist, and the stallion snorted its misgivings. The unearthly wailing sounded again, this time from just under his chin. The woman pushed away from him, stumbling when he released her.

Peace deserted him.

He reached for her again, grabbing a bony wrist. Peace stole up his arm and briefly fluttered in his chest. She tried to stumble backward, her eyes fixed over his shoulder.

“Help me, I beg of you!” Desperation at odds with the peace he felt colored her low voice.

His decision was made in an instant. He drew his dagger and spun in one smooth, practiced motion to face the direction she had come from.

Huge, gray wolfhounds strained at the edge of the mist-shrouded circle, slavering like the hounds of hell, but they did not enter. Symon heard scrabbling as the woman moved to the far side of the circle. There she could easily slip into the mist and away from the hounds while Symon held their attention.

The easiest thing would be to let the hounds continue their hunt, but Symon had never been one to take the easy road.

So he would dispatch the dogs, and the keeper he was sure followed them. He would dispatch them by word or by blade, it mattered not, and retrieve the woman himself. Then he would regain that momentary peace. A peace he was suddenly determined to have.

He sheathed his dagger and drew forth his claymore, feeling calmer with the massive sword in his hands. Any reprieve from his own private hell was worth a fight. Even a fight in this circle. Especially a fight in this circle.

He planted his feet, balancing his stance, his claymore at the ready. A muttered curse came out of the mist, quieting the dogs, and sending them skirting the edge of the circle. A shaggy-haired man stepped between the stones, his dagger glinting in the moonlight, his heavily bearded face cast in shadows.

“Where is she?” the stranger demanded.

The voice was almost familiar, teasing his memory as if he should know it.

Symon said nothing as he moved slowly toward the man.

“ ’Twas a lass ran this way. I will have her back.”

Still Symon did not answer. Something about the rumble, the thick burr, not entirely of these parts, picked at him, but he couldn’t call the memory forward.

“I saw her come this way.” The other man’s voice grew threatening. “The hounds tracked her. I’ll have her back!”

Symon took in the man’s stance, the way he shifted slightly foot to foot, his dagger hand swaying back and forth as if he was unsure which way Symon would come at him.

“Just point the way she went,” the man said, “and I’ll leave you be.”

Symon took another step toward him. The stranger stepped back deeper into the shadows.

“I’m after the lass.”

“You are on MacLachlan land. If you do not leave now, you will die on MacLachlan land.”

“Where I die is between the devil and myself, you bloody bastard.”

“As you wish,” Symon said.

E
lena filled her
lungs, trying to take advantage of the moment to catch her breath. She peered around a great stone, watching Dougal challenge the huge, dark-haired warrior. She knew Dougal’s injuries from the hot tallow and the heavy candle stand had been the only reason she had escaped the castle, and the only reason she had stayed ahead of him and his hounds until now. He must be desperate indeed, to follow her onto MacLachlan lands
alone. But then, Dougal was not one to give up, and he would be even more determined—and dangerous—now that she had injured his pride, and his backside.

Her own skin felt flayed from the hours she had spent racing through the thick wood. She was cold, dirty, and scared. Dougal was as handy with a weapon as he was with those dogs, while the warrior who was defending her was not well. In that half-a-moment they had touched, her gift had asserted itself, sensing pain and soothing it.

And yet she had felt calmed, too, almost as if he held some power himself. Or perhaps it was his unquestioning defense of her that calmed her. But why would he do that when he was so clearly unwell? Did he know what she did? His eyes had held wonder in their black depths. She shivered at the intensity of the image. An angry Dougal was nothing compared to the barely contained need she had witnessed in that moment.

The two warriors exchanged threats, and Elena knew this was her chance. She could escape while they distracted each other. She stepped backward, her eyes fixed on the men, but a hound’s low growl jolted her to stillness.

Dougal, his face cast downward just enough to keep the moonlight from illuminating the familiar rage she knew was there, edged around to the MacLachlan warrior’s right, but the warrior engaged him, swinging his mighty claymore close enough to knock him off balance. Before he could parry, the MacLachlan was upon him, wrenching Dougal’s knife arm up behind him, then resting the sharp edge of his own blade against Dougal’s beard-covered throat.