The Devil of Kilmartin

Laurin Wittig

Chapter One

Southwestern Highlands, Scotland, Spring 1307

Anger, pain, and grief fueled Elena Lamont's growing despair as she searched the torchlit chamber for the body of her cousin Ian. He was her last hope. He should be here, somewhere amongst the half score of her kinsmen lying bloodied on the rush-strewn floor. She shuddered as she moved between the pain-racked men. 'Twas an all too familiar sight since their chief, her father, had disappeared.

"Elena."

She saw a hand raised slightly and rushed to Ian, sinking to her knees at his side. The rough wool of her oldest gown quickly soaked up a pool of his blood. His face was gray, his eyes glassy.

"I see you did not parry fast enough again," she said, keeping her voice light as she carefully pulled a piece of bloody linen away from his chest. "The Devil will not deal so lightly with you next time." She swallowed a gasp as she revealed the pink-tinged bone of his ribs.

"Do not worry over me, lass," Ian said. "'Tis too much this time."

"Shush, Ian. Save your breath. 'Tis for sure you'll be needing it when Isobel finds you've been hurt yet again." Blood oozed from the gash. "'Tis not so bad as the last time," she said, not daring to look him in the face.

'Twas worse.

As gently as she could manage with trembling hands, she tore his blood-crusted tunic further to expose more of his chest. She prayed that this time she could hold herself away from the pain. It was a daily prayer for her, and it had yet to be answered.

"Lay very still." She rubbed her hands together, warming them, calming herself, calling forth the healing gift she held within her.

She placed her hands gently around the wound.

Pain leapt from Ian, burned up her fingers, scrabbled around her arms, and settled its claws in her ribs. The first flash was a shock, but Elena knew she mustn't let it stop her. Nothing must stop her from saving Ian's life.

With great effort she ignored the mirrored pain and willed the healing heat out through her hands and into the man beside her. After a dozen breaths the pain began to ease. Elena relaxed slightly, rolling her shoulders as she once again gathered the heat. After another dozen breaths the wound began to close. She concentrated, determined to heal this man.

Without Ian their missing chief's arrogant, overbearing champion, Dougal of Dunmore, would surely take control of the dispirited clan and declare himself their leader. The result would only be more of what she struggled with this day. Blood and death, for Dougal cast destruction about him wherever he went, and all in the name of power.

Elena could not let that happen. Wise, caring Ian had always been her father's choice to follow him.

Without Ian's leadership all was lost for their clan.

Just as the blood flow ceased from Ian's wound and Elena fought to mend the flesh, Dougal roughly pulled her away from her cousin.

"Why do you waste your skill on this one? He will not survive." Elena glared at him, repulsed by the glint of glee in his eyes. "Save yourself for those who may rise to fight again."

Elena looked away, trying to calm the surge of anger and fear she felt whenever this man was near. Before she could take even one breath, Dougal shoved her toward another injured warrior.

"I need them all on their feet by first light."

Elena glanced back at her cousin. His breathing was even, though his skin still held the pallor of much blood loss. At least he would lose no more this night.

Candles sputtered and were replaced by silent clanswomen as Elena worked her way through the crowded room, healing each hurt, small and great. By the fifth man Elena could no longer focus on anything save stopping the pain assaulting her. By the tenth man she could barely stand, so great was her fatigue. By the twelfth man, and the last, Dougal had to cuff her repeatedly to keep her alert and focused on the task at hand.

When the last man was healed, Elena could not rise to her feet. If it weren't for the bloody gore that covered the rush-strewn floor she would have curled up right where she sat and slept for days.

But Dougal hauled her to her feet once more, turning her to face him. She had to look down at him, into mud-brown eyes that held no gentleness, only a lust for power, and some other even more ominous fire. She had never been able to name the fire she saw there, but she knew it did not bode well for those around him. It certainly had not so far.

"Get you to your chamber. Wash the blood from your hands and face and don the new gown that awaits you there." He released her arm abruptly. She staggered at the sudden loss of support. When she was sure she could walk without falling, she moved slowly toward the door, her exhausted mind slowly mulling over his words.

She made her way to her small, cell-like chamber. Protected, Dougal always said of it, though she knew only too well that wasn't why it had been given to her. She opened the door and stopped.

A tray of steaming stew, oatcakes, and a large mug of ale awaited her by a crackling fire. A gown was spread over her narrow bed, its color the same muddy brown as Dougal's eyes. She shuddered. She'd never wear that color, even if her own clothes were falling in rags from her body.

Despite her fatigue, she pushed the door wide open, then moved to the food, greedily gulping the ale and lifting the bowl to quickly consume the savory contents. When she had finished, she looked about again.

Why would Dougal have a new gown made for her? She left the warmth of the fire and sat on the bed, not touching the clothing. Somehow she knew to accept the gift would seal her to a new fate, though she couldn't grasp how another fate could be worse than the one she endured now.

She would not have thought she could have soft feelings for her father, but in the face of Dougal, she found she wished him whole and back in this castle where he could rein in his champion. Her father had never treated her gently, but she knew he had protected her from many things, and many people. If he did not return soon or if Ian did not gain back his once robust health, Elena knew she would have to gather her courage and do something herself.

But what? As long as Ian lived, then Dougal would have no rightful claim. By custom she could claim the chief's position, but she had no wish to do so. Her father had long trained Ian to take his place. If her father's fate was not known soon, very soon, she or Ian would be forced to act. One thing was certain. Dougal would not bide his time long. He would declare the chief dead any day now, and her hand, or Ian's, would be forced.

She rose to return to Ian. The one thing she could do well was watch over him until he was able to take his place at the head of the clan.

As if to mock her decision, a chill draft entered her chamber, just ahead of Dougal.

"You are not welcome here," she said.

He shut the door behind him, and Elena forced herself not to react.

"You cannot keep me out much longer."

"When my father is found--"

"He has been."

Elena's breath caught in her throat. "Where is he? Is he well?"

Dougal moved toward her. "My gillies have found his body not far from here."

He waited, letting his words slice through the momentary hope that had blossomed within her. Elena groped for the bed, lowering herself to sit upon it once more. Shock and dread stole her breath.

"He is dead." She stared into the fire, searching for some glimmer of sorrow within herself for her sire.

"Aye, and I am chief here now."

Elena glanced at the man's face. There was no grief in his eyes, no remorse, not even a hint of sadness there. Nothing marked any sentiment over the passing of a man who had taken Dougal in and given him a home when he was but a wandering sword.

Nothing save greed B and ambition.

In time she would mourn the loss of a father, even one who never showed her any softness, but right now she could think only of the future.

"How did he die?" she whispered.

"A terrible accident. It seems his horse threw him. He fell and broke his neck." Dougal moved toward her. "I am chief now."

"Nay! Ian is chief." Fear wrapped about her heart, squeezing tight. "He has ever been my father's chosen one."

"Ian is in no condition to lead the clan. He has been so ill of late he can no longer wield a sword well enough to keep himself whole. He is no leader. I am chief. I now speak for the clan."

Elena rose, moving to the warmth of the fire, needing to put more distance between herself and this man. She took a deep breath, knowing what she must do, but wishing with all her might that someone else would come and do it for her. She turned to face him.

"I am the chief's daughter." She struggled to keep her voice firm. "By right and tradition I shall be chief if Ian cannot."

Dougal moved closer, a gleam in his eyes. "Aye." He reached forward and grabbed her thick flame-colored braid, pulling her closer to him with it. "You have that authority until such time as you marry. Then your husband will be the rightful chief."

"I will not marry. I will be chief until Ian is well enough to lead. 'Tis what the clan will want."

"I do not think it will come to that, my lassie."

She shuddered. The endearment felt like a threat.

Dougal wound the braid about his hand, forcing her to move closer to him until she was trapped, the braid held tautly, pulling her head toward him. With effort, she kept the merest hair's breadth of distance between their bodies.

"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.

~#~

Madness 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.

~#~

Elena 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.

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.