Devil of Kilmartin by Laurin Wittig Page A

in his eyes she had not seen before. An answering heat flamed in her belly, but she would not let it show. Never had she felt what she had just shared with this man. Never had she felt so alive, yet consumed. He burned brightly, singeing her, muddling her thoughts, confusing her body.
    Yearning pulled at her. This was so much more than the simple comfort he had given that first night. She wanted, what exactly she wasn’t sure, but a need had sprung to life within her. A need she had not been aware of until this moment, yet she could not name it precisely. Nor did she want to, for naming it would give it power.
    “There are many questions amongst our people,” Ranald said to Symon. “They wish to know more of this woman. Will you return and answer those questions?”
    Symon looked at Elena. She waited, sure he would trap her now with her confession. Sure of his victory when she succumbed so quickly to his assault on her senses. He crossed to her and lifted her hand to his lips. Fire burned up her arm and downward, fanning the flames that glowed in her belly. “I will answer no questions,” he said, though she wasn’t sure if he said the words to her or to Ranald. He turned to his brother. “And neither will you.”
    “Ah, you are bewitched by the lass already.” There was no sneer upon Ranald’s face, but Elena heard it clearly in his voice, and from the way Symon stiffened, he did, too.
    “You will do as I asked before, nothing more. Take care of the task on your own. Do not involve any others.”
    Ranald inclined his head. “You are chief. I will do as you bid me.”
    “Let us return to our meal,” Symon said, “and reassure the clan that all is well, both with our guest and their chief.”
    “Aye. But I do not think you will be keeping any secrets looking like that,” Ranald said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You look . . . better. ’Twill not take much for them”—he nodded in the direction of the Hall—“to see there is a change in you and guess she had some part to play in it.” Ranald came closer to his brother, examining his face. “I would not say she has knocked the Devil from your shoulders, but she has surely given him a shove.”
    Elena knew she had healed him slightly in that moment when he had forced her skill from her, but now . . .
    “Am I so frightful, lass?” Symon asked.
    Ranald was correct. The tense lines about Symon’s eyes had softened, and the sallow look to his skin was gone, a rosy healthy glow in its place. But how, she had not—
    The kiss, the power in that simple kiss, and the haze it had drawn over her mind even as it illuminated every smell and sound and touch. Of course. Her gift manifested in touch. Somehow her gift must have done its work while her body was overwhelmed by her senses . . . and yet, even as those senses had been heightened, there had been no pain, only pleasure.
    “Very well”—Symon smiled at her and the effect was dazzling—“perhaps you should return to the Hall withRanald.” To Ranald he said, “Make my excuses. ’Twill not be hard to do. I shall retire. You can tell them I was not well. ’Tis a necessary deception for now.” Symon turned to Elena again. “Your secret is safe. Ranald will show you back to your chamber after the meal.” He moved to a small door leading away from the Great Hall. “Then attend me in my chamber, brother, and bring food. I find I am suddenly famished.” He grinned and quietly slipped out the door.
    “Shall we return?” Ranald asked her.
    She nodded, still stunned by all that had passed in this tiny room.
     
    S ymon broke into a tuneless whistle as he crossed the bailey toward his chamber. He hadn’t felt this good in nearly a twelvemonth. He wasn’t sure how the lass had accomplished such a feat, but it didn’t matter. The madness was pushed back, at least for now. He could feel it still, at the edges of his mind, but the clarity and well being he felt allowed his hope for the future to