Devil of Kilmartin Read Free Page A

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 landsalone. 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