Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Murdoch nudged her forward, following in Symon's wake.

  She had always assumed it was her own kinsmen who had dubbed him the Devil of Kilmartin. Now it seemed perhaps it was Symon’s own clan who claimed that honor. But why did he remain as chief if he was so scorned? The clan could choose another chief at any time — unless. Perhaps they feared Symon too much to remove him.

  Fear skittered down her spine, yet her own experience did not match the thought. This same man had protected her, shown her, if not exactly kindness, care. He'd fought for her, offered her hospitality without even knowing precisely who she was, nor what she was.

  And she owed him her life.

  Nay, she'd not let soft feelings dull her thinking. She owed him a debt which she would repay when she was able. But she’d not let that debt cloud her judgment. First she would keep herself safe, whatever it took to do so.

  "Sit ye here, lass," Murdoch said, breaking into her thoughts. Elena sat on a rough-hewn bench, dimly aware of her surroundings and of the man's quiet departure with Molly and the baby.

  Symon banged open the heavy door separating a small private audience chamber from the Great Hall. The loud noise startled a serving girl out of his brother's lap. Rapidly covering her exposed breasts, she scurried past Symon, her eyes firmly downcast. The door slammed shut behind her.

  Ranald MacLachlan, Symon's younger brother by a mere eleven months and nearly his twin in looks, rose quickly from the only chair in the confining room. A dying fire glowed behind him. He quickly covered his frustration at Symon's interruption.

  "You have recovered?" Ranald carefully laced his trews and righted his tunic.

  "Aye. I'm as recovered as is possible."

  "There must be news, else you would not seek me out above your bed and bath."

  "'Tis true, my brother." He bit down on the word, irritated that Ranald knew the nuances of his bouts with madness so well. "I do have news. The Lamonts have burned young Callum's cottage to the ground." He quickly recounted the tale.

  "'Tis not unexpected," Ranald said, moving to the flagon of wine set on a small table near the fire. "They have been here again in your absence. Strange how you are always taken with your madness when they attack us."

  His brother's jibe struck home, but he would not let him know how much. It was no secret that Ranald thought himself a better chief for the clan than mad Symon. But Symon could not agree, in spite of his troubles; he still believed his brother would not lead the clan well. Ranald's heart was in the right place, but his methods left much to be desired. For all the clan feared Symon, they did not trust Ranald.

  Ranald turned back to him, handing him a cup of dark wine. "But I digress. There is more, aye?"

  Symon winced inwardly at the callous dismissal of the Lamont attack, though he kept his face neutral. "Aye." He drank the slightly bitter wine. It did little for his dry throat. "I've brought Callum's wife and bairn here–"

  Ranald nodded, his gaze riveted to Symon's face. "And?"

  "I brought someone else."

  Ranald quirked an eyebrow at him, though his eyes remained carefully attentive. "And who might that be? A lusty wench to quench your appetite? Or is it a fairy, come to mend the ill luck of the clan?"

  "Nay. 'Tis a lass," Symon said, not rising to his brother's bait. "Auld Morag claims she is part of the prophecy."

  Something flickered across Ranald's face, though it passed so quickly Symon could not determine if it was interest or disapproval, or perhaps both.

  "Auld Morag sent her?"

  "Nay, but she believes Elena is the flame."

  One corner of Ranald's mouth twitched. "Elena? What is her clan?" The gleam in his brother's eyes bothered Symon.

  "I believe she belongs to Lamont."

  Ranald's eyes glittered with interest in that piece of information. "Is she the healer?"

  Symon noted his brother's heightened regard. "Aye," he said slowly. "I believe she is, or perhaps she is an apprentice."

  "How many did you kill for her?"

  "None."

  The surprise on his brother's face sliced through Symon, hurting more than he would have thought possible. When would he be immune to these slighting insults?

  "She was fleeing when I found her. I've not gotten the tale from her yet," Symon said.

  "What makes you believe she is the healer?"

  Symon thought back to that first moment she had crashed into him, and the feeling of calm and peace she had wrapped about him in that moment. But he kept that to himself for now. "She has some little skill at simples, for she has demonstrated such upon my own head."

  "Then it could be she is not the healer, but only some lass with a bit of herb lore?"

  "Aye, she could be, but I do not think so." He was reluctant to say more until he had proof.

  "You clearly have made up your mind about the lass. Why then do you bring this news to me?"

  Symon was surprised it had taken Ranald so long to ask this question.

  "If she is who I believe her to be, 'twill not sit well with the clan. Yet I will keep her, Lamont or no." He had never been so sure of anything in his life. He would keep her and once more control his destiny. The prophecy made that clear.

  "Do you really think she is the healer?" Ranald’s pale green eyes sparkled as if he was pleased with the possibility, even as he twisted his words so they mocked the idea.

  Doubt briefly flitted through Symon’s thoughts. What if she wasn't what he thought her to be? There was still the problem of her apparent age, and the long-held rumors about the Lamont healer. And yet he felt certain she could settle that mystery, if she would. She held her identity close, but not close enough. At the very least she was a skilled apprentice healer. If he had to keep his hand on her for the rest of his life in order to fend off the madness, 'twas a small price to pay.

  "Symon?"

  He felt Ranald's eyes on him as he crossed the room again and again. He finally stopped at the window and looked out over the bailey crowded with people struggling to overcome a twist of fate, struggling to remain a clan. His loyalty and duty to that clan had kept him here, despite the growing mistrust and fear. Despite the loneliness. He was tired of being feared. Tired of feeling outside, even amongst his own people. Tired.

  "You would keep this lass on a suspicion?" Ranald's voice came from just behind him.

  Symon turned to face him. "I would, and I will."

  Understanding dawned in the younger man's face. "You really do believe she is the –"

  "Aye. But she is trying to keep it a secret. Her true nature betrays her, though."

  "Then your madness is no more?" There was a strange note in Ranald's voice that Symon could not name. It wasn't hope, nor joy, nor even curiosity. It sounded more like desperation.

  "I do not know yet if she can cure me. But I do know she can dampen the effects. 'Tis most amazing to have a completely clear head again — even though 'tis only for a brief moment so far."

  Ranald reached for the wine flagon and refilled his brother's cup. "It must be welcome. But you say you do not know if she can cure it?"

  "Nay. She is able to withhold her skill when she wishes. Force has not worked."

  "Then what will?"

  Symon looked at his brother carefully. "She runs from something — or someone. I wish to know who. I wish to know why." He drank from his cup. "Which is why I came to you."

  Ranald nodded. "What exactly do you need me to do."

  "I need you to find out what happened at Castle Lamont to send her fleeing into the forest, chased by hounds." He had his brother's complete attention now. "Or indeed, if anything happened. I know you have more ... subtlety ... than I do. Use that ability to find what I need to know, then bring it to me."

  Ranald considered his brother for a moment. "And if I find this information, what then? Will it give you what you need to force her to aid you?"

  "It will give me the leverage I'll need if she does not bend to my will on this matter. With this
information I will know her weakness, her fear. Then she will have no choice but to help me, and that will help the clan."

  Ranald paced the chamber for long moments, then turned to face his brother. "Very well. You are yet chief." Symon winced. "It may take some time, but I will discover this news."

  Symon drained his cup then rose from his chair. "I'm counting on it. Now, I've a lass to woo."

  "Woo?" Surprise stopped Ranald on his way to the door.

  "Aye, there is more than one way to gain a lass's help. I would have it willingly, and if not that, then what you seek will insure her acquiescence."

  Ranald nodded. "Perhaps you have learned something from me after all these years."

  "Aye, perhaps I have." Symon wasn't sure he liked the implications of that. Quickly he left his brother where he'd found him, his mind already working on the problem of wooing a skittish lass.

  Elena sat on a narrow bench in the nearly empty Great Hall where Symon's man had left her. A few people had entered the hall, only to glance at her and hastily retreat. After a while she began to notice her surroundings. She looked up at the beautiful, timbered ceiling, then down the length of the huge hall. Empty trestle tables lined either side of the room, flanking a huge fire basket in the very center of the space. When lit, the smoke would rise to the high ceiling, and escape through a hole there where the sunlight now winked through.

  The basket was empty, bare, as were the walls. There were no fine tapestries hanging, no rushes on the floor, no torch filled sconces to light the space, nor candlesticks, as there were in her father's castle. The people she had passed in the bailey looked lean, hungry, hopeless, yet the dais at the far end held a finely carved table and included a chair so large it seemed a throne.

  This clan was one contradiction after another. A chief who was distrusted, reviled. A substantial battlement so poor it could not be furnished properly.

  Elena heard faint voices from behind a door at the far end of the long Hall. After a time Symon emerged. His plaid moved in time with his stride, drawing her attention. She found herself uncomfortably pleased with the well-muscled form of his legs, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the intensity of his eyes —

  Her breath hitched and her heart raced. He watched her as a starving man eyes a fat rabbit.

  "There is a small chamber over the kitchen you may have," he said as he neared her, his eyes fixed on hers. "'Tis not fine, but 'twill have to do . . . for now."

  Elena nodded, unsure what to say to him, or how to calm the pounding of her heart. She followed him out of the far end of the Great Hall and into a dark vestibule. Heat radiated from the opposite wall where large openings in the wall showed a kitchen. Symon disappeared through a doorway on her left, leading her up a narrow, spiraling stair. Stopping at the first landing, he stepped into the hallway and pushed open a heavy oak door.

  Elena took care not to brush him as she ducked her head and passed through the small doorway, into a room more spacious than any she had ever lived in. A simple box-bed was pushed up against the wall on her left. Directly across from her was a modest fireplace, though the lack of ashes told her it had been a long time since any fire had burned there. A small window with precious diamond-paned glass overlooked the glen they had climbed out of that morning. Sunlight streamed through it, creating diamond-patterned shadows on the wall. The floor was bare planks, the walls equally bare.

  Symon cleared his throat. "Will it do?"

  Will it do? No one had ever asked her opinion of her surroundings. She had always been told what she needed, never asked. Will it do? A tiny whisper of wanting passed through her. It would do well, after a bit of cleaning, a fire warming the hearth, some fragrant rushes strewn about the floor. Elena stopped herself. No, it would not do. She would not be plied with small comforts, lulled into revealing her secret.

  "'Tis fine."

  Symon exhaled loudly. Elena turned to look at him. A hint of a smile hovered in his eyes, subtly changing the stern features she was quickly becoming accustomed to into those of a quieter, less battered soul.

  "I'll see a fire is laid and some food brought up. Perhaps you would like a comb for your hair?"

  She took the tangled mess that remained of her braid in her hand, picking small twigs and bits of bracken out of it. "I am rather heather-headed, aren't I?"

  The smile hovering in his eyes deepened, gathering tiny lines at their corners, threatening to tip his lips into something other than the grim line they seemed to prefer. Something about him made her want to see those lips smile, those green eyes twinkle. She suddenly wanted to know what his laugh sounded like. It would be deep and rich, she was sure.

  Forcing herself to abandon these thoughts, she looked down where she still gripped her braid in dirt- and soot-stained hands.

  "I'd like a bit of water to wash the soot off me, as well," she said.

  "What you want is a good dipping in the burn. That'll wash away the soot." One corner of his mouth twitched upward but was quickly controlled. He crossed his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the door, relaxing ever so slightly.

  "And have you taken up the ways of the Saracens then?" Something about this new side of Symon made her tease. "Washing all the time?"

  "Aye, that's it," he teased back, surprising her. "I'm secretly a Saracen come back with the Crusaders. Have you not heard of me – Black Symon the Saracen?"

  A laugh escaped Elena, startling her so much she put a hand to her mouth to stop it. What was she thinking? She mustn't let this man too close. He already suspected something. She must keep him at a distance. She must remember that he was just like Dougal, a warrior intent on securing his position.

  "You've a fine laugh, Elena-lass." His voice was low now, the teasing gone from it. "You should let it out more often."

  "Nay," she said, equally as serious, "there's naught to laugh about." What was she thinking, laughing with this man. He truly was the Devil, distracting her from troubles, tempting her with a lovely bedchamber and teasing banter. His charm — when he let it out — was as heady as fine wine. She must put a stop to this now.

  "What do you expect in return for your hospitality?" she asked.

  Her words brought back the Devil of Kilmartin, banishing the softer Symon. He pushed away from the wall, once more the warrior.

  "I bid you make yourself comfortable, then join me for the evening meal."

  She nodded, though she did not trust his words. He was a warrior, and soon or late, he would make his demands again.

  "I'll find Jenny and send her to you," Symon said, his face its usual scowl once more. Abruptly he left.

  Elena sat on the bed and looked about. It was a beautiful room to her. Simple and spare, but the door was open, and she could walk about the castle if she wanted to. Symon had asked if it would do. Such a simple kindness warmed Elena, while another part remembered that he was the Devil of Kilmartin. Who knew what he was truly capable of when the devil was upon him?

  A young fair-haired woman tapped on the open door, drawing Elena away from her thoughts.

  "Mistress?" She bobbed her head in greeting, though she never took her eyes off Elena. "I be Jenny. I've brought you a tray of broth and bannocks. 'Tis ale, as well." She set the tray on a stool next to the cold hearth. "Niall is bringing some peat and a coal to start the fire. Meggie is finding some clothes for you. She's about your size. 'Twon't be anything fine, mind you, but it'll be better than the rags you've got –"

  Jenny clapped her hands over her mouth and turned bright red. Elena nearly laughed for the second time this morning.

  "So sorry, mistress, I did not mean – "

  "'Tis all right, Jenny. This gown is rags. Anything Meggie can spare will be most welcome."

  "The Devil" – she said the name furtively, as if she would be struck from above for uttering it out loud – "he said you wanted a bit of hot water for washing."

  "Aye."

  Elena watched the lass pour ale into an earthenware mug,
then hand it to her.

  "Is it true you will save the clan?" Jenny asked quickly.

  Elena almost dropped the mug. "What?"

  "Murdoch says 'tis so."

  She should have known her arrival would be rich fodder amongst the castle's inhabitants, despite their seeming disinterest when she arrived. "Why would he say that?"

  "Murdoch says you will lift the curse the Devil brought down upon us."

  "Curse? Do you mean his madness?"

  "Aye, mistress. Some say that one sold his soul to Lucifer, then tried to escape the bargain. Now Lucifer eats away at him, little by little, and the clan, too."

  "And you believe this?"

  Jenny pulled herself up to her full height, barely to Elena's shoulder. "You have not lived with the curse of the Devil these many months, mistress. Before the passing of the auld chief we were a strong, feared clan. Now we are little more than beggars and fools."

  Elena realized she had insulted the girl who had told her more, and less, about Symon and this strange clan than she had guessed. She smiled. "I did not mean to question your words, lass. 'Tis only that–"

  "Do you want the tub, or a basin?"

  Elena stared blankly at the girl, unsure where this next turn of the conversation had taken her.

  "To wash in," Jenny said, as if to a half-wit. "The Devil likes his tub. 'Tis more proof he is not right in the head. Bathing's not good for the humors, you ken."

  An unusual urge to prod the girl leaped through Elena. Symon had been nothing but kind – if a bit surly - to her. She had felt his head ache, and his stomach roil, but there had been no sign of his mind being eaten away.

  "Symon" – she said his name slowly, watching the chit's face – "likes his tub, does he?" A vivid image of Symon — water dripping from his midnight hair, head lolled back in utter relaxation, his broad chest naked and glistening with drops of water — surprised Elena, stirring something deep inside her. She pushed the errant daydream aside. She must be more fatigued than she had thought to be indulging in such flights of fancy.