Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  It would take some planning, but she could accomplish this. She must, if she wished to keep Symon and Fia and all the others she had come to care for safe from the wrath of Dougal of Dunmore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Symon made a circuit of the guards, making sure everyone was in place and aware of the importance of vigilance. He had not seen Ranald in several hours, but he was bound to be somewhere, sorting out some mess that had slipped past Symon's attention. Murdoch waved to him from the wall heights, indicating that all was in hand. Symon waved back and signaled the man that he would be in his chamber.

  He had not allowed himself to think about Elena, locked in his chamber all by herself. He couldn't or he would not have been able to do as he must, coordinating the defense, though, in truth, he did not think anything the MacLachlans had done was responsible for the retreat of the Lamonts. It seemed they simply gave up after charging the gate repeatedly. 'Twas as if they sought to distract—

  Symon sprinted up the stair, then up the circular stairwell to his chamber. "Elena!" he shouted as soon as he reached the hall. He yanked the latch on his own door, only to find it still locked. Relief flooded through him, though it did not halt him from banging upon the door.

  "Symon?" Her voice came softly through the thick wood.

  "Aye, you can open the door now."

  He heard her fumble with the key, jiggling it in the lock, then finally it clanked open and the door swung wide. Her face was tear-stained, but she was safe. Symon had never been so happy. He strode into the room, pushing the door closed behind him, and folded her quickly into his arms. His lips found hers, and the kiss they shared was achingly sweet.

  All the fear and uncertainty of the last hours left him. He was desperate to experience the joy and abandonment they had shared in each other's arms once more. He swept her up and was gratified to feel her arms come around him, her lips nuzzling his neck. He groaned as her teeth nipped at his ear and her hands twined in his hair. At the edge of the bed, he let her slide down the length of his body. She could not miss his desire; indeed, she pressed herself against him, her kisses growing more insistent, her hands gliding over him as if she needed to learn every inch of him all over again.

  He was not sure who removed the first article of clothing, but he knew he was the last as her shift puddled at her feet and she stood in all her glorious pale skin and long fiery hair in front of him. He remembered that moment in the stone circle when she had stood, chin raised, defiance in her eyes. He had thought her one of the ancients' priestesses.

  That was nothing to the glory in front of him now.

  He pulled her to him, kissing her hard, proud that she had protected herself, despite the need for a lock. Pleased that she was as eager for him as he was for her. Overwhelmed that such a woman could care for him.

  As gently as he could he laid her back on the bed, trailing kisses down her neck, over her shoulders and down the valley between her breasts. Slowly he kissed her breasts, delighting at her gasps of pleasure as he brought each pink nipple to a tight bud, suckling, nipping. Slowly he slid his hand down her belly, slipping a finger inside her, unbearably pleased when he found her wet and ready for him. He moved over her, kissing her as she wrapped her legs about his waist, urging him to her.

  Now she would be his. He slid into her, the heat and wet overwhelming him until he could barely form a thought. He wanted to let himself ride the wave of feeling, experience the total surrender, forget everything but this woman, and this moment. He held to one sliver of thought, waiting until she was ready, driving her slowly over the precipice until at last they raced together into the wind, their voices raised in triumph as their bodies united in joy.

  Symon became aware of her hand sliding up and down his sweat-dampened back. He raised himself to his elbows and smoothed her hair back from her face. Gently he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her lips. When he finished she was gazing up at him, her eyes reflecting his own humbling emotions.

  "Can you still say we are not meant for one another, Elena-mine? Can you believe we should not join our lives even as we join our bodies?"

  She looked away, and a dark pit formed in Symon's stomach. "Elena?"

  "'Tis my gift that makes you speak so," she said at last. The hitch in her voice scratched at him.

  "Nay, lass. Can you not see how I feel about you? I cannot deny the need I have for your gift, but 'tis not why I wish you to be my wife."

  He started to withdraw from her, but she held him close. "Not yet."

  He smiled then, and moved slightly within her, settling himself in the cradle of her hips. He kissed her and knew, though she denied his feelings were true, she felt them. Returned them even, though she was not ready to admit it to him.

  But she would. He knew it was only a matter of her getting used to the idea.

  He had won, and the exhilaration rushed through him. He deepened the kiss and began to move within her again. She kept her eyes closed, and a sad smile played about her lips. Symon watched her, marveling at the joy and sadness that could mingle there, even as he saw passion rise once more, erasing all else. Symon closed his own eyes then, and rested his forehead against hers, remembering the joining they had shared when she healed him. Suddenly that same lightness swept through him, and he would have sworn at that moment that they joined completely – heart, mind, and soul – soaring into the bright sunlit sky, flying with the eagles high over the strife and turmoil below.

  Symon arched into her, calling her name at the moment she called his own. Tears streamed down her face, and he knew she was as overwhelmed by the magnitude of the experience as he was.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when Symon fell asleep, Elena tucked firmly against him, his face in her hair, the smell of their loving surrounding them.

  Elena lay, listening to Symon's quiet breathing, her mind in a fog of desire and despair. Symon's lovemaking was ardent, but her own reaction to him surprised her the most. Indeed, her own unrelenting response to him told her she would only hurt both of them more the longer she waited. And she couldn't wait much longer. Not only had she exposed herself before the entire clan, now Dougal had once more caused harm to this clan because of her. She could not allow that to continue. She would have to leave, and very, very soon.

  She could hold Symon to their bargain, forcing him to take her away from here. Surely there had been time by now to get a message to his kin in the north. But if Dougal remained outside Kilmartin, he would see them leaving and either attack them or take advantage of Symon's going to wreak havoc on this clan that had taken her in, thwarting his plans.

  Nay, Symon could not take her away. Either way he would be hurt, directly or indirectly. The only way to stop Dougal from harming Symon and his clan was to draw him away, draw his attention away. She would have to go alone. Somehow she would have to make sure he knew she had left the MacLachlan stronghold without allowing him to know exactly where she went. That would be tricky, a problem she would have to ponder.

  For now, she'd enjoy the attentions of this man. She snuggled closer to him, content to bide with him for another few days. Her heart contracted. Another few days. 'Twas all she would get. It would have to be enough.

  Ranald was nowhere to be found.

  They had stood, side-by-side, ready to defend their clan, as the Lamonts battered at the gate. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noise and commotion stopped. The Lamonts had withdrawn with nary a drop of blood spilt between them. Symon had hurried back to Elena, concern for her outweighing his need to learn the truth about the poisoned wine from his brother. Ranald could be questioned after he was sure Elena was all right.

  But now Ranald was gone. Symon had searched the entire castle, but no one had seen his brother since the attack had ended. He hadn't been seen on the heights, nor in the bailey, not even in his own chamber, nor the Great Hall. Nowhere.

  Symon could hardly allow himself to think about it. Elena had accused Ranald of the poisoning. He did not defend him
self. And then he disappeared. Was it possible? Nay, it could not be. Ranald had been his one loyal kinsman since the beginning of this whole blasted trouble.

  And yet, Ranald had disagreed about Symon's ability to lead the clan. Had tried to get him to step aside, let Ranald take over as chief. But there were simpler ways to take over than poison, and slow poison at that. Then why? Why would Ranald disappear just when the truth was coming out?

  And where had he gone? The castle had been surrounded by Lamonts. If he left the castle, he would only land in the hands of Lamonts...in the hands of Dunmore. Symon shook his head. It couldn't be. Ranald was loyal, despite his criticisms. He would not ally himself with Dunmore. He could not.

  Symon's head pounded, though blessedly it was due only to the conundrum his brother's disappearance caused and not further poisoning.

  He tried to think about the situation from a different angle. If Ranald had not disappeared purposely, then it was possible he was taken without his consent. This made much more sense. But why, and how? What use would Ranald serve to the Lamonts? To Dougal of Dunmore?

  But Ranald had followed him...or had he?

  Symon remembered his brother by his side as he crossed the bailey, but then, in the confusion and commotion, he could not recall Ranald's step, nor his voice after that. He had just been told of the poison, the connection with his spiced wine...had he gone to the stillroom? But why? It didn't really matter. He must have headed for the stillroom, not knowing of the tunnel, for Symon had not mentioned it. Could Dunmore — or someone else — have taken him, pulling him into the tunnel in spite of the guards posted there? Could he have been taken out of the castle with no one the wiser? But why Ranald? Perhaps he had been the first that Dunmore or his men had come upon.

  Realization slashed through Symon. Of course. That was why the Lamonts had retreated so easily. The attack had been a diversion, a ruse, but the tunnel was well guarded. Something was not right, but Symon could believe nothing else. Ranald would not have voluntarily abandoned his clan, and his brother.

  He found Murdoch in the Great Hall, a lass giggling in his lap. At the Devil's stormy entrance, she abruptly left her seat and headed to a table at the far end of the Hall.

  "Did you have to scare the lass away with your dark countenance?" Murdoch said, grinning up at him. "I've been trying to steal a kiss from that one for a fortnight." He winked. "I nearly had it, too."

  "She'll fall for your charms, lad," Symon said, sitting next to the giant. "But not today. I've a message needs delivering."

  On the third evening after the attack on the castle, Elena sat at the fire in Symon's chamber, awaiting his return. It had been a wonderful and a difficult three days. Wonderful because she had spent so much time in Symon's company, and in his arms. Difficult because where the clansfolk had begun to accept her, include her, they now kept a distance from her. She understood how Symon had felt that first time she had entered this place. Suspicion and whispers followed her wherever she went.

  Even wee Fia did not dance to her side, pelting her with a dozen questions at a time. This hurt the worst, knowing that she had caused more pain for this child, when all she had wanted to do was help her. Fia kept to the shed where her aunt had taken up Fia's mother's task as alewife to the castle.

  A few brave folk allowed Elena to tend their aches and pains, but even they were reserved as they had not been before. Finally she gave up, keeping to Symon's chamber or the stillroom, where she gathered together most of the things she thought she would need for her travels.

  When the door swung open she jumped, startled from her thoughts. Symon entered, smiling at her, but clearly distracted.

  "Is there trouble?"

  "Nay— aye, there is."

  Elena rose from her stool by the fire. Somehow she thought she could withstand more bad tidings standing.

  "Ranald..."

  "Have you found him, then?"

  Symon looked at her with unreadable eyes. "Aye. He's been found. Dunmore has him."

  It took a moment for understanding to sink in. "Dougal? How?"

  Symon shook his head. "It must have been during the attack, but I don't know precisely how. The tunnel was well guarded, but I cannot believe the bastard knows another way in."

  "Dear God. But why would Dougal want..." Realization hit her. "He is held hostage in exchange for me, is he not?"

  Symon pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms about him. The solid feel of him calmed her, gave her strength.

  "'Tis but one goal of Dunmore." He kissed the top of her head, then lay his cheek there.

  "What will you do?" she asked, dreading the answer.

  He sighed. "I do not know."

  Fear shot through her. She pulled away, but he caught her arm, keeping her close.

  "I will not turn you over to him, love. I could never do such a thing, and the clan would not allow it. Ranald would not wish me to give in to Dunmore."

  "You believe that even though Ranald poisons you?"

  Symon sighed. "I cannot believe he is the one behind the poison. Ranald wants only what is best for the clan. We differ in how to attain that, but nothing about my affliction has been good for the clan. He would not cause this suffering for our people."

  "I hope you are right."

  "I know I am."

  She studied her hands for a moment, lacing and unlacing her fingers. "I suspect your clan would be glad to see me go," she said quietly.

  "Nay." He raised her chin and kissed her sweetly. "I know they are wary of you just now, and I know too well how that wariness hurts you. They are overwhelmed with what you did for me, 'tis all. Give them time, and the auld women will be planning a celebration in your honor. They expect you to be my bride, you know. There is talk that we have already exchanged vows in the auld way and 'tis but a formality to announce our union before the clan. They would not allow my bride to leave."

  "And you?"

  "You know what I wish. I want you to stay here, with me. We should wed. 'Twould insure your safety, for even Donal would not–"

  "Donal? You mean Dougal, do you not?"

  Symon looked confused for a moment. "Aye, Dougal. Even Dougal would not steal another man's wife."

  She pressed her palm to his cheek, quickly determining that there was no poison at work; just simple fatigue confusion had him mistaking the name. And mistaking what must happen.

  "Marrying me would only anger Dougal. I ken him well. If we wed, he will double his attacks. No one will be safe. Dougal does not ever give up."

  "Aye. 'Tis why I must free my brother. I cannot leave him in Dunmore's hands. I couldn't live with myself. But first, we must marry, to keep you safe."

  Elena didn't trust her voice. He could not wed her, though she could cherish no dream more. To do so would seal the fate of Clan Lachlan and their chief, whom she loved so much. Once more, Dougal controlled her life, though he was not even here. He would take all that she had come to love, all who had come to love her, and destroy them, and only because she thwarted him.

  Only because she hadn't submitted to Dougal's will. And now he sought to bend Symon to his will, by forcing him to choose between Ranald and Elena. And Symon refused to bend at all.

  If he married her, Dougal would kill Ranald, or worse. She was sure of it. She had seen his temper, his ruthlessness. If she allowed Symon to marry her, his brother would pay the consequences, and Symon would hate her forever for causing such a horrible choice, such a horrible outcome.

  She would do what she must to help Symon retrieve Ranald, for she could do no less for the man she loved and the clan who had taken her in.

  As soon as Symon slept this night, she would retrieve her things and slip out through the weans' bolt-hole once more. This time she would not be afraid. She would leave just enough of a trail south, to mislead Symon, and distract Dougal, making sure Dougal knew she was gone from Kilmartin and gone from the MacLachlans' keeping, drawing him away from Lamont Castle so the MacLachlans could retrieve Ran
ald.

  Then she would head north, into the Highlands. When she was beyond where anyone knew of her clan she would find a place to live, making her living from simples or perhaps as a midwife, for women always had need of a midwife.

  "We can tell the clan in the morn." Symon's deep rumble dragged her back from her plans. "We'll have to wed in the auld way, saying our vows before the clan. There is no time to call the banns."

  "Are you hungry?" She kept her voice light, belying the sadness and despair that threatened to overwhelm her. "I had Jenny send your meal up."

  Symon pulled her to him, kissing her until her head spun and her body ached for him. "I will eat, lass, for I fear I'll need my strength again this night." He grinned at her, and she knew she would remember this last time in his arms for the rest of her days.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Symon reached for Elena, missing her warmth, but only cold bedding met his questing hand. He opened his eyes, searching for her. She was not within the chamber. He grinned. Of course. It was her wedding day. No doubt she was in the kitchens, selecting the wedding breakfast, or in Meggie's chamber, borrowing a pretty gown. Symon bounded out of bed, a weight lifted from his shoulders by the prospect of having Elena by his side for the rest of his days.

  It was too bad he would have to kill Dougal of Dunmore — as Donal called himself these days. In some ways he owed his current and future happiness to the bastard. If he had not chased Elena from her home, she would not have ended up in his arms — and his bed.

  His bride's ardor of the night before brought a huge grin to his face. Aye, he owed Dunmore a thanks. And he would give it to him, gladly, as soon as Symon freed one of his brothers, and ran the other through with his claymore. Pity Dunmore would die before hearing the words from Symon's lips.