She moved nearer the bed. Mairi slept, so she questioned the midwife. “Was it long?”
“Nay, indeed ’twas too fast. The babe was anxious and would not wait for her body to prepare completely. By the time I arrived, the bairn had been born and there was little I could do for the lass.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I do not think she’ll last the day.”
Elena moved to Mairi’s side and sat on the bed next to her. She picked up the woman’s hand and let herself sink into the sensations that poured into her. Oddly, there was little pain, just a floating, boneless sensation and Elena realized that she, too, was probably too late to help. Still, she must try, for Fia’s sake. She turned away from the dying woman to find the midwife eyeing her warily.
“I’ll sit here with her for a while. Why don’t you get some food and rest a bit?”
After a moment’s consideration the other woman turned and left the chamber.
The midwife came through the door, took one look at Symon, and quickly crossed herself. She grabbed Fia by the hand, and he watched as she hurried away, pulling the child with her and muttering under her breath about devils visiting the dying. Quietly he opened the door and slipped inside the overheated chamber.
“You should not be here,” Elena said without even looking up.
“How fares she?” he asked, moving closer to the bed.
Elena shook her head, then looked up at him, tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over. “What will Fia do without her mum?”
“I suppose she’ll do what all weans do when they lose their mum. Her da will be back in a day or two, and she’s sure to have an aunt or a gran who will see to her.”
She turned back to the sleeping woman and shook her head violently. “Nay, ’tis never the same. ’Tis never enough.” She began rubbing her hands together as she stared at the woman’s face. “I cannot let it happen.”
“Lass, can you save her?” he asked, but she did not seem to hear him. He watched as she ran her hands over the other woman, letting them hover just over the bedclothes, near the bloodstain. He watched for any sign of pain in Elena, but there didn’t seem to be any. He watched as she rubbed her hands together again and again, a little more frantically each time. At last she sobbed as she rubbed them together and Symon touched her. She was freezing, though sweat sheened her skin.
“Elena.” She did not respond. “Elena!” He pulled her from the woman’s side now, onto her feet.
“No! I cannot let her die!” She fought him, pummeling his chest with her fists, tears pouring down her cheeks.
He examined the face of the woman on the bed. The eyes were open, but no life sparkled there. “She’s gone, lass. You did your best.”
“Noooo!” It was a cry as much as a denial.
“Wee Fia will be all right. We’ll see to it, you and me.”
“But Mairi—”
“She’s gone now. She’ll suffer no more.”
“I shouldn’t have kept myself distant. I should have been braver.”
“What do you mean, lass? I saw you. You struggled hard to save her.”
“Nay, I kept myself distant, did not allow my gift to pull me deep where I could have saved her. I was afraid, too afraid.”
She had quieted somewhat, resting her cheek against his tear-dampened chest.
“Why were you afraid?”
He did not think she was going to answer, but then she took a deep, shuddering breath. Her voice came quiet, almost a whisper, and her eyes were fixed on the dead woman. “Once before, in just this way, I tried to save a woman. I tried but did not know how to keep myself separate. By the time I realized what was happening, my gift had wound itself about her life, pulling me down into the darkness as she died. If my father had not pulled me from her when he did, I would have died with her. I have never allowed myself to get so close to death again. I should have today.”
Symon cupped the back of her neck and kissed the top of her head. “You did what you could, Elena-mine. ’Twas not meant for this one to live beyond this day.”
The door burst open and Fia entered, followed by the midwife and Jenny with a tray laden with food. Elena quickly stepped away from Symon. Fia stepped slowly toward the bed, her eyes big and her mouth solemn.
“Mum?” She stopped and looked from Elena to Symon and back, asking her question with her eyes.
Elena nodded, then knelt down and took the child’s hands. “ ’Twas peaceful,” she said. “I tried to help, but ’twas not enough. I’m sorry, sprite.” Tears rolled down Fia’s face, and Elena pulled her into her arms. “I’m so sorry.”
Symon shooed the other women out of the chamber, promising them quietly that he would call them when the wean had calmed a bit. He stood at the door, watching Elena rock the child in her lap, crooning to her and telling her how much her mum loved her, would always love her, over and over again. He couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if someone had done as much for him when his mum had died, or if anyone had done so for Elena when her mum died.
Sudden understanding rocked through him. The woman Elena had spoken of, the one she’d tried to save, had been her own mother. The enormity of it hit him, and once more he was amazed at the lass’s courage. Once before she had attempted what she had today, and nearly lost her own life, with her mother’s. And yet she had cared enough for Fia to overcome her fear and try again.
But had she not faced a similar dance with death when she healed warriors? He remembered the pain he had felt when she healed the burned lad. Perhaps the pain was enough to keep her separate. Perhaps. He would have to ask, later, when they were alone.
Soon Fia rose from Elena’s lap and moved to her mother’s side, Elena’s hand firmly clasped in hers. She bent and kissed her mum’s cheek, then Elena swung her up onto her hip and moved toward the door. Symon opened it, then followed the woman and the child out into the corridor. The midwife waited there with Jenny. He nodded at them, then turned to follow Elena.
Elena held Fia’s hand as they walked back toward the gates of Kilmartin. It had been difficult for Elena to leave the relative safety of the castle’s stout walls, but she had to do it for Fia. If she had only been braver, stronger, she might have saved the child’s mum. A little voice at the back of her mind told her ’twas not so, but she tried to ignore it.
She had spoken with Fia’s aunt, a sour woman with too many weans of her own. She lived in the hills east of the castle. She had taken the bairn, at least until he was weaned, but she did not want the keeping of another hungry mouth. Fia’s da still had not returned from wherever it was he’d gone to. For now, at least, it seemed Elena was to be Fia’s keeper.
In other circumstances Elena would have been thrilled to have such a clever child in her care, would have longed to claim her as her own, but this was not to be. As Symon’s wish to wed her could not be. She could not stay here. True, since the discovery of Dougal’s secret entrance to the castle, and the burning of the stable, he had not harried the MacLachlans further. He had made no demands, nor launched any attacks. But he would. She knew it, was certain of it. ’Twas as inevitable as winter snows or spring rain.
But she could not leave yet. Symon had not heard from his mother’s people in the north, and Ranald had not returned from the errand he had been sent upon. He would have to be here to see to the clan’s safety before Symon could leave for long enough to escort her north.
So if she must be here, at least she could offer some comfort to the lass, though she would have to prepare her from the beginning that it would only be for a short time, then she must look to her father, and perhaps Jenny, for her care and keeping.
She looked down at the unusually silent child and squeezed her hand. A lone tear trickled down Fia’s cheek, and she smeared it away with the back of her hand. Elena stopped and hugged her, holding her close, wishing with all her heart that she could take this kind of pain from her. She remembered all too vividly the pain of losing her own mother. If she could not
take this pain away, at least she could share it.
She held the child close. “I know, sprite, ’tis unfair. ’Tis painful”—she pulled back and touched her fingers to the child’s chest—“there.”
Fia sniffed and nodded her head. “How did you ken such a thing?” she asked.
Elena touched her own chest. “I have the same kind of empty hurt, right here.”
“You do?”
“Aye. I lost my mum the very same way when I was only a bit older than you are now. Only I didn’t have a brother to love for her when she was gone. You do. You’re a sister, and the only thing that wee lad will ever know of his mum is what you and your da tell him. You need to keep those stories of her, the things you loved about her, the special memories you have of your time with her, and tell him, starting the next time you see him, and every time after. Your mum is here”—she touched the lass’s chest again—“and here.” She touched her forehead. “As long as you remember, she’ll be here for you always.”
“Does it ever stop hurting?”
Elena considered telling her it did, but could not bring herself to lie to the wean. “Nay, it never does, though ’twill lessen with time. ’Tis more of an auld ache now than the stabbing pain when ’twas new.”
“But how did you get it to lessen?”
Elena looked out over the countryside, trying to remember those dark days after her mother’s burial. She had spent hours in her mum’s stillroom, putting things away her mum had never gotten to, arranging things to suit her own knowledge of the herbs, puttering with the things her mother had taught her. “I learned the herblore from anyone who would teach me. I kept my mind busy, so I would not dwell on what I had lost.”
“Will you teach me the herblore?”
“Och, lass, ’twas what fascinated me. What fascinates you?”
“You do.”
“Well, ’tis a passing fancy that. Before I came to this place, what did you play at? Did you help your mum with the ale brewing? Did you fancy yourself a cheesemaker?”
Fia just looked at her. “I fancied myself to be a fine healer, so I could help me mum when her time came upon her. I was no help.”
Elena cupped the child’s chin in her hand, lifting it until their eyes met. “Even I, with . . . with all my knowledge and skill, could not help your mum. Do not hold yourself responsible when you had no way to stop what would come. Wee Fia, your smile eased more of your mum’s burdens than anything else you could have given her.”
Tears streamed down the child’s face. Symon moved close and scooped Fia into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder, never taking her eyes from Elena, nor did she release Elena’s hand as they moved through the gate. “Will you be my mum, now, Elena?”
Shocked by the child’s request, Elena shook her head quickly. “That I cannot do, sweeting. When your da returns, he will need you with him. And I will not be here long enough to be a mum to you.”
“Nay!” Symon and the child said together.
“Nay,” Symon said again.
Elena glared at him. “We have a bargain, you and I. I will hold you to it.”
“Things have changed,” he said, barely suppressed fury thick in his voice. “I have changed. Circumstances between us have changed.”
“But I have not.” She looked pointedly at the child in his arms. “I’ll take her. You can stay with me until your da returns, Fia. I’ll teach you what I may of herbs until then.”
The child said nothing, though she allowed Symon to pass her into Elena’s arms.
“I have not,” she said again as she passed him, heading to her original chamber, too close to his chamber for comfort, but the quiet would be good for Fia. Perhaps she could get the child to sleep a bit, then with luck, she might coax her into eating a little something. She would not see this child fall sick from grief.
Symon paced outside Elena’s chamber, waiting until the quiet voices inside ceased, waiting until he was sure the child slept. When he heard the thunk of a peat brick landing in the fire, he opened the door and stepped inside. Fia did sleep, curled up on the bed, her thumb tucked firmly in her mouth. Elena stood at the hearth, staring at him.
He told himself he had come to speak sense to her, bring her around to understanding that she belonged here, that wee Fia was but one MacLachlan in need of her gentle influence. It’s what he’d come to do, but instead he crossed the room in three strides and swept her into his arms, his mouth descending greedily over hers. He was gratified when she molded herself to him, hugging him fiercely, kissing him with the same intensity, matching him as if they were made for each other.
Slowly the flare of heat between them calmed to a steady flame. Symon hugged her close, eased by her presence. “Do you ken that you need the lass as much as she needs you, Elena-mine?”
She said nothing, but rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He smiled, sensing a softening in her, a yearning even. Yes, she would come around. Soon she would know how much they needed her and she them. Soon.
He kissed her again, then smoothed her fiery hair away from her face. Dark circles under her eyes marred her creamy skin. He ran his thumbs over her high proud cheekbones, marveling at the silky soft feel of her. “You need to sleep.”
“Aye. ’Tis hard to sleep when guilt torments me.”
“Ah, lass. You did your best. I heard what you told the wean today. ’Twas difficult for you to share that bit of yourself, I wager. I’m thinking you have not done so before.”
“ ’Twas not necessary before,” she whispered. Her eyes were closed and she nuzzled against his hands. If she’d been a cat, she would have purred for sure. He chuckled at the image, knowing that all sweet kitties had a wild streak and sharp claws to go along with the soft fur and quiet ways. He’d gentle this one soon enough, and enjoy the doing of it. They both would.
But not tonight. Tonight the wean needed her more than Symon did, though that was hard to imagine. Tonight Elena needed to sleep, to forgive herself, to understand. Wee Fia had worked her magic on Elena before; perhaps the fragile lassie would do so again.
“Sleep you well, love.” He kissed her again, hoping she felt all the tenderness he had for her, the caring. He tried to hide the need, though he doubted such a strong need could be hidden completely. He left her there, by the fire, as he had found her. As he reached the door he turned back.
“I do not think Dougal of Dunmore can find another way in, but nevertheless, I’ll be sleeping just outside your door here. Rest well and do not worry any more.”
“I don’t think ’tis necessary, Symon. Find your own soft bed this night. We will be fine.”
“I’ll sleep at the door,” he said, unwilling to take any chances with her safety. He closed the door behind him, rolled up in his plaid, and lay down on the cold stone floor.
The next few days were frustrating and exhilarating for Symon. Frustrating, because Elena kept wee Fia with her through the nights, and through the days. Symon never got more than a few stolen kisses from her.
Exhilarating, because Elena truly had banished the madness—or the poisoning, as he had to keep reminding himself. He was clear-headed and even-tempered as he hadn’t been in a year. Just watching the woman move about the castle, brewing teas for the sick, tending a wean’s scraped knee, or taking a moment to soothe her shadow, wee Fia, made him think his luck had finally turned and all would be well for his clan.
At first, when he stopped and allowed himself these thoughts, people had scowled at him, skirting around their chief as he stood like a silly love-struck lad, gazing at the lass. But after a couple of days they began to look at him curiously, then they would glance at Elena and smile. By the end of the week he found them grinning at him, and he would grin back. There was a lightness about the castle that had not been there since his own mother died. Perhaps it was just a woman’s touch upon the clan, or simply relief that their chief was no longer a threat to them.
Whatever it was, Symon did not care. The clan was more at ease a
nd he was well. Now if he could convince Elena to marry him, all would be guaranteed.
Symon was leaning against the wall, accepting the passing grins of his kinsmen, when Murdoch appeared, grim-faced at his shoulder. Symon glanced to him, the grin sliding off his face. “What?”
“Ranald has returned. I think you will not like what he has discovered.”
“You could not let me enjoy myself a few days longer, eh?”
“You should go now, Symon. ’Tis not a thing to laugh over.”
Aye, little about his life was worth laughing over, except the last week. “Very well. Is he in his chamber?”
Murdoch nodded.
“Do not let her out of your sight,” he said, pointing in Elena’s direction.
Elena must have seen his movement, for she glanced up, concern on her face. Not wanting to burden her until he’d found out Ranald’s news, he forced a smile to his lips, then signaled her that Murdoch would be watching over her while he was gone. She nodded her understanding, though the look of concern did not leave her lovely eyes. Symon gave himself a mental shake. He had other things to think about than the lass’s eyes.
Moments later he opened the door to his brother’s chamber. Ranald stood in the corner, his back to the door, pouring something. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Symon, and turned his attention back to his task.
“Close the door, brother. What I have to tell you does not need to be tonight’s gossip in the Hall.”
Symon did as his brother asked, then stood, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for bad news.
Ranald turned, holding a flagon before him. “Murdoch told me you’d been asking for my spiced wine. I didn’t realize how low the supply was. I could’ve sworn there was another barrel in the storeroom when I left.” He handed the wine to Symon, then turned to retrieve a cup. “This will not be as good as it might a sevenday hence, but ’twill be to your liking still. I think you may desire it, once you hear what I have to tell you.”
The Devil of Kilmartin Page 17
