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Elena Lamont 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 lands alone. 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 to stillness.
Dougal, his face cast downward just enough to keep the moonlight from illuminating the familiar rage she knew was there, edged around to the MacLachlan warrior’s right, but the warrior engaged him, swinging his mighty claymore close enough to knock him off balance. Before he could parry, the MacLachlan was upon him, wrenching Dougal’s knife arm up behind him, then resting the sharp edge of his own blade against Dougal’s beard-covered throat.
It was over so fast, Elena did not even have time to react.
“Drop your dagger.”
Dougal dropped it with a muttered oath.
“You see, lad, you were right,” the warrior said.
“How’s that?”
“You said this was between you and the Devil.” The warrior paused, as if waiting for Dougal to understand his words. “I am the Devil of Kilmartin. Have you not heard of me?” The simple question belied the sharp concentration on the Devil’s face, and the promise of violence in his posture.
Elena began to tremble. The hounds growled again, only an arm’s length away. The Devil of Kilmartin.
She had run from one madman to another.
She watched as Dougal started to nod, just a bare movement else he would have slashed his own neck. He stopped, chin raised.
“Aye,” he said instead, his voice unusually low.
“Do you wish to continue this, then?” the Devil asked.
“Nay.”
“‘Tis as I thought. Give me your word you will leave the lass be and take yourself away from MacLachlan lands.”
“You have it.”
Shock coursed through Elena. She had never seen Dougal back down from anyone, or anything.
“Good.” The Devil stepped back, but kept his claymore ready. A Highlander’s word should be good enough, but apparently he didn’t entirely trust Dougal. He was wiser than she would have guessed.
“Get you gone, and your hounds with you.”
Dougal whistled, three sharp rising notes. The hounds whimpered but reluctantly abandoned their quarry. “You may have her now, Devil,” Dougal said, his strangely altered voice carrying over the mist, “but you’ll not keep her long.” He raised his voice more. “You won’t find anything easier with the Devil, Elena. You belong to me!”
Her skin prickled. The image of what she had fled scrambled through her mind. The knowledge of who had defended her terrified her. She’d be no safer with the Devil of Kilmartin than she would be with Dougal of Dunmore. She would never be safe.
A sob escaped her and she once more forced her tired legs to a run.
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October 12th, 2010 at 1:46 am
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