The Devil of Jedburgh

by Claire Robyns

  With a muttered oath, Arran took after her. A few leaping strides later, he grabbed a handful of voluminous skirts and brought her back into his arms.

  Expecting the struggle, he hefted her against his chest as gently as possible and locked her down. “Have a care, lass, or you’ll tear that cut open again.”

  “You have a care, sire. You’re crushing my ribs.”

  He relaxed his grip and the minx immediately slithered through his arms. Before she could slip away completely, he caught her firmly by the wrist. “I think you have a tendency to exaggeration.”

  “I know you have a tendency to deafness,” she returned, lifting her chin stubbornly to look him in the eye. “I told you I was leaving.”

  Arran’s grin returned, fed by admiration for the little hellfire so determined to challenge a trio of men, each more than twice her size. Still, as independent and capable as she seemed, he had no intention of abandoning her. Not when he felt wholly responsible, not when he was this reluctant to part ways just yet.

  “You’re coming with us,” he decided.

  “I beg to differ.”

  “I intend to see you home.”

  “Impossible.” She tried to pull away from him, but he held fast. “While I appreciate your concern, I’m quite accustomed to travelling alone.”

  “That wasna an offer to be declined.”

  “I prefer to take my chances on my own. That way I won’t be stabbed and mauled along the way.”

  “For that I have apologised. We mean you no harm.” He nudged her chin up with his free hand, bringing his head down a little. “You must trust me.”

  Breghan was at once aware of his closeness and nothing else. His breath brushed warmth to her cheek and the heat spread, lulling the nervous tension that had overtaken her since she’d come around and found herself wounded and surrounded by strange men.

  Looking deeply into his eyes now, she did indeed see something there to trust in.

  A hint of softness.

  A trace of kindness.

  When he released her and took a step back, she dropped her gaze to the tanned skin of his chest. A smattering of dark blond curls ended where coiled ropes of muscle began. The thick scar tissue down the left side of his abdomen was a rude reminder of the nature of man. She knew naught of this one, despite the tender emotions she thought she saw in his eyes.

  “I—I don’t even know your name,” she stalled.

  “Arran Kerr of Ferniehirst at your service,” he said, flourishing an exaggerated bow.

  Breghan barely heard as he went on to introduce his men as Broderick and Duncan. Blood rushed to her head. Then every last drop seemed to drain to her toes. She thought she might pass out, but when he held out a hand to steady her, she found the strength to swat it away.

  “The Curse of Roxburgh,” she thought in panic.

  His eyes darkened to a murky green. “That honour went to the grave with my da. I’m merely the cursed spawn.”

  Horrified that she’d voiced her thoughts aloud, she clasped a hand across her mouth.

  “Come now, lass, you weren’t afraid a moment ago. Dinna disappoint me now.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she lied, then swore to make that the truth.

  So, this was the Black-Hearted Kerr.

  The Devil of Jedburgh.

  She was no longer surprised she’d been stabbed and mauled at his hands.

  Of all the rotten fates—but no, she corrected, not fate, just plain stupidity. She’d left all coherent thought behind when she’d raced her destiny this morning. She hadn’t paused to consider that the man she fled was on the road himself, travelling up from Jedburgh to claim her. Of course the Kerr would ride up the River Tiviot; ’twas the main road from Jedburgh to Kelso and the McAllen lands lay just North East of Kelso.

  “Good, then you’ll allow me to escort you home,” he said and went on to inform his men, “Bring the lady’s mare. We ride on.”

  “No. Wait. I haven’t agreed—”

  “What is your name?” he interrupted.

  “Breg—Bree,” she adapted at the last moment.

  “Bree.” He folded his arms. “I canna allow you to continue on alone. You’re injured and you shouldna be out—” He cut off, his jaw clenched. “What are you doing out here alone in the first place?”

  A perfectly plausible tale came to mind, yet Breghan hesitated.

  She was at a crossroad.

  If she were to reveal herself, it would have to be now or never.

  She never had made her mind up about whether to run or not. How she answered this question would decide.

  His stare hardened beneath a frown as his impatience grew, giving her a glimpse of formidable temper. His immense height alone overpowered her and the rest of him was pure lean muscle. His arms bulged with it. His thick abdomen had the look of granite ridges.

  So this… This was the man she’d been given to. Her roaming gaze returned to his face, to find his expression dark.

  ’Twas said he’d killed six wives. Breghan tried but could not doubt it.

  “I was riding with my lady and we became separated,” she improvised with a pleasant smile. “She won’t be far and I must wait for her. Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve pressing matters to attend to.”

  “Who is your lady?”

  Breghan’s smile tightened. “I’d rather not say.”

  Arran backed away to study her from a small distance. “Understand this, Bree, I’m not leaving you here alone and unprotected. Especially not when you’re wounded.”

  “If you force me to ride, I’ll bleed to death within the hour.”

  “At most you’ll suffer mild discomfort.” That deep brogue was part disdain and part amusement.

  Breghan didn’t care for either. “As eager as you may be to risk my life, I’m not going anywhere until I’m rested and feel able to sit a horse without falling off.”

  “You’ll ride with me,” he stated, waving a hand at a blue-black stallion standing at least eighteen hands high. “I willna let you fall.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He sighed loudly. “I’m not giving you the choice.”

  “Haven’t you done enough? Now you intend to tie me up and strap me down and haul me off in whatever direction you see fit?”

  Arran’s protest died on his lips. Broderick had stabbed her and as for himself, well, he’d stopped just short of undressing the lass completely. No doubt her sensitivities had suffered as much as her body and he couldn’t blame her lack of faith in him.

  With a small nod, Arran conceded to her wishes.

  “Broderick, Duncan,” he called over his shoulder. “We set up camp.”

  “Wh—what are you doing?”

  He turned back to Bree. “The gloaming is nearly upon us and soon it will be dark. If your lady sends men to search for you, and they find us, you may go with them. If not, you have the night to rest and recover your strength. We’ll decide a course of action come morning.” By then, he hoped, she’d have built up enough trust to allow him to escort her home.

  “Do I have any say in the matter?”

  His answer was a raised brow.

  She whirled about and sauntered past his men rushing forward to muster the horses off the road and into the clearing. As he watched her skirts swish, Arran wondered if she had any pain from her wound at all.

  He tossed his head back on a laugh, not sure who’d won that round. Not sure if he’d have been as accommodating if the lass had turned out to be a noble lady and completely off-limits. As it was, a lady’s companion, even a gently reared one, opened up another realm of possibilities. The night was yet young.

  Chapter Two

  Breghan tucked her skirts in and dropped to her knees beside the fire. She felt as trapped as the two hares Arran Kerr had brought back from his short hunt and that were being skinned down at the river by Broderick. There was naught to be done, at least not until this unlikely trio of well-doers had
fallen asleep.

  She relaxed a little now in the company of Duncan. He was a paler shade of Broderick with a leaner build and, with his clean-shaven face, looked some ten years younger.

  “M’lady?” he drew her attention, offering his flask.

  “My name is Bree,” she reminded him as she took the flask and sniffed the heather-scented ale. “And I’m certainly not a lady.”

  “I willna dispute that,” Arran drawled, strolling up from the river path.

  Refusing to dignify that with a response, Breghan took a slow sip from Duncan’s flask.

  “The horses need to be watered,” Arran told Duncan, taking the younger man’s place beside her. “Who did you say your lady was?” he asked, turning to face her, his gaze deep and probing.

  “I didn’t,” she replied in a steady voice that in no way matched the sudden flutter in her heartbeat. She couldn’t help it. He was near naked, leaning in so close she could feel his body heat. So close she couldn’t escape the musky combination of horse, leather and male. A hot blush spread to her cheeks. “Don’t you travel with a spare shirt?”

  “I’m saving that for tomorrow.”

  Breghan’s stomach lurched at the reminder of their wedding day. She’d been too preoccupied with frustration and anger, with plans of how and when she’d escape these men, to spare any thought for what had got her into this predicament in the first place.

  At the same time, a curiosity began to grow.

  His gaze drifted to her lips, a lingering caress that warmed while sending a small shiver down her spine. A grin eased the hardness of his jaw and creased shallow wrinkles about his eyes.

  In that moment, instead of succumbing to the terror of who and what her betrothed was, she found herself challenging each and every rumour she’d heard about this man.

  For one, his hair wasn’t black. Even with that scar cutting his cheek, his face couldn’t be described as mutilated. His features were more intimidating than handsome, shaped by the arrogance bred into his blood, but when he smiled at her like this…

  Aye, she couldn’t seem to look away, couldn’t seem to remember how petrified she should be, how far and fast she’d run to flee this monster.

  Had that only been this morning?

  “’Tis said you roam the bogs at night to prey upon the souls of restless children,” Breghan said daringly.

  “Cross your heart, lass,” he returned. “The priests would have that only God and the devil may lay claim to a soul.”

  She could see by the light in his eyes that he was more amused than angry and gave him back the source of that particular rumour. “The Kerrs fight left-handed because the devil rides heavy on their right shoulder.”

  The gleam slowly faded from his eyes until he was looking at her with dark, mesmerising intensity. He took her hand in his and placed it on his right shoulder. “Tell me,” he said softly, “what does the devil feel like?”

  When she tried to snatch her hand away, he held her there. Her palm was flattened over the curve of muscled shoulder, his skin roughened with a scattering of hair.

  “Sinful,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she realised she’d gone from playful to sensual.

  His mouth was so close to hers, she could feel his breath caress her lips with a scent of the heather ale that filled their flasks. The taste of his kiss was a heartbeat away, warming her blood and slowing her pulse. Surely that had to be a sin.

  This man could be my husband.

  He was hard and rocky, and she had not a doubt that he could be as ruthless and relentless as all the elements of nature tossed together. But there was some attraction in that as well, she admitted.

  You could do worse in a husband.

  She could stop running. She could return to the safety of home, to the comfort of her mother’s arms. No more anger and hurt at her father’s betrayal. Perhaps her father had chosen wisely after all.

  It would be so much easier to give in.

  Breghan jerked herself awake from the ridiculous daydreams. Whatever Arran Kerr denies, no plant grows without a root.

  Not that he’d actually denied a thing.

  Her gaze shot up.

  To find his head tilting toward her. His lips brushed hers with a tingling warmth that started in her belly and spread down. He ended the kiss with slow reluctance, his mouth lingering on her upper lip, pulling some of that heat from deep inside her to take with him as he jumped to his feet and walked away.

  Breghan stared after him, breathless and unsettled. The day had faded completely and the firelight flickered teasing glimpses of muscles flexing in his back as he stretched his arms up and folded them behind his neck. A moment later he was cast into the blackness of the night and Breghan was left to contemplate alone.

  Her forefinger went to her lips. She imagined she could still feel the hot imprint of that fleeting kiss.

  Now she’d met the Beast of Ferniehirst, she couldn’t quite match man to gory legend. A part of her was drawn, curious to further explore the sensations he invoked with a smile and tender kiss.

  ’Twas said he’d killed his mother.

  She didn’t believe it.

  The mettle of such a man will always be hidden deeply.

  She couldn’t risk not believing.

  Measuring the length of yarn between man and legend was an impossible undertaking and a waste of time, Breghan finally concluded. The outcome would do naught to change her mind. Border lairds were only interested in reiving and carousing and Arran Kerr looked like a man who’d excel at both. She’d learnt to put up with her father and her brothers, but she expected better in a husband. She’d had a fleeting taste of what it felt like to be cherished and adored, and she wasn’t ready to give up on finding another man like that.

  A short while later, Broderick and Duncan led the horses up the river path and tethered them to nearby trees.

  Breghan rushed up to them and untied Angel. “The scent of stallion is making her skittish.”

  She led Angel to a tree deep in the woods. She would have mounted her mare then and there and raced as far as Hightown if Broderick hadn’t stayed two feet behind her all the way.

  By the time they returned to camp, Duncan had set the hares to roast. Flames sparked and sizzled in the dripping fat and the aroma tempted her stomach.

  Arran disappeared for a long while and came back with his hair loose and wet.

  “May I too refresh myself in the river?” Breghan asked.

  “Contrary to your claims,” he replied, “you’re not a prisoner. You may do as you will.”

  “Well,” she exclaimed, rising to her feet.

  “Except run off,” he added, narrowing those thick brows on her. “I willna have your dead body on my conscience.”

  “I’m not that reckless. All manner of woodland creatures come out at night.”

  The firelight captured his grin in mocking arrogance. “Such as bog riders with devils upon their shoulders?”

  “You would know.” She twirled about to set off for the riverbank. The men had made a narrow footpath in the undergrowth with their coming and going and she followed the trail easily enough in the clear moonlit sky.

  The ground was muddy at the water’s edge, but Breghan didn’t mind. The site was nicely hidden from the camp by ancient oaks and a weeping willow dripping leafy branches into the water. Her face and hands were grubby and she only wished she had the courage to strip naked and submerge her entire body. She wanted to examine the damage done at her breast as well, and was tempted to undo her bodice and straighten her shift

  She glanced over her shoulder to where the rumble of men’s voices could be heard and knew she’d never dare. The nearness of those voices made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She returned to firm ground and removed her shoes and hose. Tucking her skirts under her arms, she waded knee deep into the water and bent awkwardly to scoop water into her cupped hands and splash her face.

  When she turned to go back, her heart jumped a foot as one sca
ry tree came to life. Her hands came up and her skirts dropped to float around her knees.

  When she saw the human shape separate from the shadow of that tree, she laughed at her silliness. Next came indignation. “You were spying on me.”

  Arran continued forward until his boots touched the water’s edge. “Merely keeping watch for any of those woodland creatures.”

  Breghan reached his side and felt her sodden skirts drag.

  “Don’t you have something more important on your mind than worrying my every movement?” she said irritably, moving swiftly past him to sit on the ground and gather her skirts to wring them dry.

  She sensed him before she saw his moonlit shadow loom.

  “If there is, it eludes me at this moment.”

  “Would you mind turning around?” she muttered without looking up.

  “I’ve already seen more than your pretty ankles, Bree.”

  As if she needed the reminder. With one last wringing twist, she stood and smoothed her wrinkled skirts.

  She looked up, to find him grinning down on her. Breghan frowned at where his eyes rested. Lower than her face. Not so far down as her waist.

  The boar was staring at her breasts.

  “You can’t think of anything important at all?” she retaliated. “No one you should be contemplating other than me?”

  His eyes lifted to meet her scowling gaze. The deep cleft in his chin caught her attention and tugged low in her belly. Her gaze drifted to his lips. The sensual memory of those lips brushing hers played on time and space and she could feel the heat of… Curse the man!

  “Such as your intended bride?” Breghan said curtly, refusing to be drawn in.

  “You know my business here?”

  “The entire parish is talking about it. I dare say they’re more interested in the subject than you appear to be.”

  He shrugged off her probing and his fading grin wasn’t nearly enough recompense.

  If she’d had any doubts over her decision, his noncommittal attitude toward his bride would have undone them all then and there.

  Not that she’d had any.

  ’Twas said he’d not only buried six wives, but their blood was on his hands.