The Devil of Jedburgh

by Claire Robyns

  When he turned back, Breghan was watching him with a puzzled expression.

  He shrugged that off as well and ushered her toward the twisting stairway in the north tower that led to his accommodations. When she took her second step, her fingers fumbled on the railing and she lost her balance.

  Directly behind, Arran caught her at the waist and kept his hands there to guide her the rest of the way. “The spiral is fashioned for wielding a sword in your left hand and takes some getting used to.”

  “Oh, of course.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The Kerrs are all born left-handed.”

  “A sure mark of the devil.”

  “I don’t believe such nonsense.”

  Arran chuckled. “Those who aren’t born with a natural inclination to fight left-handed are trained to it. My best men hold a decent sword in either their right or left hand. ’Tis a distinct advantage in battle.”

  At the top, he brushed past Breghan, allowing his hands to slide around her narrow waist as he did so and relishing the heat she stirred within. He pushed open the nearest door and stepped inside the chamber that had been prepared for his lady wife before he’d left for McAllen land.

  Greer, the lass he’d threatened into service from one of the crofter families, jumped in fright and made a sign of the cross over her heart at the sight of him. Arran dismissed the reaction with a shake of his head, dropped the saddlebags beside the door and stood aside for Breghan to enter.

  He pointed at the young lass pressed up against the heavy flaxen curtain that covered the window. “Greer will be your personal maid and this—” he indicated the rest of the room, a double bed with silken hangings, a thick woollen rug covering most of the floor, a padded chair near the window and the mahogany wardrobe that had a full-length mirror attached inside one of the doors, “—is your bedroom. The hearth is small but newly built and provides sufficient heat.”

  “Oh,” gasped Breghan from his side.

  Arran looked at her. “You dinna like it?”

  “No, no…I mean, it’s lovely. Thank you.”

  “Come see.” He crossed the room and flung open the inner door leading to a connecting chamber. There, chairs were arranged around a larger hearth, numerous small tables had been placed for convenience and, once again, woollen rugs covered the floor. “I recently broke a doorway through the walls so my chamber—” he indicated at another door on the other end, “—and yours connect with this sitting area.”

  “You put much thought and work into your wife’s comfort,” said Breghan.

  “I was marrying a stranger,” he corrected.

  Her gaze narrowed slightly and he knew at once she was drawing wrong conclusions based on his thoughtless comments that first night they’d met. He didn’t recall all of it, but he did remember speaking of dousing candles at night and having naught to do with his wife outside the bedroom.

  “I was marrying a stranger, Bree, a lady who might need a while to adjust afore sharing my bed, who’d appreciate privacy from time to time. Do you understand?”

  She met his gaze and didn’t waver, even while she bit down on her lower lip. “You’re offering me a short reprieve?”

  “You make sharing my bed sound like a harsh duty.”

  When she didn’t answer, Arran pulled her fully inside the sitting room and closed the door on Greer’s prying eyes. He nudged Breghan gently back until she was up against the wall, his one hand snaking behind to cup the base of her skull, his other pressed to the wall.

  “The duration of that reprieve is up to you,” he said, bringing his body closer, his head lower. “Be it a day or a year.”

  Her eyes widened on him. Not with fear, he was sure of that.

  He threaded his fingers through the silky strands at her nape, his thumb massaging the sensitive hollow there as he touched his lips to hers. Between butter-soft kisses, he murmured, “But, by God, I intend to use every opportunity to seduce you into my bed.” His kisses traced a path along her cheekbone, to a tender spot below her earlobe. “You canna blame a man for that.”

  When his mouth met her lips again, she opened and he dipped his tongue inside, claiming as much as she permitted. She wrapped an arm around his hip, tentative at first, but then her fingers spread across his lower back, pressing as he deepened the kiss. Arran brought his hand down from the wall to wrap her into his embrace, needing her closer, needing more. Her body seemed to melt into his, from where her breasts flattened against his chest to where her legs entwined with his. His loins grew tight and heat thickened his blood, pulsing through every part of his body until he had to withdraw or devour.

  When he withdrew, she was breathing hard, the rise and fall of her breasts tempting the beast inside him. For a moment, Arran considered carrying her across the room and into his bedchamber on the other side. Only the sound of men’s voices carrying through the closed door brought him to his senses.

  Breghan touched a finger to her lips. “Arran—”

  “Your bath awaits,” he said at the same time.

  She flushed a delicious pink and he quickly opened the inter-leading door. “’Tis been a long and tiring day. Bathe and rest awhile before supper.”

  Arran marched to his bedchamber before desire changed his mind and he did something truly stupid. Breghan would be store and stiff from riding astride all day and he had no intention of ruining her first experience.

  He grabbed a towel, a fresh shirt and plaid, and slipped down the steps built into the south wall and leading directly from his bedchamber to a private courtyard below. Through the small gate was his favourite bathing spot where the water rushed over flat rocks and deepened into swirling pools. Summer was high, and after stripping his clothes, he dived in to wash away the day’s heat and cool his lust for Breghan.

  Arran knew he should forfeit all rights to her body. Their arrangement was no ordinary handfasting, the conclusion had been predetermined before they’d pledged their troth. A better man than him would send her back home a year from now, untouched and intact.

  Arran knew he wasn’t that man.

  Not when Breghan yielded to his kisses and melted into his touch. Not when his blood warmed over at the thought of introducing her wild, reckless spirit into his bed. His need for her consumed his body and turned all reason into ash. The evidence was in the very position he now found himself—handfasted to a woman he couldn’t keep, a woman who’d probably turn his last hair grey before she was done with him, a woman who had her sights set on, if not another man, a life he could never provide.

  None of that would have been so bad if not for this kernel of doubt that had pushed him into noble action yesterday, for all the good it had done. A gut instinct warned that every day spent with Breghan would raise bloody hell with his expectations of a future wife.

  Even so, he knew he wouldn’t leave her be.

  Ensconced in his solar, Arran sorted through the handful of letters that had arrived in his absence. One was from a friend at court, the others from sources well paid to keep him informed. Scotland was caught up in the politics of their young queen’s return from France and her new marriage to Henry Darnley.

  Arran leaned back in his chair as he read the note from Gavin Huntly. The last time he’d gone to battle in the queen’s name, her half brother James Stewart, the earl of Moray, had ridden at his side as they took on Gavin’s father and won. Now Queen Mary had restored the Huntly fortune to draw the new laird to her side as they hunted down Moray, who’d fallen out with his sister over her marriage to Henry Darnley.

  “The tides of Scotland turn faster than a wagon wheel,” muttered Arran to himself.

  Moray had been the guiding hand behind the queen; without him she was left to drift in the wake of her nobles’ shifting loyalties.

  Moray was his friend, and God knew Arran shared the man’s distaste for Darnley, but couldn’t he see the queen and Scotland needed his council more now than ever before? She’d forgive Moray in a heartbeat if only he’d stand down and beg forgi
veness. And therein lay the problem. Moray would never accept Darnley, and Arran was hard-pressed to blame the man.

  Arran knew too that secret meetings were being held across the country, of which he’d have no part. John Knox was spreading a wave of discontent amongst a Protestant Scotland as he preached out against the dangers of allowing their queen to practice Catholicism.

  Arran crumpled the note and tossed it into the blazing hearth. The queen had already proved herself capable of reacting with force when required, yet she dismissed these dark rumblings about her religion as if they were nothing more than inconsequential banter at one of her banquets.

  There was a knock on his solar door and when it didn’t open, Arran called out, “Enter.”

  Ewan put his head inside first, glancing from corner to corner before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

  “My lady isn’t hiding behind the drapery.” Arran quirked a brow at him. “Or perhaps you expected to find her on my lap.”

  “I have no idea what to expect,” Ewan said, sitting in the chair across from Arran’s desk. “We’ve had no women at Ferniehirst for years and now suddenly we have two.”

  Arran turned the conversation to the topic on his mind. “The queen has set out from Stirling to chase Moray to ground.”

  “I know, Bothwell sent word yesterday. They’re riding for Ayr, mustering troops as they go.”

  “We’ll meet up with them at Glasgow. Moray will head further south, staying close to the borders so he can hop across if required. Queen Elizabeth has offered him sanctuary, if not actual troops.” Arran thought on one of the messages he’d just read and grinned. “Is Darnley truly riding at our queen’s side?”

  Ewan chuckled. “Trussed from head to toe in gilt armour.”

  “He’ll be more hindrance than help,” Arran predicted. “Henry Darnley might be styled King Henry, but he’ll never be King of Scotland.” He stood and dropped the last of the letters into the fire. “Prepare the men to set out the day after tomorrow and choose fifteen to remain here.”

  Ewan stood as well and frowned. “Moray will never attack Ferniehirst.”

  “I happen to agree.” Arran made his way to the door, issuing to Ewan as he went, “Ensure Broderick and Duncan are amongst the men staying behind. Lady Breghan will take comfort in a familiar face if there’s any trouble.”

  When Arran went to fetch Breghan for supper, he found her fast asleep on top of the covers. She wore a plain tunic over a white shift and her hair, still damp from her bath, was spread out over the pillow. Long black lashes formed half-moon crescents, strongly contrasted against her flawless complexion. His gaze followed the elegant sweep of her throat to the hollow where her shoulder started, and he knew his kisses there would make her shiver with desire. As he stood watching, as he felt his body react to the gentle rise and fall of her slumbering breaths, Arran conceded that the gift of such exquisite beauty may come at a steep price but was worth every precious moment.

  He opened the trunk at the bottom of the bed and found a thick woollen blanket to throw over Breghan. She stirred, rolled onto her side, but didn’t wake.

  In the hearth, logs were stacked and ready for Arran to light. Once the sun went down, cold seemed to seep straight from the stone walls into one’s bones whether it was high summer or deep winter.

  Chapter Eight

  Breghan awoke to sunlight streaming in along the edge of the curtains and a rumbling ache in her stomach. She sat up, disoriented and wondering why she was so unusually hungry. The events of the day before came rolling back.

  She was at Ferniehirst! She’d only intended to lie down for a moment after her bath; she must have fallen asleep.

  Beside her bed, someone had pulled up a table with a jug of ale and a plate of bread and cheese. Breghan broke a piece of bread off at once but found it dry and hard, probably put out the night before. The cheese was fine and she ate it all before flinging aside the blanket and padding to the window.

  When she drew the curtain aside, she was amazed to find the extravagance of a large leaded window. The glass squares were opaque and thick and the window was set in a coarse wooden frame that swung out on iron pins when she unlatched it.

  The sweet scent of apple blossoms wafted into her room and she stuck her head out to see an orchard planted directly below. Beyond the barmekin wall, the green dale of Jed Water reached into a band of thick forest that grew sparse as it stretched up the steep slope of a craggy hill.

  The soft creak of a door opening pulled Breghan’s head inside. She turned, expecting to see Greer.

  Her gaze landed on Arran instead.

  Her breath caught as she took in the knee-length black boots and supple leather breeches that hid nothing of his muscular form. His white linen shirt was tied loosely at his throat with a gap revealing dark golden skin. He’d forgone tying his hair back and it fell across his cheekbones to his shoulders in silky waves.

  He looked so arrogantly male and virile, she at once recalled how she’d responded to his kisses. “There’s no point in having a door between us, if you’re not civil enough to knock.”

  “Should I remove it, then?” he asked succinctly as he came closer.

  “I’d prefer you learn to knock.”

  When he stopped walking, he was a heartbeat away. “I’m prepared to grant you privacy where I may,” he said, his gaze raking her from head to toe, “but I don’t knock on doors in my own castle.”

  “You contradict yourself completely.”

  He shrugged and looked past her through the open window.

  Breghan rolled her eyes. For every kind deed and word he gave, there were a dozen more to infuriate and remind her that border lairds were bred with sheer arrogance running through their veins instead of blood.

  This was precisely why she couldn’t yield to this man, no matter how deliciously he seduced. How cleverly he seduced, surprising her with her own bedchamber and wielding that offer of a reprieve as expertly as he wielded kisses. A reprieve that would last only as long as it suited him, and then he’d find a way around it.

  His arm went around her shoulder, pulling her into his side and facing the window. Breghan stiffened to counter his charms, but Arran wasn’t attempting a seduction.

  He pointed to the expanse of craggy slopes that rose behind the forest. “That is Dunmon Hill. If the sky is clear this evening, you must watch the sun set between her slopes, ’tis a splendid sight.” He withdrew his arm and stood aside. “I came to escort you to the hall for breakfast.” He gaze fell on the full plate of bread. “If I’d known you’d sleep straight through, I would’ve woken you to eat.”

  Breghan realised he must have covered her with the blanket and ordered food sent up. She spread her hands down her sides self-consciously and felt the wrinkles in her linen shift. “I’ll make my own way downstairs once I’ve changed.”

  His gaze came back to her, half-hooded and warmed by a slow grin. “You look lovely just as you are.”

  He’s doing it again!

  “You shouldn’t have left me to sleep in my clothes,” she told him.

  “Next time, I promise to remove them.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, his grin fading to something far less amusing and far more intense as he studied her. “Your eyes deepen to indigo when your temper rises and colour flares to your cheeks. I find the combination irresistible.”

  Breghan spun around, giving him her back as she took a deep breath. “You turn my words against me and use flattery to mock. I find the combination detestable.”

  A moment later, she felt his breath tickle her neck.

  “I confess to the first,” he murmured at her ear, “but I should warn you, mockery is the last thing on my mind.” His lips brushed her skin where the curve of her throat met collarbone and the sensation trembled all the way to Breghan’s toes. “I could leave you to change in private or I could stay to change your mind. What shall it be, sweeting?�
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  “Once again you give the illusion of choice to hide the iron shackles.” Breghan whirled about to glare at him. “You refuse to knock and insist on the right to barge through any door in your castle. Seems to me, the matter of my privacy is thrust firmly into either your hands or the luck of timing.”

  “Seems to me,” he said, an edge of hardness layered over the timbre of his tone, “you bristle like a porcupine at every opportunity purely for the sake of it.”

  I bristle because there’s something about you that draws me like a moth, even though I know all my hopes and dreams will burn to cinders in the flame.

  His jaw worked as he looked at her, and yet she doubted it was anger. His eyes were a shade of smoky slate that warmed instead of chilled. Darkness hid in the dales carved into his face and twilight skimmed the ridges. His character, both inside and out, was a reflection of the tumultuous Mistress Scotland, who slaughtered man with her brutality even while she claimed their passions with her imposing magnificence.

  Arran stamped his will where and when he chose, but he did so with a soft hand that tugged the wings of her spirit. She’d far prefer he demand and roar, so she’d remember who and what he was. The thought of submitting to Arran didn’t disturb her half as much as the fear of yearning for his kisses.

  Suddenly Breghan understood the danger lay in the seducing and not in the bedding.

  She fisted her hands at her side and said calmly, “I have no wish to spend the year quarrelling. I’m well aware of my duties and never intended to deny you any rights. I neither desire nor need your gracious reprieve. If and when you want me in your bed, I’ll come quietly and obediently.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered that damn reprieve at all if I wanted quiet obedience in my bed.” He turned abruptly and marched to the door. There he flung it open but didn’t leave before he said, loud and clear, “I will take quiet obedience everywhere else. Don’t linger overlong with your appearance. I expect you in the hall and sitting at my side to show my men how amiably we get along.”

  The door slammed and he was gone.