The Devil of Jedburgh

by Claire Robyns

  “Wonderful. I’m perfectly capable with a needle, but atrocious with styling and measuring the cloth.” Breghan opened the trunk of materials her mother had brought and beckoned Janet closer. “Take your pick, although I think the emerald velvet in particular would be a lovely match for your eyes.”

  “For me?” Janet came over and knelt before the trunk. She ran her fingers over the various textures of silks, satins, velvets and brocades. “They’re all so soft and beautiful, I’ve never possessed any garment made of such luxurious fabric.” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m pleased you’re gracious enough to consider me more friend than servant, but I cannot take such liberties. I’d be honoured to work with these materials to fashion you a new wardrobe.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Breghan said in a warm voice. “I won’t allow you to go a-wooing without a new dress to mesmerise your suitor.” She saw Janet’s green eyes flare in stubborn resistance and added, “I intend to gift a length of cloth to both Greer and Annie as well.”

  Janet glanced up at her. “I suspect Greer will use hers for a wedding gown.”

  “Has Greer said something to you? The girl is so timid, she hardly looks me in the eye since our last…well, conversation regarding how she came to be employed.”

  “She considers you the devil’s concubine,” Janet snorted, then looked away on a groan. “I shouldn’t have repeated that.”

  “It’s been months! She’s never going to believe anything but the worst of Arran, isn’t she?”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because I care for Arran.” Breghan gave a helpless smile. “I—I’m falling in love with him.”

  “You refuse to give Arran a child. Barren or purposely unwilling, you’ll be gone from here when your handfasting period ends.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Janet grabbed her hand, her voice urgent. “Arran sought out a wife because he wants sons, Breghan. Sons to inherit the land or for that evil legacy that plagues the Ferniehirst Kerrs, only Arran and the devil knows.”

  “Evil legacy? You sound just like your mother now.”

  “Don’t dismiss everything she says about Lizzie and her babe.”

  Her babe? “Lizzie was with child?”

  “Arran’s firstborn.” Janet’s grip slipped from her hand. “My mother didn’t tell you?”

  Breghan’s knees went weak. “She spoke some gibberish about Arran and a healer woman sacrificing Lizzie… There was no mention of a babe.”

  “Mary was the midwife and the two of them cut the babe straight from Lizzie’s womb while the poor girl was still alive. Alive and screaming, as they performed their sacrificial ritual. His hands were locked around the wee babe’s throat when my mother entered that room, claiming its first breath for the devil. They say the laird is bonded to the devil, as was his father, and the devil never stops demanding his due.”

  “No, I—I can’t believe—” She wrapped her arms around her waist to hold in the rising panic. “You cannot believe this!”

  Janet’s face lost all colour. “I don’t know what or what not to believe, Breghan, but I do know my mother isn’t crazy. She saw the blood dripping from the dagger that Mary held. She saw Arran’s hands around his firstborn’s throat.”

  “Your mother said something about Lizzie being a-a tavern whore,” Breghan blurted, clasping on to anything she could. “How do you even know she was carrying Arran’s child?”

  “Both are buried in the Kerr graveyard.” Janet reached for her, but Breghan backed away. “Breghan, I’m truly sorry, I don’t mean to upset or frighten you. Perhaps there is more to this tale, another explanation. I only thought you should know.”

  “There is—there must be.”

  “I hope you are right, I truly do.”

  Breghan stumbled from the room. For every horrific picture that tried to cling to her sanity, there was one of Arran in the forefront of her mind to dispel it. Everything she knew and loved about the man rejected what others took as truth. She wound her way down the stairway, forcing breath into her lungs to stop the walls from closing in on her. Without consciously knowing where she was going, she found herself outside the castle walls, slipping through the gatepost of the graveyard that was a stone’s throw from the south-facing barmekin.

  She trod carefully between the mounds covered with grass and clover, pausing for a long while at each gravestone, some so eroded with time and moss it was impossible to make out the inscriptions. When she came upon a headstone that wasn’t only newer than the rest but trimmed in polished granite, she knew she’d found Lizzie.

  In Loving Memory of Elizabeth

  1529–April 1555

  In Loving Memory of Christian

  April 1555–

  She traced her finger along the grooved inscription. Tavern whore or otherwise, that Lizzie was buried with her babe in the family plot spoke of Arran’s commitment and love for this girl. For their babe.

  Childbirth was oft dangerous, and bloody. All the horrific bits and pieces she’d heard fell into place as she realised Lizzie had died giving birth to Arran’s child. Whatever he and Mary had done to try and help had failed.

  Was this why he wanted to avoid any possibility of her getting pregnant?

  Oh, Arran… Tears stung inside her lids for both the mother of that child and Arran, and she couldn’t keep them in. He was never looking for a broodmare or full stable, he only hoped to ensure this wouldn’t happen again.

  This is the reason he chose McAllen’s daughter.

  Now he had her, and he still refused to contemplate a future with her. Breghan wanted to believe it was because he was afraid to risk her life, but he’d been quite prepared to fill McAllen’s daughter with his bairns until he’d met her.

  There was much to do in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Annie and Greer were both assigned to candle making whenever they had a spare moment and Arran was sent out into Jed Forest to cut down the Yule log. Every able body was employed in the search for male holly and female ivy and then put to the task of twining it across the halls and up the stairwell.

  Breghan had parcels made up of extra wood, mince pies and tallow candles for the crofter families and distributed the packages herself so she could extend an invitation to celebrate each of the twelve days of Christmas at Ferniehirst. She was warmly welcomed and thanked, but had resigned herself to the likelihood that none would venture up to the castle. On top of that, Arran came to her chamber one night with the news that Duncan had requested leave to wed Greer.

  Breghan clapped her hands. “That’s absolutely wonderful.”

  “The man isn’t in his right mind,” Arran grunted. “His life is soldiering, now suddenly he’s talking about giving up everything and turning to farming.”

  “My goodness, you are grumpy. I’ve seen them together, Arran, they’ll be very happy.”

  “Greer is manipulating him. She doesna want to be here and Duncan is her way out.”

  “She wouldn’t need a way out if you hadn’t forced her into employment.”

  Arran came closer, arms folded, his jaw set in grim contemplation. “You know about the threat I made to Greer’s family?”

  “She told me.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t tackled me on the subject before and forced me to relent.”

  “I was hoping she’d settle in, that everything would turn out for the best. Annie seems to be coping well. Then again, she goes home every night and you’re seldom around during the day.” Breghan nibbled her lower lip. If what Arran believed was true, she didn’t want Duncan used in such a way. “Would you carry through on that threat? Is Greer’s family at risk of losing their cottage if she leaves?”

  Arran’s scowl cast a shadow in his eyes. “What do you think?”

  “You can be ruthless to the point of cruel in some matters, Arran. When it comes to the finer details of what you consider right and wrong, I’m never quite sure what to think.”

  “They were never in danger
of losing their home, Breghan.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I thought you’d have discovered by now that my bark is far worse than my bite.”

  “That doesn’t make your bite completely harmless.” She reached up and brought his hand down from his brow so she could look into his eyes. “What of us, Arran? What does the future hold for us?”

  “Our future was mapped out the day we met.” Arran clasped his other hand around hers. “We stand here by mutual agreement, Bree, until a year and day has passed. Naught has changed.”

  Breghan narrowed her eyes on him. Everything has changed. “The day we met, you said the thought of bedding me appalled.”

  “No, sweeting, I said the thought of begetting you with child appalled.”

  She understood that sentiment far better now. He’d lost both Lizzie and his babe during childbirth. Although childbirth death wasn’t uncommon, she appreciated his caution. Still, that had been before he’d known she was McAllen’s daughter, the very one he’d sought out for wife. He’d wanted her for her bloodline. So, why would he not keep her? Did he think her weaker than her mother, more fragile? Or was he simply looking for someone better suited to what he wanted in a wife?

  “Well, we’re both ingenious when it comes to making sure that will never happen,” Breghan snapped, more angry with the world at large than at him, irritated at the uncertainty confronting her. Was he determined to send her back at the end of their year because he cared too much, or too little? She pulled her hand free and stepped back.

  “Do you believe in love, Arran?” she asked more softly. “Do you believe there can be more between a man and woman than practicalities and necessities? Have you ever wondered if there’s someone out there who could make your heart beat faster with a mere look, who could take your breath away with a simple caress, who could fill your life with even a handful of memories that grow richer with time instead of fading?”

  Arran’s gaze went over her shoulder, to some point on the blank wall behind her. He was silent so long, Breghan began to hear her own erratic pulse thunder inside her head.

  “Such wistful emotions are a fatal luxury.” His gaze came back to rest on her, a cool and calm green. “I would run from such a person rather than seek her out.”

  Such a person… Someone not already in his life. Someone he had no wish to ever meet.

  “I see.” The pain came on slow, as if the rest of her resisted what she’d heard and needed time to catch up. A dull, aching throb started low in her stomach, chipping away at pieces of her as it pinched and clawed up to her chest.

  “You are the optimistic dreamer, Bree. That is why you are here, determined to bend and shape your world until it fits those dreams.”

  “What if events, time, emotion have warped those dreams until I can no longer even see what I first wished for? What is the purpose of life if we are to remain static?”

  “I take what I can get, when I can, and I’m grateful for it.” Arran stepped forward into the space she’d claimed. “Dreams may evolve, but reality seldom does.” He stroked a line along her cheekbone with the callused pad of his thumb, trailing a warm, familiar sensation beneath her skin.

  “Perhaps you’re just too stubborn and arrogant to change your mind.”

  He grabbed the point of her chin, holding her head high as he frowned down on her. “I’m not sure why, but I’ve made you angry.”

  “No,” she replied on a sigh. It was no lie. Arran had done nothing wrong. It was her heart that had gone and broken the rules. Arran was honourable, responsible and pragmatic to the exclusion of almost all else. She’d woven a cloth of romantic notions around the man, blinding her heart and mind to the cold facts. “I’ve made rash assumptions based on—based on nothing, it would seem.”

  Of all the mistakes she’d ever made, falling in love with the Devil of Jedburgh surely ranked as the most ridiculous.

  She was everything he’d ever accused her of.

  Reckless, foolish and headstrong.

  It had taken such small tokens to convince her and once she’d decided he could, and did, love her back, she’d barged ahead without a pause for concern. She’d opened her heart wide, not bothering to consider how little she knew of the man she was inviting in.

  “I’m overtired and always get emotional at this time of year,” Breghan added. “Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure.”

  She swore to make that the truth, even if it took a hundred nights.

  Arran brought his mouth down and covered her lips with a sensual kiss. Her senses caught the slow burn of his touch and taste and tingled through to her toes. He walked her backward, until she was up against the wall, trapped between his body and her own desire as his kisses descended along the curve of her throat. He cupped one hand beneath her breast, his thumb seeking out and rolling over the nipple until it was pebble hard.

  Her blood heated at his touch, her skin tingled and parts of her melted completely, her entire body already craving what was about to happen. He had a power over her that eclipsed all thought and reason. She was beyond resisting. The reaction he elicited from her was instantaneous, always, no matter his stubborn heart.

  She could leave here, she thought in panic, before the hurt became impossible, before Arran became so wedged within her heart that nothing short of her death would pry him loose. Her father wouldn’t harangue her return to Donague now.

  “Arran, wait.” She squeezed her hands between them, splaying them on his chest. He allowed her to push him back a little, giving her the chance to take a deep, composing breath.

  He looked at her, eyes a slate green beneath his puzzled brow. His strong, square jaw was shadowed with the day’s growth of dark blond beard. He started to say something, then turned his unspoken words into a slanted grin that softened the angles of his face and brought that dimple to his chin.

  She placed the back of her hand against his cheek, her skin there thin and sensitive to the ridge of the scar that she barely saw anymore. There were other scars, down the one side of his chest, on the back of his thigh.

  This man had been hurt, again and again, with swords and rumours and loss. He was what the land had made him. He was power, strength and honour. He endured by adapting to the unrelenting harshness of his Scottish Mistress and his hard heart was no exception.

  She couldn’t hate him for that.

  If possible, she loved him more for it.

  “Bree?” He reached out to wipe beneath her eye with his knuckle. “Are you crying?”

  She hadn’t realised there were tears rolling down her cheek until he smudged the moisture.

  “No, of course not,” she murmured.

  “I should let you get some sleep.”

  She moved her hand from his cheek, around his neck, and curled her fingers into his hair there.

  She knew she should leave him.

  But she didn’t know how to…not yet.

  “Or you could kiss me again,” she said, smiling, and her entire body melted against the wall as he did exactly that. She wasn’t sure how this was going to work, giving in to this desire while she trained her heart to close off. But if others could do it, if Arran could do it, surely she could learn to do it as well.

  Early the next morning, Breghan called Greer and Annie up to her chamber. She opened the trunk of materials and beckoned them closer. Although this was the custom at Donague, her timing was blatant bribery.

  “As part of your wages,” she told them, “you’ll receive a length of cloth twice yearly. Go ahead, the choice is yours.”

  Annie’s eyes lit up. “Are you sure, me lady?”

  “Of course.” Breghan smiled at Greer. “I heard Duncan asked for your hand?”

  “Yes, me lady.” Greer twined her fingers around the long blond braid that hung over her shoulder. “I was going to mention it to you, me lady, I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologise, Greer.” She bent over the trunk and sifted through the layers, pulling out a pale blue brocade. “This
would be entirely suitable for your wedding day. On the other hand, apparently Queen Mary wore a gown of pure white for her wedding and that will likely set a trend that is perhaps already being adopted.” She bent over the trunk again, muttering, “There’s nothing white, but, aha!” This time she pulled up a champagne satin.

  With downcast eyes, Greer said, “The blue will do me fine, thank you, me lady.”

  “Now, then.” Breghan clasped her hands together and gave them each a warm, lingering look in turn. “I have permission from the laird to release you from all duty if you so wish. As much as I’d love for you to stay on, if you feel you can’t work here, you are free to go without any repercussion from the laird.”

  “Could I give it some thought, me lady?” Annie asked.

  “As much thought as you require.” Breghan turned to Greer and waited with a patient smile.

  “I’ll stay on awhile, me lady, so as I can be with Duncan,” she replied. “But if you mean what you said, I’d want to return to my parents’ cottage once we’re wed.”

  “What if Duncan wishes to remain in the laird’s service?” Breghan probed.

  “I could never, me lady.” A look of horror swept her face pale. “I could never raise me bairns here.”

  Breghan accepted the inevitable with a nod. At least Greer had no ulterior motive to be with Duncan. Whatever happened next was up to them.

  The weather turned ferocious and a blizzard swept through the dale on Christmas Eve, leaving a blanket of snow at least three feet deep. Three hundred candles flickered around the hall and both hearths blazed, one with the Yule log that would be kept burning throughout the twelve days of Christmas. The hall was decorated with so much holly and ivy, it looked as if the forest had encroached and laid claim.

  Gardie had prepared warmed spiced wine to serve with a supper of roasted mutton and platters of apple, plum and meat pies. After the meal, the hall fell silent and Arran read a long passage from the scriptures. Breghan smiled as she observed Greer’s intense concentration, and wondered if the girl was waiting for the Bible to combust in the Devil’s hands.

  Supper was a quiet, contemplative affair; the true festivities started on Christmas Day and would continue until the sixth of January. One of Gardie’s lads, John, was appointed the Lord of Misrule and presided over the proceedings in the hall while Breghan and Arran were free to sit and mingle where they would.