The Devil of Jedburgh (18 page)

“That’s the problem with you young’uns.” Allison shot a dark look at her eldest daughter. “I’ve seen the evil with me own eyes, I have.”

“Very well.” Breghan sat back on her stool and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m listening.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We do not speak of it.”

Breghan fought the urge to roll her eyes and allowed herself a sigh instead. “As a God-fearing citizen, don’t you think I have the right to know? My immortal soul,” she reminded the woman, “is in danger.”

“My ma was maid to the laird’s mother,” Janet said softly. “When Lady Heather died, Ma stayed on to help the steward with household duties.”

“Aye, and the things I’ve seen.” Allison gave her a long, hard stare. “Mark my words, ma’am, you’ll come to the same bad end as Lizzie if you stay with the laird.”

“Lizzie?”
The bastard lied to me.
“The laird’s been married before?”

“He was no married. Lizzie was a tavern—”

“Ma!”

Janet stood with a pointed look at her young sister. She held out her hand. “Come, Meggie, let’s go pick some wildflowers before the rain sets in.”

Once they’d left, Allison went on in a hushed voice, “Like my Janet said, I was the highest-ranking maid there at the time. The new laird had just returned from border patrol with his da, the old laird. They’d been home a day when Lizzie was brought up to stay at the castle. Two weeks later, the lass was no just dead, but—” her eyes rounded on Breghan, “—you had to hear the screams that came out of that chamber.”

“Dead?” Breghan swore her heart stopped beating in that moment. “Screams?”

“Aye, screams from the very bowels of hell,” Allison said, her voice so quiet Breghan had to lean in to hear. “I pushed the door open and what I saw, dear Lord above…” Her eyes rolled in the back of their sockets. “That witch holding a dagger still dripping with Lizzie’s blood, the laird’s shirt splattered red, the two of them bent over Lizzie’s dead body…”

“Witch?” Breghan’s stomach roiled.

“Mary the healer, she called herself. The devil’s assistant, more like it. They sacrificed the poor child, tavern whore or no, as if her life was worth no more than a pig.”

Breghan wrapped her arms around her midriff. “You don’t know—”

“The laird turned to stare at us from over the bloody mess of Lizzie’s body. ‘Every woman on this earth is cursed the moment she draws breath, cursed to pay the price of man’s sin,’ he shouted at us. ‘You. You. You.’ He pointed at each of us, his face twisted with evil, fire shooting from his eyes. ‘Get out! Get out from my sight! The devil has won this day, he has triumphed because God above has forsaken womankind. Get out!’”

Breghan clamped her lips tight to keep the retching in. She pushed to her feet and felt her legs give way. She willed a strength that was almost beyond her to take a few steps, reaching out blindly as white spots blanked her vision.

“The witch ran off to Jedburgh Abbey in the hours before dawn, trying to flee her sin. ’Twould take a hundred lives of serving the saints to save her soul from the role she played that evil night.” Allison’s voice followed her to the door.

Breghan fumbled with the knob, somehow found her way outside. The damp air folded around her, squeezing her lungs until each breath was a painful effort. She flung one hand out, her fingers scrambling until they found purchase on the rough stone of the cottage. She stumbled a few steps, using the wall to guide her until her legs buckled, the fine weave of her cloak snagging on the uneven stone as she slid down the wall.

No, no, no.

She pulled her legs in, dropped her head between her knees and dug her fingers into her hair, massaging the pain pricking her scalp. Slowly, the blood drained to her head and the white spots cleared from her vision. When she brought her head up again, she felt the first drops of rain on her face. She looked up to see the dark clouds breaking apart and spitting a light rain even as the sun pressed through the cracks. She closed her eyes and fought for calm—the images and words spinning inside her head wouldn’t be reconciled with the memories embedded in her heart.

No, no, no.

The man I know may have the devil’s temperament, but he isn’t possessed by the devil.

Arran is not inherently evil.

He’s not capable of such atrocities.

Suddenly Breghan could breathe evenly again and she knew in her very soul that she was right. Mary was a healer. Lizzie must have been ailing, perhaps from cholera or the plague. Wasn’t bloodletting commonly used to clean fever from the body?

Duncan had indicated that the woman was crazy. Allison’s mind had warped whatever she’d witnessed into blasphemous imaginings.

But why had this Lizzie been brought to the castle? Who was she to Arran?

Breghan had no idea how long she sat propped against the wall. Not too long, for Allison’s daughters hadn’t returned and Duncan and Broderick hadn’t come looking for her. The bushes hedging in the cottage blocked them from view. She took another moment to gather her wits, then pushed to her feet and forced a smile to her lips

As soon as she’d mounted Angel, she declared, “I’m done with visiting for the day.”

Duncan drew up alongside her. “Is everything all right? Did Allison say anything to upset you?”

Breghan hesitated. Despite her best intentions, she found herself asking, “Who was Lizzie?”

His eyes turned down.

Why had Lizzie been brought up to the castle when she fell ill? Why had Arran involved himself so closely in trying to save her? Why had he been so torn apart when they’d failed?

Breghan looked over at Broderick. “Were they betrothed? Was Arran in love with Lizzie?”

“Lizzie has been dead a good ten years,” he replied bluntly. “Leave be, ’tis naught to do with you.”

He was right. Of course he was. Allison’s tale was one rumour she hadn’t heard before and to pry further, to resurrect Arran’s tragic memories would be unforgivable. Although some word must have spread further than Allison’s cottage, she didn’t want to be responsible for striking the flint that set the fire out of control.

Breghan dug her heels in Angel’s flanks instead and set the pace for home.

On their approach, the rumble heralding Arran’s return rolled toward them like a wave of thunder riding the air. As Breghan crossed the grated railing of Ferniehirst’s portcullis, the ground trembled beneath the impact of a hundred horses and their riders swarming the bailey.

Duncan gave a whoop of delight and raced straight into the melee.

She waved Broderick away when he approached to help her dismount. “I’ll wait back here awhile.”

Chapter Twelve

The acrid taste of smoke and ash clung to Arran’s tongue. He longed for a hot bath to cleanse both his body and the images wrapped inside his head. But first, he rubbed down his mount, murmuring against the long neck of the thoroughbred, “Before you have your fill of oats, let’s see to what’s bothering you.”

The stallion’s gait had been slightly off the last few miles. He examined each hoof carefully and found the cause. Leaving the horse to his oats, Arran went to speak with one of the Ferniehirst blacksmiths. “Rival’s front left shoe is worn down unevenly. We pushed hard all the way up from Dumfries and no doubt he’ll not be the only one seeking your attention.”

He stepped out of the forge, his gaze sweeping the teeming bailey and pausing on the main steps. He shrugged away a moment’s disappointment that Breghan wasn’t standing there to greet him.
I’m going soft in the head.

When he saw her approaching from the raised portcullis, leading her snowy mare by the bit, his heart seemed to hitch in his throat. Her braid was barely intact, loosened near the scalp as if someone had dug their fingers in and tried to shake the hair loose from her head. Where her cloak tapered open below her waist, the weave in the material was pulled and plucked and even unthreading in places. As he covered the distance between them in long strides, he quickly saw his worst fear unfounded. She looked as if she’d been rolled down a rocky slope and the zest for life and mischief in her gaze suggested she’d enjoyed it.

Her lips curved into a slow smile that set off a blue sparkle in her eyes.

“What in God’s name have you been up to?” he blurted out.

Her smile faltered. “Take care, my lord, if you’re to lavish such a gracious welcome upon me every time you return, I may well wish you gone more often.”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

She gave an undecipherable shrug and guided her mare around him on her way to the stables.

Arran stared after, tossing a mental coin as to whether he should demand a decent explanation from her or simply be relieved that she obviously hadn’t fallen to any harm, regardless of her ragged appearance. The latter won out to the matter foremost on his mind. He cornered Broderick at the entrance to the men’s quarters built below the great hall.

“While the rest of us have been occupied with Moray, the Armstrongs and Elliots have been terrorising up and down the middle marches.” Arran plunged his hands through his hair, cursing beneath his breath. “The bloody Elliot’s are receiving English gold to start up their troublemaking again and have laid waste to half of Teviotdale.”

“We should no’ have stopped patrolling while you were gone.”

Arran shook his head. “Thank God I left Ferniehirst protected. We rode up Jed Water and witnessed the devastation firsthand. Sandie Armstrong rides with over a hundred men. They’ve raided and burned their way through Waterside, Shaw, Haugh and as far up as Roughirst.” The last was less than ten miles south of Ferniehirst.

“The firkin’ swines should have kept coming, we’d have been ready for them.”

“We’ll be out in force tonight,” Arran promised. Bile rose up his throat at the picture of the charred woman and her babe who’d been amongst the remains of those they’d stopped to bury. “No mercy. Every man caught riding hangs.”

Arran stopped in the hall only long enough to instruct Bryan, then climbed the stairway to his apartments. He stripped his boots, plaid, jack and linen shirt. When he was completely naked, he paced the length of his bedchamber with the constrained ferocity of a caged panther until the tub and hot water was brought up. He grabbed a bar of Castile soap from Spain and sank into the hot water to scrub away the day’s filth and memories. The almond oil from the soap infused the water and soothed his muscles as he rested his head against the back of the tub and closed his eyes. As always, the touch, fragrance, taste of Breghan filled his senses and stirred his arousal.

For weeks she’d intruded on his waking thoughts and kept him restless in his dreams. They’d chased Moray in circles until the man had fled across the border and taken refuge in Carlisle, but there’d been too little to distract Arran from the woman who’d last occupied his bed. He’d kept his eyes closed that night as Breghan had yielded to curiosity and explored the contours of his chest, breathing in her scent long after her body had softened against him in sleep.

“I’ll wear the pale blue silk.” Breghan scooped her hair atop her head, pulling some tendrils free to fall against her throat and cheeks. She held the style in place and contemplated her reflection in the mirror.

“You look lovely,” Greer said, bringing the dress from the wardrobe. “Do you want me to pin it up?”

“Perhaps not.” She dropped her hands and her hair tumbled down her back. She had no wish to look elegant and in control. Arran’s order that they dine in private tonight reeked of seduction and she intended to thwart him at every step. Starting with the subtle reminder of her youth and vulnerability.

She slipped into her dress, gathering her hair in one swoop so it cascaded over her shoulder as she presented her back for Greer. The blue silk had a fastidious row of tiny pearl buttons fashioned to torment and frustrate a man’s fingers. The square bodice was thickened with brocade of a deeper shade and cut high for modesty. Breghan suffered no delusions of the final outcome, she only wanted to slow Arran down until her brittle nerves caught up to fact. His order earlier that they dine in private was a prelude to inviting her into his bed, and tonight it wouldn’t just be for sleeping.

The door burst open and the man himself filled the doorway to the inner chamber.

Behind her, Greer gasped and her fingers went still. The imposing figure Arran presented was fodder for the fears that had been sprouting roots for years. His hair was tied back to emphasise the harsh angles of his face, the scar down his cheek more prominent than ever. His plaid rode low on his hips with a broad length that crossed his naked chest and fastened at his shoulder.

“Remind me to attend the laird’s wardrobe in the morning,” Breghan murmured over her shoulder while her gaze met his and held. “He has an appalling lack of shirts.”

“Leave us.” The command was aimed at Greer, who didn’t wait around to be told twice.

“Honestly, Arran, the girl’s frightened to death of you.” Breghan placed a hand over the butterflies trembling low in her stomach. The look he raked her with was almost feral. An intensity came over his features, shadowing his eyes and deepening the hollows carved into his jaw. She prayed Greer had managed to do enough buttons to keep her bodice up. “You could at least try to make an effort to set her at ease.”

“We both know that would be a waste of time.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He couldn’t possibly know how she’d spent her morning.

Arran left the doorway and walked toward her. “’Tis far easier to fear the worst and let be. Discovering the truth takes courage.”

“You enjoy—” She twisted her neck to follow as he walked around her. “You enjoy being feared.”

“I tolerate it.” Arran stopped directly behind her.

Before she could turn to face him, he placed his hands on her waist with a gentle but firm pressure. His fingers spread below the brocade bodice and the thin silk was no protection from his touch. Why had she thought to forgo the full ensemble of her petticoats for this intimate dinner?

Breghan thrust her head forward and went absolutely still. “Which category do I fall into? Am I walking in blind fear or do I know the truth?”