The Devil of Jedburgh (3 page)

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 scary 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.

“How many wives have you had?” she demanded outright.

“None yet.”

His eyes met hers once more and she caught herself searching for the truth in that direct gaze. Another rumour without substance? Or the devil giving her what she most wanted to hear?

Most wanted?

I must be losing my mind to think I care either way.

Disgusted with the both of them, Breghan spun away and ran to the spot where she’d discarded her shoes and hose. She quickly rolled the thin wool up her legs and donned her shoes. Hair prickled her neck and she knew his stare had followed her.

She turned to face him with a firm smile in place. “What made you choose McAllen’s daughter?”

“The lass has certain qualities I require in a wife.”

“You—you’ve met her?” Breghan tensed inside and out. Had he seen her someplace before? Did he know exactly who she was? Had he being toying with her all this time?

He shook his head. “Her reputation precedes her most favourably.”

Where there should have been only relief that he didn’t know who she was after all, came a sudden thrill.

Her
virtues had been extolled?

Leave be. What does it matter anyway? No answer will sway my mind.

Her mouth defied her resolve. “What exactly did you hear of her?”

“The lass has twelve brothers,” came the flat reply. “Each one over six foot tall and built like a boulder.”

Confounded, she waited for more as she watched his face eagerly. “Go on,” she said to his silence. “What other qualities caught your interest?”

“None that come to mind,” he said with a shrug.

She was starting to hate that shrug.

And she was thoroughly dismayed with herself. That thrill had come from more than a desire to be acknowledged as a worthy individual.

What had she expected to hear? That he’d fallen in love with her from afar, from an imaginary picture painted by romantic fables of her beauty and gentle nature? An excuse to stop worrying, stop running, to believe that Arran Kerr could truly be a husband who’d cherish her?

“You want McAllen might on your side,” she said dully.

His eyes creased at the outer edges and his lips twitched suspiciously.

When he erupted into a guffawing laugh that had him bent double, her brows crossed. This man seemed to swing between moods like a pendulum without any apparent cause. She folded her arms and glared at him. “Are you laughing at me?”

“N—no, lass.” He started to come up, then fell into another bout of laughter. “’Tis just the idea of a Kerr wanting anything from a McAllen.”

“You want McAllen’s daughter.”

Her reminder sobered him at once and he unbent with a straight face. “I willna dispute that.”

Breghan tapped her foot impatiently. “You’ve still not explained why you chose her above all others.”

If she could uncover some foul motive, she could convince her father of his error in judgement and all would be forgiven.

“You’re mighty curious for a castle lass.”

“I’ve served the young mistress for many years,” Breghan said quickly. “Naturally her fate remains my concern.”

“McAllen’s daughter is your mystery lady?” Serious now, he gave her a long, absorbing look. “Very well, lass, I suppose I do owe you a boon after…” He shrugged.

“You stabbed me?” she offered.

“I’ve ridden alongside McAllen many a time,” he told her. “Most often Tristan, Kyle and Callum were there, sometimes Thomas and James. I knew McAllen had twelve sons, of course, each as strong and towering as the next. It was only when I attended our Queen Mary’s wedding feast at Holyrood, however, that McAllen mentioned a daughter. I admire the man his prolificacy and even more I admire his lady wife. So when McAllen hinted at the merits of a union, I found no reason to stall negotiations.”

Breghan raised a hand to interrupt. She knew very well that Arran hadn’t met her mother at Holyrood in July. “From where do you know McAllen’s wife?”

“I don’t. I admire the lady for bearing a dozen strapping sons and living to see them grow.”