The Devil of Jedburgh (31 page)

He straightened, dragging her along as he headed for the side entrance to their living quarters. When he slowed his stride to match her pace, Breghan breathed a little easier. One glance at his grim profile, however, and her chest constricted all over again.
He’s saving the worst for me.

Not a word was said until Arran had her backed against the wall of their bedchamber. Not by force or strength, but by sheer intent. With the two-foot gap between them, the pewter gaze boring into her was all that was required to hold her there.

She opened her mouth to explain, but what was there to say? He had every right to his fury. What had she been thinking to manoeuvre her and Alexander into that position? She couldn’t even blame Alexander for taking advantage.

Arran said nothing. His arms hung by his side, his booted feet braced—against what?—the bristled hollows beneath his cheekbones deepened by the tension at his jaw.

Breghan opened her mouth again, this time to apologise, but she couldn’t think of one word to appease him or redeem herself. Her shoulder sagged against the wall.

“You belong to me.”

That was all he said.

Quietly spoken words backed with icy steel.

That was all Breghan needed to come alive, fire spitting through her veins. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She shook her head, biting down so hard on her lower lip, she tasted blood. “Do what you want with me, tie me to the whipping pole, have me strung and quartered in the square—” She gulped in air that didn’t seem to fill her lungs.

Tears stung behind her eyes. She’d buried too much beneath a flimsy foundation and suddenly she was drowning. “You do not say that to me. I don’t belong to you and never will. Our arrangement is temporary.”

“Then you belong to me temporarily,” he issued through gritted teeth. “Make no mistake, Breghan, you are mine and I willna share.”

“Until you’re done with me!” She’d been playing at make-belief for months, trapped in a spider web of fantasy. Some foolish part inside waited for him to contradict her, to roar that he’d never be done with her.

All he had for her was a stiff nod.

“It doesn’t work that way.” Every time she felt her heart crack a little more, she’d promised herself that Arran could be forgotten, that her dreams were intact. But now here she was, in that city of her dreams, dancing at royal banquets and fending off ardent admirers, and still her heart wanted only Arran. “You can’t make me love you temporarily.”

“I wasna asking for you to love me.” The harsh edges of his face slackened.

“The world doesn’t revolve around what you ask for or what you want.” The wave of frustration and anger flooded reason. She didn’t care whose fault it was that he couldn’t love her back. She struck out at his chest, pummelling with both fists. “I hate you. You’re incapable of thinking beyond your own arrogance and I hate, hate—” The pain finally penetrated her outburst, flames spiking through the bones of her injured knuckles.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch…” Her skirts floated around her as she sank to the ground, cradling her hand to her chest. Months of repressed tears swelled with the throbbing ache and poured out in a mess of loud, choking sobs. The surge of boiling emotions leaked out with her tears, leaving her drained of will and energy.

Arran hunched before her, his brow creased with concern and his voice urgent. “What is it?” He brought her hand away from her chest and turned it over in his, examining the tender bruising at her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “What did you do to your hand?”

“I—I—I—” She hiccupped down the last sob. “I punched Broderick.”

“Christ, Bree, what in hellfire did he do to you?”

“Nothing.” She took her hand back to rub beneath her eyes, sniffing and swallowing another rising sob. “I didn’t want to be part of his archery lesson.”

Instead of demanding an explanation, Arran settled on the floor and pulled her onto his lap. Wrapped in his embrace, she pressed her cheek to the cool linen of his shirt and closed her eyes. Her breathing steadied to the rhythmic thud of his heart beating at her ear.

This was one of the many reasons she loved him so. No matter what she did, he was always there for her. Even when she blubbered over a small bruise and answered him like a crazed person, he was there for her. In his arms she found inner warmth, a bone-deep contentment that made her feel so, so safe. How could she ever not have fallen in love with this man?

Where the bloody hell is he?
Arran scowled up at the massive ball of silvery white lighting up the whole damned world. He stepped deeper into the shadows of the narrow building, cursing both the full moon and the strong south-easter that had cleared the clouds and smog above Edinburgh.

He wasn’t generally given to superstition. Tonight, however, he couldn’t shake the vague prickling of foreboding. Perhaps it was just that Bothwell was late. Perhaps it was closer to home. Breghan had fallen asleep in his arms and he’d left her in Janet’s care.

Apparently guilt was exhausting.

The blade of his fury was sabre sharp and wedged deep inside his chest. If Breghan hadn’t collapsed, he wasn’t sure what he might have done, what might have been said. There was much he’d resigned himself to, but not the bastard kissing her.

The clatter of hooves announced a trio of riders wearing Douglas green and blue. They passed without slowing, heading for the castle. There was little other traffic this far down the Canongate. The city gates were shut tight and any stragglers were attracted to the alehouses and taverns on the other end of town.

Across the street, the faint glow behind heavy drapes went out, leaving the ground floor of Ruthven’s townhouse in darkness. Arran was done waiting. He gave up on Bothwell and darted from the shadows before the house was locked down. He had to pound three times before Ruthven’s retainer opened the door in a robe and nightcap.

“See now, what is the—”

“Your master’s expecting me.” Arran stepped inside with authority, forcing the elderly man to shuffle back, and slammed the door behind him. The draft snuffed the candle in the retainer’s hand. Arran felt his way in the blackness to the window and drew the drapes to let in the moonlight.

The retainer seemed to take that as an indication that nothing clandestine was going on and bade Arran follow him once he’d re-lit the smoking wick. Arran had to crouch halfway up the flight of creaking stairs to avoid hitting his head on the slanted ceiling. The landing opened up onto three closed doors.

“I’ll inform the master you are here.” The retainer entered the nearest room and closed the door after him.

Arran dug in his pouch for the vial Bothwell had given him last night. It was small enough to be hidden in his closed palm. He turned the knob and pushed the door open to hear Ruthven complaining in a gruff voice, “I’m no expecting visitors.”

“I sent my man around this morning.” Arran marched up to the high bed where Ruthven reclined beneath a heap of blankets. Whiskey fumes and stale sweat hung around the man like a dense cloud. “The fool must have gone to the wrong address.”

“Arran Kerr.” Ruthven wiped ratty strings of white hair away from his eyes. “I’ve had word you were in town.”

The only lighting in the room came from the fat candle on his bedside table. Other than the candle, the table held a pewter jug and an opaque pale green goblet.

“I didn’t mean to barge in without invitation.” Arran pointed a look toward the retainer hovering by the end of the bed.

Ruthven dispatched his servant with the order, “Our guest will be down anon for you to see him out.”

“My business won’t take long,” agreed Arran as he leaned over the table to fill the goblet, not surprised to find the jug held whiskey rather than ale. He brought the goblet with him as he turned in a slow circle to watch the retainer leave, deftly emptying the contents of the vial as he did so.

He shoved the goblet at Ruthven. “You’ll need a strong drink to hear me out.”

Ruthven’s snowy brows drew together in a thick line, but he wasn’t a man to refuse a drink. “May as well, seeing as I’m being kept from my sleep.”

The combination of whiskey and gypsy potion knocked him out before Arran could launch into the discussion he’d prepared of the last warden border meeting. Ruthven’s chin sagged onto his shoulder, whiskey drenching his bed robes as the goblet tilted at an awkward angle over his chest.

Arran didn’t stop to check his breathing. He searched the small desk littered with leather-bound books and rolled papers, scooped a steel bonnet and chainmail vest from the top of one trunk and lifted the heavy lid to layers of robes and linen shirts, hemp cloths and slippers. Another trunk was filled with documents. Damn Bothwell, he could use a little help right now. Precious minutes later, he was still flipping through stacks of paper, mostly accounts, some yellowed with age. Arran pushed to his feet. He left the trunk open, deciding he’d come back to it as a last resort.

He took a deep breath to clear his head. His gaze landed on Ruthven and the high bed.
Christ, I am thick
. Arran dropped to the floor, but there was nothing beneath the bed. A gut feeling kept him there, staring at the rise and fall of the old man’s chest. Ruthven had been bedridden for months, his life confined to this room.
If I had potentially treasonous correspondence, I’d want to keep it really, really close.
Arran shuffled right up to the bed on his knees and slid his hands beneath the mattress and Ruthven’s weight. His fingers fumbled across something cool and flat. He brought back a binder of thinly pounded leather sealed with the stamp of Douglas.

Arran drew his dirk from the top of his boot and sliced through the wax seal. When he realised what he’d found, he grabbed the candle and sat cross-legged on the floor to examine the richly textured pages.

The list of signatures included Morton, Douglas, Glencairn, Argyll, Ochiltree, Lindsey and Henry Darnley. The queen’s exiled half brother, Moray, had signed at Newcastle on second March. He didn’t see Maitland’s name, but he already knew how closely the man was involved in Moray’s plans.

The bond declared intentions that went beyond his worst suspicions. The removal of David Rizzio, by any means necessary, came as no surprise. There was the return of the traitorous exiles with full pardon and mention of the Protestant religion that was to be upheld at any cost. It was the item promising the acquisition of the matrimonial crown for Darnley that turned his blood to ice. Relations between the queen and her husband were abysmal. They couldn’t share a bed, let alone a crown. For one to rise, the other would have to fall.

Arran folded the papers back into the binder and tucked it beneath his cloak. Fear for the queen’s very life hastened him from the room and down the stairs.

“Your master’s fast asleep,” he called to Ruthven’s retainer on his way out the door.

He rounded the corner of Cummings Close and cut across the square to the postern gate. The palace guard recognised him and opened at once. Arran walked straight past the royal stables where he’d left Rival earlier, heading for the barracks and John Stewart’s quarters. Stewart of Traquair was captain of the royal guard and a blood relation of the queen.

Although the hour was late, Stewart answered the knock on his door in full uniform. Arran skipped all niceties and slapped the leather binder into the man’s hand. “This is a signed bond incriminating half the barons currently at court. All the half-arsed plots and alluded threats have just become real.”

“You’d better come in.” Stewart moved aside as he flipped through the documents. The complexion of his long face went from peach to ruddy in the space of a heartbeat. “How did you come by this?”

“Courtesy of Patrick Ruthven, though he doesna know it yet.” Arran stepped deeper into the front chamber of the captain’s quarters. “He should be your first priority.”

Stewart folded the binder to his chest with one arm. His other hand went first to his brow, then dropped to his side, then came back up to scrub his jaw. “Sit, sit…” He crossed to his desk and set the binder down.

“I willna dally.” Arran stood his ground close to the door. “I mean to remove my wife from the castle post haste.”

“Yes, yes of course…excellent,” Stewart murmured. He moved again, this time to a side table where he poured two mugs of whiskey. “Arrangements must be made to have the queen taken to Stirling.” He downed the contents of his mug in one gulp before bringing the other over to Arran.

The whiskey seemed to have restored the captain’s focus. He directed a commanding look on Arran. “The nature and urgency of this information must take precedence and I have further questions for you. Wait here, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve given the immediate order to increase the queen’s guard for tonight.”

Stewart was as good as his word. Arran had barely set down his empty glass when the captain returned. They lit extra candles and spread the pages on the desk. Arran had never before wavered in his allegiance to queen and country, but after a half hour he’d had enough.

“We’ll continue this once I’ve attended to my personal affairs.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m sending half my men to escort my wife. Their orders will be to rally reinforcements between here and Ferniehirst to meet us at Stirling. We should prepare for civil war.”

He didn’t wait for Stewart’s response. The stables were half empty, but Arran gave it no thought until he’d galloped the length of Edinburgh and snapped the reins to bring Rival to a trot on the castle esplanade. The rumble of men and horses echoed through the low passage. On the other side of the gatehouse, the narrow courtyard was flooded with soldiers of the royal guard.

Why hadn’t Stewart informed him that the order for arrests had already gone out?

Arran pressed forward with a firm hand on the rein. He knew something was wrong the moment two of the mounted men closed in behind him and by then it was too late. An entire army couldn’t stop him as effectively as the sight of Breghan. He could make out little in the moonlight except her form and the glint of lethal steel drawn across her throat.

“Lord Kerr of Ferniehirst, you are under arrest. Submit in the queen’s name.”