The Devil of Jedburgh (14 page)

As soon as Breghan entered the hall downstairs, Arran stood and inclined his head. She smiled at him and made her way along the wall to reach his table in front of one of the two hearths, although none were lit this morning. The hall was filled with men talking and eating and she was pleased that no one stopped and stared.

She thanked Arran when he held her seat out and smiled when he lifted her fingers to his lips. He might be putting on a show for his men, but for Breghan this was very real. She was done with setting off the sparks that might well end up scorching her heart.

They’d drift along quite comfortably if she put her mind to the task.

“Your cook is excellent,” she said after a spoonful of sweet oats.

“I especially requested he mix honey into your porridge.”

“To sweeten my acidic tongue?” She grinned to show him she was jesting.

“I noted your preference yesterday morning.”

“You did? I presumed your head too swollen with drink to observe such detail when you stepped into the kitchen.”

“You presumed correct.” Arran raised a brow at her, then winked. “The porridge you served me later was lathered with honey.”

“Ah, and you thought to return the favour.” She swallowed another spoonful. “Thank you, it’s delicious.”

“My pleasure.”

Breghan finished her oats and pushed the bowl aside before glancing at him to find his gaze on her. “You must excuse me, I was absolutely ravished.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again with a smile left behind to play on his lips.

Breghan stopped herself from asking what he found so amusing and took a large sip of ale instead. When Bryan brought in a platter of fresh bread, boiled eggs and liver for them to share, she leaned back in her chair and exclaimed, “I’ll burst my seams if I eat another morsel.”

“My men eat heartily today.” Arran cracked an egg, looking at her while he peeled the shell. “We ride out tomorrow morning to hunt down Moray.”

Breghan leaned forward. “Will the queen truly throw her brother into Edinburgh’s dungeon if he’s captured?”

“More likely he’ll be chased over the border.”

“Will you be gone long?”

“A few weeks.” Arran shrugged and went back to eating.

“What is the queen like?” Breghan asked.

“What have you heard?” Arran countered.

“She’s exceedingly beautiful, dances like a heathen, prefers music to politics and is ruled by passion instead of brains.”

“You adhere to the preaching of Knox’s followers.”

Breghan laughed. “You asked me what I’d heard, not what I believe as truth.”

Arran stopped chewing and gave her his full attention. “Queen Mary is indeed beautiful, a more striking figure I’ve yet to encounter.”

A pang of jealously stuck in Breghan’s throat, but she washed it down with ale and laughed inwardly at herself. As if she could ever compare to a queen.

“Before Darnley came along,” Arran continued, “Queen Mary had a full complement of loyal nobles at her back.”

“So you do think her ruled by passion.”

“England was never going to commit or name their preference. Spain meant giving up her crown to King Phillip, and France meant resigning herself to rule from foreign soil once more. What I think is, Queen Mary decided to throw caution to the wind and take charge of her own future.”

Breghan couldn’t fail to see the parallel to herself. “For better—”

“Or worse,” finished Arran in a dark tone that implied he saw it too.

Chapter Nine

Bryan spent most of the day with Breghan, showing her every nook and cranny of Ferniehirst from the guest chambers on the south wing to the vaulted cellar below the kitchen.

She saw rows of pallets as they walked into the ground-floor chamber that ran the length of the entire south wing. “The men-at-arms sleep here?”

“Aye, m’lady, the laird has close on a hundred men at call.”

Breghan chuckled as she recalled Arran’s guilt over the bodies he’d left strewn in Donague’s hall. In this instance, Ferniehirst was more civilised than Donague.

When they reached the washhouse, her humour faded. A barrel-chested man with wiry grey hair that hung down his back was holding her pair of linen drawers up high.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her cheeks stinging as she marched straight between a pair of men who’d stopped their scrubbing to witness the commotion. She snatched the garment from his hands. “What is your name?”

He cast his eyes downward and mumbled, “Donald, m’lady.”

“Might I ask what you thought you were doing with my…my delicates?”

His eyes shot up. “Washing them, me lady. Pardon if I shouldna have, but the Greer lass brought them over and why’d she do that but for me to wash?”

Just then Bryan reached her side. “Donald is in charge of the washhouse, m’lady, he’ll take care with all your, um, finery.”

Breghan scowled at the steward. “He was holding them up on display.”

“Never, m’lady.” Donald shuddered at the thought. “I was holding them up to the light to make sure they were spotless.”

“Of all the—” Breghan sucked in a deep breath and started again. “Then please forgive me, Donald, I’m sorry I misjudged you.” To Bryan, she said, “This is ridiculous, I can’t have men handling my undergarments. Washing is a woman’s work.”

“We’re a castle of men,” he explained.

“Not anymore.” Breghan rolled up her sleeves and crossed to the enormous fireplace where cauldrons of water boiled.

Bryan was right behind her. “The laird will have me gutted if I allow you to work in the washhouse.”

“Nonsense.” She drew up short when the steam hissing from the cauldron scorched her cheeks.

Donald came to her rescue, tipping the water into a smaller pot and setting it on a table for her. “A’right men.” He clapped his hands and barked, “Back to work. We’ve no’ the time to stand about all day and gawk.”

Breghan dropped her drawers into the hot water and found a bat to swirl them around with. Next she asked for her travelling gown, adding a mixture of ash lye to the water to lift the stains while it soaked.

Bryan flapped around helplessly as she leaned over the pot, using both hands to swirl the heavy material.

“Don’t fret so, Bryan, I have no intention of doing the entire castle’s laundry.”

“Your own is bad enough, m’lady.” He shook his head as if some grave sin had been committed and stalked off.

The stifling heat inside the room beaded sweat across her brow and seemed to suck the strength from her arms as she transferred the sodden gown to the scrubbing block and set to work with a bar of lye soap. By the time Breghan stepped outside to hang her clean clothes up to dry, she was ready to concede defeat to the Kerr washer men. Although she still drew the line at her undergarments.

As Breghan rounded the corner to the kitchen’s outside entrance, she came face-to-face with Arran.

“What in hellfire are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She took one look at the thunder in his eyes and went on the defence. “Why? What are
you
doing?”

“Coming to haul you from the washhouse.” He lifted her hands and turned them over.

“I’m not incapable of washing my own clothes.” Breghan squirmed when she saw the reddened roughness and the start of blisters from scrubbing boiled cloth. She pulled her hands away and clasped them out of sight behind her back. “Why the devil is everyone making such a fuss?”

“Why do you always jump in headfirst instead of coming to me?” Arran plunged his fingers through his hair. “I gather you’re uncomfortable with Donald and his lads doing your washing. I’ll see to it.”

“Fine.” Breghan pushed past him and slipped inside the kitchen to beg a jar of honey from the cook.

Gardie was a tall man with a bush of ginger beard that made up for the dearth on top. He was so thin, he looked as if a tap on the forehead would knock him over. But if his appearance defied his job, the deep bellow of his voice boomed from wall to wall as he supervised five young boys in the making of oatcakes, enough to feed an army.

Of course, they ride tomorrow.

She felt immediately bad for worrying Arran with domestic issues, then remembered Bryan had been the one carrying tales.

“Have you seen Bryan?” she asked when Gardie handed her the honey.

He waved toward the steps leading to the hall. “He’ll be at his accounts.”

She found Bryan in a curtained off alcove at the top of the steps. There was room for a small desk and wooden stool and nothing else. One full wall was taken up with papers and ledgers overflowing from pigeonholes.

She pulled the curtain closed behind her and was perched on the edge of his desk before he could rise. “We need to reach an understanding.”

Bryan grunted. “I meant no trouble, m’lady, but I would have been remiss in my duties to keep quiet.”

“The laird has matters of state on his mind and shouldn’t be burdened with inconsequential household details. What if I were to pay closer heed to your concerns and you attempted to resolve issues with me first? Does that seem fair?”

“The laird mentioned you have a fondness for taking things into your own hands.”

“I’m sure the words he used were less kind.”

Bryan had no way to answer that without being either dishonest or disloyal. He tugged at his earlobe while he contemplated her proposition. “Ferniehirst has a mistress now and I must adjust accordingly.”

“Wonderful.” Breghan beamed a smile at him as she pushed off from his table. “By the by, you were right about the washhouse. I won’t be repeating the experience.”

She heard him chuckling softly as she left.

Breghan made her way back to the kitchen and outside through a second door that opened onto the river instead the bailey. Setting herself down beneath an ancient oak on the bank of Jed Water, she smoothed a thick layer of honey over her hands and then lay flat on her back to give the healing quality of the honey time to work.

A gentle breeze cooled the summer afternoon and a lark warbled somewhere within the leafy boughs above. If she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of water and birds and leaves rustling, she could pretend she’d just tethered Angel at a bend in the Tiviot and it was McAllen fields she lay upon. Except her mind was full of Arran and the one thing she hadn’t allowed herself to think about until now. When he came into her bed, would it be the Arran with brazen teasing and laughter crinkled into his face or the Arran with fury strained across his jaw and thunder in his eyes?

Breghan shivered as she conceded it might well be both. The two of them flipped each other’s mood at the turn of a word.

Thank heavens he’s leaving in the morning. I have a few weeks grace before I have to worry about it.

She closed her eyes to dream of a suitor who’d compose romantic poems in her name instead of roaring, who’d woo her with softly spoken promises instead of wicked innuendos, a man too sophisticated and elegant to overpower her with raw masculinity. But every vision she tried to conjure was eclipsed with the lean strength encased in those leather breeches Arran wore today. The way his golden hair fell across his face to hide the scar at his cheek but not the harsh nature chiselled in his jaw.

The adventurous part of her thrilled at the dark desire he aroused while the sensible part warned there’d be no happy ending.

Breghan stayed where she was until the sun began its descent, then she made her way to the river edge and washed the honey from her hands. The water felt so wonderfully cool, she removed her slippers and hiked her tunic so she could sit on a flat rock and dangle her legs in the shallow pool.

To her right, across the river, cultivated fields stretched out for miles. To her left, there was a narrow band of yellow grass and trees before the grey stone of Ferniehirst’s south wing rose up like a barricade along the length of the river. There were no windows, only arrow slits from the first floor upwards. Breghan realised that this side of the castle formed part of the barmekin wall that angled toward the river about twenty yards ahead to enclose the mill house. Although the river formed a natural barrier and beyond that was all Kerr land, she saw that the door leading from the kitchen was reinforced with iron.

McAllen had no natural enemies and, while the odd skirmish broke out from time to time, none of their neighbouring clans would see the wife or daughter of McAllen harmed. She was musing on the probability of the opposite being true for Arran Kerr when the man himself stepped through the kitchen door and approached.

She pulled her feet from the water and stood, bracing herself for another tirade at her improper behaviour.

But Arran merely stopped at the water’s edge and held a hand out to her. “Take care, those rocks tend to be slippery.”

To refuse would have been churlish. Breghan gave him her hand and allowed him to guide her onto dry ground. There she smoothed her tunic and bent to put her slippers on.

When she came up, Arran’s smile was on her. “Do you enjoy swimming?”

“I think I’d love it, if only I knew how.”

“Your brothers didn’t teach you?”

“The part of the Tiviot that flows through McAllen fields is treacherous in spate and otherwise too shallow.” She grinned up at him. “They did show me how to grip moss-covered rocks with my toes, though. I’ve not fallen in yet.”

Arran laughed, placing his hand on the small of her back to steer her inside and through the kitchen.

When they crossed the hall, Breghan saw only men setting out pewter plates and clay jugs on the trestle tables. “Do none of the village girls work up at the castle?”

“Ferniehirst doesna have a village nearby, the land is taken up with farming fields and crofters.”

“What of Jedburgh?”

“Jedburgh is a large town, not a village.” Arran shrugged. “The lasses there are willing enough, although not for castle chores.”

“But surely—” She was cut off as they reached the spiral stairway and Arran ushered her up first. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll be gone tomorrow and I wish to speak with you.”

“Speak with me or lecture?” They’d reached the landing and Breghan turned to him. “Is this about the washhouse? Heavens, one would think—”