The Devil of Jedburgh (20 page)

She rolled her head toward him. Arran waited, knowing she’d felt pleasure, knowing she’d deny it and accuse him of going back on his word. How many times had he vowed he’d never hurt her?

“It only hurt a moment,” she murmured, gazing into his eyes. “Does it truly get better than this?”

He’d speared her, now she speared him with that question. He rubbed her arm, holding her tighter, dropping kisses on her forehead, her nose, her lids when she closed her eyes. “You didn’t feel pleasure? Not even a little?”

She made a sound in her throat and he jerked away to look at her. Good God, he’d been such a rampant bull, he’d made her cry.

“I’m not sure how much was pleasure and how much was pain,” she said, smiling at him. That sound had been quiet laughter. “I felt as if I were flying, higher and higher until the world went black, as if someone had doused the very stars.”

He hung on to her words, her smile, the shining blue in her eyes. The stars weren’t doused, he thought, they were stolen from the skies and gifted unto me.

“Then everything lit up around me all at once and I fell and fell and…”

“And?” he prompted, trailing a finger along the length of her silken arm.

She shifted inside the crook of his arm and looked away. “I didn’t want to stop falling…ever.”

Arran rolled over her, supporting his weight on his elbows either side of her. His eyes praised her beauty and the zest for life that shone straight from her soul. His body worshiped her, his shaft filling and lengthening along her flat belly. He admired her honesty, he loved the wildness in her spirit that ignored shy decorum and allowed her such free expression of everything she’d felt. She flung aside the risks of sharing her deepest emotions with a reckless abandonment that tore his heart open right then and there.

“What is wrong?” she asked breathlessly. Heat flushed from her cheeks to her throat “What have I done wrong now?”

“Nothing, sweeting.” He looked upon her, summoned a smile when deep inside he felt himself tearing apart. “You are beautiful, smart and deliciously wicked. You’re everything a man could ever want or need.”

“What we did, what we just shared, was a revelation.” She returned the smile, reaching up around him with her arms, her fingers stroking lightly down his back. “I thought I hated you.” Her roaming fingers went over the plaid covering his backside. “Do you think we could do that again?”

Arran chuckled, a feeling of euphoria spreading through him and stitching the ragged edges of his heart. In that moment, he gave himself permission to adore her, to cherish every moment they had together, to embed each memory and store it for the lean winters to follow.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “As much as I’d love to, you need time to recover and I—” He rolled off the bed and reached for his boots. “Unfortunately, I have to go.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be back before you wake.”

Breghan jerked upright, tugging at her bodice and fiddling with the lace. “You’re going raiding!”

“Looting may be our national pastime, but there are scavengers burning, raping and murdering their way through Teviotdale.” He finished putting on his boots, then went to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “I’m warden of the middle marches, sweeting. We must be out in force tonight.”

His gaze rested on her lush lips and he couldn’t resist a last delving kiss. “I want to find you in my bed when I return,” he murmured.

Breghan fell back on the bed with a sigh. “Is that order?”

“If you wish.” He traced a finger in the smear of blood on her inner thigh and felt a primitive possessiveness surge through him.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She swatted his hand away and pulled her shift down. “I may do as I wish? Or I must do as you wish and may do so either of my own free will or by your order?”

Arran shrugged and stood. Why did woman always have to argue both sides of the same coin? “I’ll order up a hot bath for you on my way out.”

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Breghan woke up alone. When it became clear Arran hadn’t returned to bed during the night at all, she dressed and went in search of the steward who always seemed to be well informed.

“If the laird is following a hot trail, he willna turn back until it runs its natural course,” Bryan said. “He may be gone for days or weeks.”

“He might have mentioned that when he—”
Promised to be back before I woke and ordered me to do so in his bed.
She blushed at the intimate words she’d nearly blurted out.

After breaking her fast with sweet oat porridge, she grabbed her emerald cloak and headed for the stables. “Would you fetch Duncan and Broderick for me?” she asked of a stable boy.

His chestnut eyes stretched wide on her. “They’re not here, m’lady, both ridden out with the laird.”

Breghan’s chest deflated. Her gaze swept the courtyard and landed on two men-at-arms heading toward the forge. She almost ran after them, but they took their orders from Arran and he’d not mentioned replacing her escort.

The portcullis was raised and she wondered if anyone would dare to stop her. Then she remembered what Arran had said of burning, rape and murder. Whatever he might think of her, she wasn’t reckless to the point of stupid.

As she went about her daily routine, Arran was never far from her thoughts. Last night he’d cast some magic spell that kept her enthralled in its web. Her body hummed with newfound awareness. She’d left out a few vital bits when she’d described her experience to Arran.

The world had indeed gone black as coal as she’d soared to unknown heights, but on top of that she’d felt as if time itself had stopped, as if all around her ceased to exist except the clenching ache between her thighs that held her in a dark abyss. Arran had plunged into her one last time, shattering the stars with a force that exploded about her in a waterfall of diamonds and she hadn’t cared if she kept on falling until she hit the bowels of hell.

The revelation had been both exhilarating and terrifying.

Such heights of pleasure couldn’t possibly be reached without the bonding of their hearts and souls as well as their bodies.

Arran was not, and could never be, the kind of man who’d invaded her dreams these last years. The very notion of loving Arran, of being loved by Arran, terrified her.

She felt as if she’d begun a tumble down a steep hill and nothing short of a deadly crevice could break the course she’d set out on. And yet, perhaps she was holding on to a beggar’s dream, ferreting in the ground for nuggets instead of throwing out her arms to catch the diamonds raining down from heaven. The very notion of loving Arran, of being loved by Arran, stirred a wild fever deep inside that exhilarated her.

One day bled into the next and three days had passed before she heard the clatter of hooves filling the bailey. Breghan ran down the main steps, her eyes weeding out the scores of men dismounting and shouting between themselves. Both Arran and his horse stood taller than any present and, when she didn’t see him, she knew he wasn’t in the bailey. She waded through the press of man and beast until she spied a familiar face.

“Duncan, where is he?” She tugged his arm to get him to stop and turn. “Where is Arran?”

Duncan started to shake his head, but the man beside him told her, “The laird’s at the hanging tree.”

“Mary and Joseph.” Duncan’s elbow shot out and connected with the man’s jaw. “You’re dumber than a lard turd.” To Breghan, he said, “Arran will be along shortly.”

“The Hanging Tree?” A rush of fury heated her inside and out. She’d spent the last three days falling in love with the absent brute and he was out cavorting. “Is that a brothel in Jedburgh?”

Duncan stared at her, his lips twitching suspiciously. “I suggest you return inside and wait, m’lady. Arran is taking care of unfinished business and I swear ’tis no in any brothel.”

“Very well.” Breghan walked halfway to the front stairs, then circled around to thread her way back to the stables. It didn’t take long to learn the hanging tree was an ancient birch that stood about a quarter mile south along the bank of Jed Water. When she’d asked what unfinished business the laird might have at this tree, the young stable boy had gone white in the face and clamped his lips tighter than an oyster shell.

Her blood was already too high to heed caution. Now her curiosity was aroused as well. She pulled the hood of her black cloak over her hair and crouched her shoulders as she walked, blending into the shadows of the perimeter wall. She passed beneath the iron grating and stayed close to the wall along the outside until it joined the river.

The old birch tree came into view around the first bend. When she saw the gnarled branch thick with knots that shot out from the trunk about seven feet off the ground, the true meaning of the tree’s name dawned. At the same moment, she recognised Arran and Broderick in the group of six men crowding the water’s edge. She stopped abruptly and cursed her curiosity. Their unfinished business was nothing more than an innocuous swim. She back-stepped, hoping she could disappear around the bend before anyone noticed her or, indeed, anyone started stripping.

A piercing cry rent the air and Breghan froze. A deathly silence followed, but Breghan could still hear the ghost of that scream inside her head.

“Drowning’s too good for the firkin’ Armstrong rat,” came a shout.

The circle disbanded as the men staggered to the shore, dragging a scrawny, bedraggled and squirming body between them. Broderick’s leg swung back, then forward with such power Breghan swore she heard ribs crack as his boot crashed into the man’s chest. This time the scream was followed by hoarse pleading. “I dinna—dinna—spare me, God above, s-s-pare me…I dinna know a-a-a thing.”

“God willna spare yer worthless soul.”

“Not even the devil wants ye sorry arse.”

“A pricking will loosen the bastard’s tongue.” Arran’s voice was distinctive above the taunting of his men. “Unsheathe your daggers, lads, let’s see how long we can make this pleasure last.”

The circle closed again, sunlight glinting off steel as each man raised his dagger high and crowded down over the body in the middle. Breghan had never seen a pricking, but she knew exactly what it was. The men would prick and jab the man a hundred times over, inflicting the most painful, barbaric wounds aimed to keep him alive and in torture until he slowly bled to death.

Blood pounded Breghan’s temples to the beat of the man’s curdled cries, sobs, screams and groans.
Run…turn and run.
Her knees were locked stiff, as if clamped by iron joints that had rusted over. She couldn’t even sag to the ground and pass out into blessed blackness.

The sudden lull in gargled screams could only indicate his death.

She was wrong.

The circle split apart and Arran yanked the man up by his hair. Her stomach heaved, but even there her muscles were too numb to expunge any of the roiling acid.

Arran looped a rope around the man’s neck, gave one hard tug to tighten the noose, then raised his head. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were fixed on her. She felt the black ice of his stare snake around her throat.

“Holy Christ…” He jerked the rope down, flinging the man to the ground. “Get her the hell away from here!” The thunder of his roar seemed to roll across the small distance like a beast’s howl that gathered volume as it neared, even though he hadn’t moved an inch.

It was Broderick who came at her with all haste. She expected to be flung over his massive shoulders. Instead he scooped her into his arms, crushing her cheek to his chest and not breaking his stride until they reached Ferniehirst’s walls.

“You shouldna have been there, m’lady,” he growled. “Have you lost your bloody mind? You’ve no right interfering in the business of men.”

Some of her fighting spirit returned. She wanted to pummel her fists into his chest, but the horror still eclipsed her outrage. Her bones felt laden down with iron, her muscles turned to butter. Her voice quavered as she protested, “He l-looked so young.”

Broderick deposited her onto her feet, taking little care as he dragged her into the bailey. The few men milling around stopped to stare at the laird’s lady being manhandled so. Not one made a move to help. Broderick had trained with the laird since boyhood—he was more than Arran’s right-hand man, they were bonded brothers.

“I spared that runt of Satan when I pulled him off the woman he was raping.” Broderick glared down on her, the whole of his face as black as the beard that covered half of it. “She was with child. The moment I turned my back, he ran around my legs and speared his dagger straight into her swollen belly.”

Breghan shuddered and the world about her lost colour. She faltered as her legs collapsed beneath her and only Broderick’s quick arm around her kept her upright and moving forward. “Did you have to br-bring him here and t-torture him?”

“Dragging him through the mud behind our horses and drowning him didna work half as well as a pricking. The rat spewed out the Armstrong’s hiding hole.”

“Arran’s hanging him right now, isn’t he?” She understood that the young man couldn’t be released to assault again with his vile nature, but she was finding it impossible to reconcile her head with her heart. “No mercy.”

“Set aside your anguish for the moment, m’lady, you have problems of your own.”

“Are you expecting more trouble?” Breghan realised he was leading her around the back to the kitchen door. “What are you doing?”

“If Arran gets his hands on you right now, he’ll beat you senseless and then he’ll throttle you.”

Breghan’s throat went dry as she frowned at him in confusion. “He won’t… I don’t care what he’s done or what he’s capable of, he won’t hurt me. You are wrong.”

“We’ve been riding high on bloodlust for three days with little to no sleep. You witnessed firsthand the brutality we’ve had to both put down and inflict. We do what must be done, but we are only men, not gods of steel.” He propped her up against the door and stared down at her from his immense height. “Today you forced Arran to bring those atrocities not only into his home, but into his bed. He willna forgive that soon and certainly not this night.”