The Devil of Jedburgh (9 page)

When Arran moved into place beside her, Breghan drew a deep breath and uncurled her fingers.

One year.

She could survive anything for one year.

“May we begin?” the priest asked wryly. “Or is there some other pressing matter that cannot wait?”

Her father had placed himself beside the priest. Both were looking at Arran.

“We are ready,” Arran told them.

His neutral tone tugged at the corner of Breghan’s fragile composure. She knew he was going to make her life hell in the year to come, but God help him if he did it with a blank expression and that infernal shrug.

Her fingers were trembling slightly when the priest folded Arran’s hand over hers and wrapped the length of silk around to join them. Breghan was intensely aware of the feel of Arran’s callused skin on hers, of the symbolic representation of being bound to this man. The intimacy was daunting.

The vows were short, such little words with so much left unsaid.

“I, Arran Kerr, troth to take you, Breghan McAllen, to wife in as we both be willing.”

“I, Breghan McAllen, troth to take you, Arran Kerr, as husband in as we both be willing.”

Breghan was pledged to the Devil of Jedburgh for a year and a day.

For the first time since coming to stand before the priest, she glanced up at Arran. His jaw was clenched, the scar cutting his cheek whiter and more prominent than she’d noticed before.

The priest unwound the silk and a discordant echo of cheers rose up from behind. No matter private opinions, the deed was done and there was a feast to be had. Before Breghan could take her hand back, Arran clenched his fingers around hers and raised their joined hands in the air as he turned them both around to face the crowded hall.

A lull settled and Arran bellowed, “I give to you my lady wife.”

“I’m not your wife,” she retorted softly through a wide smile.

“In the eyes of the Kirk, you’re my wife until we decide otherwise,” he said just as softly.

Breghan bristled beneath the hoots and whistles. As soon as the noise abated, she called out at the top of her voice, “I give to you my honourable husband.”

Arran jerked her hand down and led her to the high table amidst another rumble of cheers. “I’m not yours to give.”

She flashed him a sweet smile. “In the eyes of the Kirk—”

“You belong to me,” he finished.

“Well,” Breghan muttered as he all but pressed her into the chair where they were to sit amongst her family. “This is going to be a pleasant year.”

Arran took his place beside her. “What’s that?”

“Nothing, dearest. Nothing at all.” A silver goblet was pressed into her hands. She looked up to find Callum smiling down on her. As if this were a joyous occasion. Breghan bit back a harsh remark. Callum was only a few years older than her and they’d always been close. He knew her dreams and fears and still he’d waved aside her troubles with an unconcerned, “You could do worse than Arran Kerr,” when she’d gone to him for help.

Hah.

Now he said, “I wish the both of you well,” and added with a wink at Arran, “Take good care of my little sister.”

Breghan raised the goblet of scarlet wine to Callum, then brought it to her lips with every intention of draining every last drop.

Unfortunately, Arran plucked the goblet from her hands before she was halfway done. “I think we’re meant to share.”

She watched him put the rim to his mouth, watched his jaw work as he took a slow sip, and then she watched his lips stretch into a thin, firm line.

Those lips had touched hers.

The gentle, pliant, so brief kiss remained a vivid memory she could almost feel. She knew, if she looked up, she’d find his eyes on her. She sensed his gaze and it was scorching. Those lips wouldn’t be gentle tonight or any other night. She’d defied Arran Kerr again and again and now she belonged to him. Through her own doing. Although she hadn’t planned on Arran being privy to all her reasons why.

Directly across the table sat her parents. Her father was scowling at her and her mother was scowling at Arran, who was now in deep conversation with Tristan on his other side.

Breghan turned to her Aunt Mary on her left, where she could be guaranteed a smile. “Perhaps I should have entered the convent after all,” she mused, leaning slightly closer. “You’re always so content and at peace.”

“I have found my way, child.” The creases at her eyes deepened with her smile. “You will find yours.”

“Any advice?”

“Plenty.” Aunt Mary gave a low chuckle. “Although I doubt ’tis your relationship with our Lord above you seek council on.”

Breghan laughed. It was that, or remind her aunt that she was handfasted to the devil. Her amusement quickly faded as she settled forward again and slid a glance Arran’s way. He still had his shoulder turned on her at an angle that strained the white cotton across the breadth of his back, emphasising the span of dense muscle. His hair was tied at the nape with a leather thong and her gaze was drawn to the spot where his jawbone connected to thick, corded neck.

Everything about him was granite hard and overpowering. Arran Kerr was a laird with a reputation to make angels quiver. He exuded danger as if it dwelled within his pores and the measure of his arrogance was right up there with one who could bend Mother Nature to his will.

This was the man she’d thwarted.

She could hide behind
the choice
he’d given her, but she knew exactly what she’d done.

So did he.

The insides of her belly pulled tight.

Perhaps fortune would favour her, and Arran would continue to ignore her the entire year.

The food was served, wild boar and roasted pheasant, rabbit stewed with plums, marsh birds covered in a rich sauce and fat capons on beds of stewed fruit. Sweet pastries and cheeses were brought in at the same time so the kitchen workers were free to sit with their families and join in the celebrations.

Arran used his own dirk to cut the meat and piled the silver platter they shared with a generous selection. Not wishing to draw attention to her lack of appetite, Breghan picked out a slice of tender white meat. Around her, conversations were flung from one end of the table and further as people ate and drank and jested. Even her parents had stopped scowling to partake in the merriment. Wine and ale flowed freely and two barrels of McAllen whiskey had been put out for the men.

Breghan smiled and nodded and chewed on the piece of meat that wouldn’t go down. Until a heavy hand landed on her thigh, and then she swallowed the mouthful along with her surprised gulp.

“You’re not eating,” Arran said, his fingers closing around the curve of her muscle.

Determined to start this handfasting as she intended to endure it, and to dislodge his hand without betraying how much the intimate weight bothered her, Breghan shifted fully around to face him with a disarming smile.

His hand slid off her leg and her smile broadened.

“I’ve been distracted by the gaiety.” She glanced over to the corner where the minstrels plucked soulful ballads on an assortment of rebecs and gitterns. “It won’t be long now before they pick up their fiddles and the tables are folded to make room for dancing.”

When her gaze returned to Arran, she saw her attempt at triviality had had no effect. His eyes were dark, closer to slate than the green she knew them to be, and the shadows set in his expression even darker. Good food and wine had done nothing to soothe him.

“Then you’d best eat quickly,” he told her. “You’ll be needing your strength.”

Keeping her smile in place, Breghan reached across the plate of rich meat for a square of hard cheese. She popped it into her mouth and tried to not envisage what she’d be needing her strength for. Intimate relations were inevitable and she was in no position to deny Arran. When she’d conceived her plans, however, she’d relied on the thought of Arran dousing the candles before he came to bed. She’d close her eyes and lie as still as possible while he performed his duty in a gentle, if detached, manner. The entire process would be civilised and perfectly bearable.

“I’m warning you, Breghan, I’ll spare you no mercy when you faint from hunger.” Arran spiked a slice of roasted boar with his dirk and held it under her nose. “Eat properly.”

“Or what?”
No mercy.
Her next words were expelled on a wave of pure terror. “You’ll shove it down my throat? Or will you construe some new measure of altruism and give me the choice in that as well?”

He dropped the dirk from under her nose and grabbed her arm, pulling her close to his side. He bent his head so he could talk into her ear. What might have been perceived from people watching as a tender moment was abased by his brittle tone. “What in damnation is that supposed to mean?”

Breghan took a deep breath. She’d thought to deceive him and it would have worked if he hadn’t insisted on staying while she spoke with her father. Arran was supposed to believe she’d chosen him with innocent intention. The speech she’d hastily prepared, and not had the opportunity to use, covered everything from fearing her father’s wrath to atoning for the trouble she’d caused. But he had stayed, and now he knew. There’d be no stoic acceptance in his bed manner tonight. He’d likely keep the candles lit so he could watch her squirm beneath his poised fury.

Just then the minstrels struck out a lively tune on their fiddles and the rowdy banter in the hall dissolved into a rush to clear tables and move the emphasis from eating to drinking and dancing.

Lillian stood and had to lean across the table to make herself heard above the din.

“Breghan loves to dance,” she informed Arran with an encouraging smile.

Arran didn’t appear to be either encouraged or deterred. His hand remained on her arm, keeping her close. “I’ll certainly indulge her later. Right now I’m fascinated by what Breghan has to say.”

Lillian beamed a smile at Breghan, then made her way to the middle of the hall where groups of eight were forming to dance the first reel of the night. Callum, Alexander and James led their wives off to join as well. The rest of Breghan’s brothers were single and gathered around the whiskey barrel instead.

“We should dance,” Breghan said.

“You should answer my question.” His fingers clamped a little tighter and the silent command made her bristle.

Nothing she admitted now could make matters worse. She felt no guilt at what she’d done. Arran Kerr had the power to make her suffer, but she didn’t have to countenance that magnanimous righteousness while he did so.

“You proposed this ridiculous handfasting in a fit of revenge, and regret sank in the moment your temper wore off. You only gave me power over my own future after
you’d
decided
you
didn’t want me.” She jerked her head back to look him in the eye. “You knew—you presumed—I’d take the first opportunity to rid myself of you. If it had occurred to you that my choice might not coincide with your will, you’d never have given me any choice at all.”

“That isn’t—” Arran stopped short and looked at her with that scowl that had become a permanent feature. He shook his head and the grip on her arm relaxed, then he released her and slammed that hand down on the table. “You knew I didn’t want you and you forced yourself on me anyway.”

“You forced yourself on me first and after I made it quite clear I didn’t want you,” she reminded him.

“Damnation, Breghan, I’m a man. I have the strength to control and subdue those under my authority. Are you that witless? Can you even comprehend the tenuous position you’ve put yourself in? Did you consider that you might be forced to submit to my anger every night?” His voice grew softer and harsher with each accusing question that stabbed straight into Breghan’s gut.

Dear Lord, what have I done?

“You laugh and smile and celebrate your little victory as if you’ll live to enjoy the spoils. Jesu, Breghan, you don’t even have the sense to be afraid!”

He brought his hand down on the table again and this time the thump sent a shudder through her.

She twisted away from Arran and out of her chair. At the last moment the wits he claimed she didn’t have set in and she turned back to find him halfway out of his own chair.

A smile would have helped, if she’d been able to summon one. “Please excuse me, I need to visit the garderobe.”

She waited until he dropped into his chair again before making her way toward the kitchens. The jostling, laughing crowd thickened as she drew closer, allowing Breghan to lose herself from Arran’s sight and slip into her father’s charter room. Her legs were unsteady and it felt as if her heart was throbbing inside her head. She put her back to the door and sucked in some deep breaths.

You don’t even have the sense to be afraid.

She hadn’t stopped being afraid since she’d heard she was to be married to her childhood nightmare. ’Twas fear of whom her father might decide on next that had driven her to risk all on Arran Kerr and earn some measure of control over her future.

Her gaze landed on the flagon of whiskey her father kept on his table and it drew her like a lodestone. She poured a small amount into a glass and raised it to her lips for a tentative sip. The trickle of liquid burned the back of her throat. She gasped and almost choked. But as soon as the liquid pooled in the bottom of her stomach, the burning faded to a pleasing warmth. Breghan took a larger sip and the heat spread further.

This will numb my body and dull my mind.

She reached for the flagon again, was in the process of pouring a healthy portion when the door flew open.

Arran stepped inside and kicked the door closed behind him. His gaze went from the flagon to the half-filled glass. “Ah, I begin to see.”

She set the flagon down as he approached, determination set in his jaw.

Determined to do what?

Breghan backed away until she hit the wall. “Arran, don’t…”

He pinned her in place with the full length of his body, put one hand against the wall and cupped the other around the back of her neck. When she tilted her head to look him in the eye, she was met with his mouth descending on hers instead. The whiskey in her blood turned to icicles and she couldn’t move. She braced herself for the bruising kiss that would turn his threats into reality.