The Devil of Jedburgh

by Claire Robyns

  Once Arran had conducted his business with his goldsmith, Samuel & Samuel, he turned his mind to pleasure and described exactly what he was looking for to the younger Samuel. The man didn’t disappoint and Arran’s mood was high on his return to the dressmaker.

  He was surprised to find Breghan waiting for him outside. “I expected to be the one kept waiting.”

  “The gowns I chose need little alteration,” she told him with a small smile. “Both will be delivered this afternoon.”

  “Only two?” He cupped her elbow in his palm and turned in the direction of Castle Hill. “I must be fortunate, indeed, to have a lady who is efficient on top of thrifty,” he teased lightly.

  Her smile widened, the shine softening her eyes as she gazed up at him, and Arran knew he’d empty his coffers many times over to win and hold that look of adoration. He couldn’t wait to present her with the gift he’d purchased from Samuel & Samuel.

  The remainder of the day was devoted to Breghan, showing her around the castle grounds. When her bath was brought up at dusk, he dismissed Janet so he could attend her himself. He lathered almond soap over every inch of her satin skin, paying special attention to each breast until she was groaning and writhing beneath his touch.

  “Arran, stop,” she squealed when he closed his mouth over her breast and lapped a taut nipple with his tongue.

  He gave a light nip before grinning up at her. “You’re not enjoying your bath?”

  “Too much, you devil.” She splashed a handful of water at him, drenching his linen shirt.

  “Now, that deserves just punishment.” He straightened and stripped his shirt and boots.

  “I’m already wet,” she pointed out, then gasped as his intention became clear. “The tub is far too small, you can’t possibly—” That was all she got out before he lifted her from the water to sit her on the rim of the wooden tub.

  Arran sank into the water with his back to her and handed her the soap. His game turned on him when she slid her legs around his waist and propped a foot on each side of his groin. Her lathered hands massaged soap into the muscles of his back while her toes played havoc with his erection. He resisted with gritted teeth, the sensation of pain and pleasure pulsing through him too exquisite to stop until she curled her toes fully around him and milked the first drop of his seed.

  Arran stood and turned, hitching her legs around his waist and pulling the rest of her up against his wet, slick body, driving his shaft deep into her core as he did so. Every motion wrung a gasp or moan from her, her fingers digging into his back as he raised his leg to climb out the tub, every small step causing him to slide a fraction out, then in again. Bree was in the spasm of her peak before they hit the bed and he followed a moment later with hard, deep thrusts.

  He stayed bent over her until his breath evened out, then he pulled her up and onto her feet. “I meant to make slow love to you tonight.”

  “There’s still plenty of night left,” she said with a sigh that tickled the hairs across his chest.

  “You are insatiable.” He held her tighter, resting his jaw on top her head, finishing what he could never speak in silent thought. One of the many things I love about you, sweet, darling Bree.

  While Breghan dried herself, Arran placed two chairs in front of the fire and draped the damp bed cover over to dry. Stark naked, he folded his arms and watched with a lazy grin as she stepped into sheer white undergarments and fiddled with the ties. With her wet hair in disarray down to her waist, her cheeks still glowing from the exertion of their lovemaking, she looked so young and innocent, so incredibly beautiful. The shadow of an ache in his heart was almost familiar by now, forecasting the end of this stolen joy.

  Breghan laid her new gowns on the bed and tilted her head in contemplation.

  “Wear the blue,” he suggested. The skirt was a midnight-blue taffeta that seemed to darken and deepen the blue of her eyes. He helped her button up the gown, then grabbed a fresh towel and set her down on a stool before the fire.

  “Do your fierce warriors know how well you play the lady’s maid?” she asked playfully as he gently rubbed her hair dry and went on to comb the long strands.

  Arran’s tone was sombre in his reply. “There’s nothing I wouldna do for you, Bree.”

  She craned her neck around to look up at him, her gaze filled with warm emotion, and his heart stilled for a beat. He turned her around again and scooped her hair on top her head. “Hold it there for a moment.”

  Once her hands replaced his, he went to retrieve the tiny velvet pouch from his discarded clothing.

  Her gaze followed him. “What are you doing?”

  “A little patience, sweeting.” His fist closed over the pouch and he didn’t open it until he was directly behind her. The gown’s ruff reached to beneath her chin and he had to clasp the sapphire pendant over the stiffened material. The deep blue bled into the stone until it was darker than her eyes.

  Breghan’s hand came up to touch the pendant resting just above her breasts.

  “Wait.” He fetched the round polished silver mirror Breghan had brought with her and held it up.

  “Oh! It’s lovely.” She took the mirror from him to admire the necklace from all sides.

  He handed her the matching earrings. “They are yours to keep.”

  Unshed tears glistened her eyes, but only soft happiness radiated from her face. “It’s too much, Arran.”

  His knuckles grazed her chin, keeping her head raised as he kissed her lightly on the lips. “I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

  By the time he’d drawn back to look into her eyes, the moment had turned upside down. Suddenly her glistening eyes were more sad than happy. The soft glow was gone from her face.

  “I would rather have you.” She placed a hand on his chest, her voice close to pleading. “This doesn’t have to end, Arran. We don’t have to end.”

  “If only it were that…” His argument faded at the tear swelling in the corner of her eye. She immediately lowered her lashes, but it was too late.

  He stepped back, allowing her hand to slip away from his chest, and brought down the shutters on his own turmoil. His first mistake had been indulging the fantasy that he could enjoy Bree for a year and walk away with his heart and life intact. A second mistake would end with her death.

  When he spoke again, his voice was stern and abrupt. “There is no future for us, Breghan. Your inexperience may lead you to believe the pleasure we share can’t be found anywhere, with anyone, but you’ll soon discover that isn’t so.”

  And she would.

  Breghan was young, beautiful, passionate and headstrong. Such a combination would yield her heart’s every desire in time.

  Arran had decided to forgo court attire in favour of his Kerr plaid. “The royal court is at Holyrood,” he explained to Breghan as they entered the banquet hall. “There’ll be no pomp and ceremony at the castle.”

  The tapestries, rugs and banners did little to warm the long, high-ceilinged chamber. The only windows were slits cut high into the stone walls to keep the icy draft outside, but this also kept the smoke from ill-vented chimneys inside. Although the dais table was set with crystal and silver, only the tables below were occupied.

  Few women were present, so Arran was pleased to see available seats with Robert Boyd and his wife. He introduced Breghan, seating her beside Helen so he could concentrate on Boyd while the ladies acquainted themselves.

  “I hear Sandie Armstrong is rotting in the dungeons below,” Boyd said with a gruff laugh. “You’ve done a great service for Scotland and the crown.”

  “I should have spared the crown the cost of his upkeep and drowned the vermin.” Arran took care to keep the conversation general during the course of the meal.

  Boyd owed the queen for restoring his family land and title, but that didn’t ensure his loyalty. The man was notorious for straddling the fence until after the die has been cast. This ambiguous nature made the man a good source of informati
on—he was apt to poke both sides while he sat back and waited for the outcome.

  Halfway through supper, Darnley made an appearance. The king was tall and slim as a reed, his longs legs encased in black stockings and knee-high leather boots. His doublet was a vibrant red emblazoned with jewels instead of buttons. Thrown across his narrow shoulders was a floor-length velvet cloak trimmed in ermine fur.

  Any regal effect he may have wished to present, however, was ruined by his ungainly stagger between the two companions required to keep him upright.

  Breghan tugged on his arm to pull him closer and whispered with a nervous giggle, “My first sighting of our king leaves much to be desired. A royal drunk is still just a drunk.”

  “Sit back and enjoy the show, sweeting, Darnley never disappoints in making a spectacle of himself.” But Arran was more interested in the king’s companions than his behaviour. Any Douglas was more likely to gut his king than play the servant. As for Alexander Glencairn, the only thing the thickset baron despised more than the queen’s Catholicism was the queen’s choice of husband.

  He turned to Boyd with the remark, “Our king appears to have made new friends of old enemies.”

  “When the thoroughbred proves too wild to tame, one has no choice but to ride the ass.”

  “To what purpose?” demanded Arran, deducing that Queen Mary was the thoroughbred and Darnley the ass. The problem with that analogy was, an ass was still an ass no matter who mastered the dumb creature.

  Darnley was far more interested in pursuing pleasure and hunting than governing, to the extent that last November a seal of Darnley’s signature had been authorised by Mary and placed into the keeping of her personal secretary, the foreigner David Rizzio. That was only the latest outrage the noble barons had to endure when it came to Rizzio. The man had displaced them in the queen’s trust and confidence some time ago, now the seal gave him the means to displace the king’s signature from royal documents and proclamations.

  “Darnley has distanced himself from both power and his marital bed,” Arran pressed when Boyd remained silent. “He has no influence with the queen.”

  “Are us Scots not notorious for setting aside that which cannot be manipulated for our own gain?” Boyd took a long sip from his chalice, his gaze boring into Arran. “Leave be, my friend, deep probing will avail you naught.”

  The bastard knows he’s already given me enough kindling to set the whole damn country on fire.

  Just then Darnley stumbled on the dais step and almost landed on his face. He used George Douglas’s arm to pull himself up and glared at the nearest servant, bellowing, “You purposely tripped me! I am your king! I am King Henry. By God, you will suffer for such treachery.”

  Darnley swung his fist out but misjudged the distance and tottered off balance as the young lad scuttled away. No one stopped the lad and the next moment Darnley appeared to have forgotten what he was ranting about. He made it up the dais and slouched behind the board in a high-back chair, bellowing again, this time for wine.

  Arran spent the next days in council with the Lords Fleming, Livingston and Bothwell, all of whom were loyal supporters of the queen. Bothwell complained that the queen had been made aware of the plotting circulating her court, but she refused to pay heed and went about her days instead as if naught was amiss.

  When Arran was summoned by Queen Mary herself to attend a banquet at the palace, he welcomed the rare opportunity to observe matters for himself. The queen was heavily pregnant and of late seldom ventured beyond the confines of her private quarters and intimate circle of friends.

  Breghan was delighted with the invitation. “I’ll wear the emerald velvet,” she declared, standing in front of the open wardrobe.

  “Or perhaps the blue taffeta,” Janet suggested from where she sat beneath the high window, sewing fresh ribbons on a slipper, “to show off your sapphire jewels.”

  “You could go in a baker’s sack and still look beautiful,” Arran said.

  Breghan spun around with a sigh. “You, sir, are no help.”

  “Then I’ll leave you ladies to it.” Arran removed himself from the room and didn’t return until it was time for him to swap his plaid for stockings and a black doublet.

  His breath caught as he took in the vision of his wife. Her hair was braided in a circlet around her head, exposing the curve of her throat. She’d cut the ruff of her gown away in front so it extended only from her shoulders backward. The neckline of the brocade bodice had been lowered to allow the sapphire stone to lie directly on her pale skin, dipping between the gentle swell of her breasts.

  They made a handsome pair, turning every head as they entered the banqueting hall at Holyrood Palace. From her elevated position at the board, the queen caught his eye immediately and beckoned them over. To her one side sat Mary Fleming, whose blond beauty and daring nature had earned her nicknames of Belle and La Flamina. The place of honour reserved for the king was occupied by that ever-present nuisance, David Rizzio.

  Breghan slipped her hand into his as they made their way forward and he realised her palm was damp from nerves.

  “All you have to do is curtsey and wait to be addressed,” he told her with a smile in his tone. “Even if you get that wrong, I promise you willna be tossed into the dungeons.”

  That earned him a soft giggle.

  He bowed low before the queen until he was raised with the greeting, “My dear Lord Kerr, you have been sorely missed.”

  Her smile was radiant, but the spark of youthful joy he’d last witnessed in her hazel eyes was noticeably absent. She wore a loose gown of Florentine serge and the only visible sign of her advanced condition was a fuller, plumper cheek line.

  “The borders keep me busy,” he replied.

  “That isn’t all, I see.” The queen turned her smile on Breghan. “We heard news on your handfasting.”

  “May I present my lady wife, Breghan McAllen.” Arran raised their joint hands and didn’t let go when Breghan dipped into a curtsey.

  “McAllen is a staunch and loyal supporter.” Her smile didn’t waver as she assessed Breghan. “We are pleased by this match that binds McAllen strength to Kerr.”

  “Thank you, ma’am—Your Grace,” stumbled Breghan over her words. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The queen giggled and said to Arran, “She is quite adorable. I trust this union will prove long and fruitful.”

  He returned a brisk grimace. That was a royal order. One Arran fully intended to disregard.

  After whispering a quick word to Mary Fleming, the queen declared, “My Belle will entertain your lady with my other Marys while we have a private talk.”

  Arran brushed a kiss over the top of Breghan’s head, murmuring, “I won’t be long.”

  Mary Fleming stepped down from the dais and he turned to watch her lead Breghan to a nearby table where Mary Livingston dominated the company of young, impeccably attired men.

  The queen wasted no time once Arran had claimed the vacated seat. “John Knox continues to undermine my good intentions. I believe the man is directly responsible for spreading rumours that I intend to advance the Catholic Church in parliament next week.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “I fear a reprisal against those few abbeys we have left standing.”

  “Jedburgh Abbey is firmly under my protection,” Arran assured her. “So long as the monks refrain from preaching outside the walls, Knox has agreed to ignore our existence.”

  “I would feel reassured by extra precautions until this furore has passed.”

  Arran nodded his consent. “I can spare a guard of ten men on rotation.” He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “Your Grace, I urge you to take precautions closer to home.”

  “Pah… I weary of the whispered misdeeds that follow me like an unnatural shadow. My Lord Earl Bothwell has already pleaded your case. Faith, I cannot give it merit. My noble barons are well wordy, but they do not easily forget the rebellions I’ve quelled with ease.”

  “They spend so
much time boasting and inflating their own egos with talk of grandiose schemes,” contributed Rizzio in an irritating nasal voice, “they have none left to perform actual deeds.”

  Arran glared across the queen at the Italian monkey. “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

  “Hush,” demanded the queen. “We are all friends at this table.”

  “Your Grace, some threats are more imminent than others,” Arran insisted.

  “I carry Scotland’s heir inside my womb.” Her hands went to her belly as her gaze narrowed on him. “I don’t underestimate the treachery my barons are capable of, but none will dare harm me or cause distress to my unborn babe. Your concerns are both appreciated and unfounded.”

  Her decisive speech closed the argument. Arran knew he’d achieve nothing more and pardoned himself from the queen’s presence.

  Breghan had her head turned to the man on her left and was laughing when he approached. He was pleased to find her enjoying herself. He was less pleased, however, when the man’s arm snaked around the back of her chair.

  “Excuse me.” He picked the man’s arm up and dropped it aside heavily, then placed a propriety hand on Breghan’s shoulder. “I believe this one belongs to me.”

  Both of them jerked around and he saw that the man was little more than a boy with soft brown eyes and softer cheeks. The boy took one look at him and tried to melt into his chair.

  Arran assisted Breghan to her feet and steered her away from the table.

  “You scared him witless,” she protested when they were out of hearing.

  “I didna even growl,” Arran said, chuckling. “The pup should stick to suckling his mother and leave my wife alone.”

  Bothwell flagged him over and they sat down to sup with the earl and his new wife, Jean Gordon. Wine and whiskey flowed freely, but although the mood grew happy and boisterous, none dared get drunk in the queen’s presence. The music became livelier and it wasn’t long before the four Marys were on their feet to start the dancing. Belle came over to beg Breghan and Jean to join in. The older woman waved her away with some dour comment, but Breghan didn’t hesitate.