The Devil of Jedburgh (5 page)

“I didn’t mean to worry Mother.”

“Did you not?” Magellan transferred the kettle to an oblong table, nudging it carefully between the bowls and jars that took up most of the surface. “Then it must be Laird McAllen you seek to punish. Lest you retain any doubts as to your success, you should know that he came to me as well. Asked me to sift the ashes for him, no less.”

“Papa asked for a reading?”

A glimmer of humour crept into the other woman’s stern expression. “Almost killed the man to do so, but aye, that he did.”

“This can’t be good,” Breghan murmured as she watched Magellan scoop dried herbs into a clay mug and cover them with the hot water.

Weariness turned to remorse for the worry she’d put on her parents, and then to frustrated anger.

“It isn’t fair,” she cried, slipping off the stool to pace between the strewn sacks containing Lord knew what—wobbly piles of leather-bound volumes, potted plants that came from foreign lands, and some rather dubious-looking debris that dissuaded closer examination.

“If anyone is to blame, it is Papa. And my mother,” she added hotly, recalling the argument where she’d pleaded with her mother to make her father see reason. “Their suffering will be short-lived and end the moment I reappear. If Papa has his way, mine will last until I die.”

Unimpressed by her outrage, Magellan pushed the steaming mug into her hands. “This will ward off any evils from your night in the open air.”

“Promise me you won’t send word to the castle. I have no one else to turn to, Magellan. Please say you’ll let me stay. A couple of days, no more.”

Magellan searched her face for a long minute. “A few days’ respite will achieve naught but further alarm for your parents. And do you truly wish to earn your new husband’s wrath afore you’ve even met?”

“I will never marry the Kerr.”

“That is a choice you’re not free to make.”

“I don’t need to. Arran Kerr made his own mind very clear to me last night.” Breghan sipped on the brew as she took a moment to dispel the tightening at her chest.

She wasn’t just pleased Arran didn’t want her, she was delighted. If anything hurt, ’twas no more than her pride. No one liked to be told that they were unappealing, that the idea of bedding them appalled, no matter who did the telling.

Magellan placed the back of her hand across Breghan’s brow, tutting. “You don’t feel unusually warm.”

“I’m not delusional with fever. The man everyone is so intent on foisting me upon was kind enough to stab me, kidnap me and then—”

“The Kerr didn’t stab you, child.”

“Arran Kerr didn’t throw the dagger,” Breghan agreed, setting her mug down on a cramped ledge jutting from the wall so that she could pull at the neckline of her gown, revealing a glimpse of linen bandage. “But one of his men did.”

Within a heartbeat, Breghan was ushered into the curtained alcove and pressed on top Magellan’s bed.

“’Tis naught,” she started to protest, for the wound was almost certainly slight. “There’s no pain at all, not even mild discomfort.”

Magellan wasn’t listening. The tender ministrations as she peeled back the bandage were in direct contrast to her harshly muttered, “The devil stabbed you. So help me, I’ll curse him back to the hell he crawled from.”

“As much as I agree with the sentiment, it truly wasn’t the Kerr’s dagger.”

“Isn’t a man responsible for the actions of those he leads?” Magellan straightened abruptly.

Breghan didn’t rise to Arran’s defence again. It suddenly occurred to her that as long as Magellan was blaming the Kerr, she wasn’t talking about sending Breghan home.

The portcullis was raised. Flanked by Duncan and Broderick, Arran rode straight into the bailey with blithe disregard for the guard who hailed him. Smoke poured from the smithy and clanging steel competed with the high babble of moss-troopers, stable hands, harried servants and the squeals of children playing tag nearby with a stray hen. All activity ceased in a slow wave as, one by one, the castle stopped to stare.

Arran’s gaze went directly to the keep’s main entrance, where McAllen himself slowly descended the steep wooden steps to greet his guest. At over six foot five, he was taller than Arran, and thicker in the chest and waist. Yet where McAllen usually carried himself with rigid dignity, there was a puzzling stoop to those wide shoulders.

Arran dismounted, tossing his reins to a lad who rushed forward. He gave one last glance over his shoulder, in the direction of where Bree’s tracks had disappeared into the woodland. As tempted as he was to chase the lass to ground and rattle some sense into her, she was no longer his concern.

“Welcome to Castle Donague,” met McAllen, clapping Arran on the back. “Timmy will take good care of your horses. Come, come inside.” His deep blue gaze included Broderick and Duncan in the welcome as they joined Arran.

Once inside the hall, Arran was parted from his men and ushered up the spiral stairway with the foreboding words, “We must speak.”

Arran sensed the man’s tension and was surprised. He’d ridden into battle beside this laird many times and knew him to be as doubtless as he was honourable. If McAllen hadn’t had a change of heart, then… Some of Bree’s words came back to him.
Cosseted and spoilt. Screaming fits.

“Your daughter is reluctant?” he concluded when they came to a halt before a closed door.

“My daughter has run away,” McAllen said bluntly, turning to look Arran in the eye. “I would say she is needlessly fearful. I would say she would never deliberately shame me. That is neither here nor there. I beg forgiveness.”

“She ran away,” Arran repeated softly. Disbelief turned to genuine worry. And culpability.
Needlessly fearful.

She hadn’t just run away, she’d run away from him.

From the damned tales that flanked his every movement.

“There is naught to forgive,” he reassured the older man. There were circumstances to consider and he was trying his best to understand. The timid lass had to meet him to know he wasn’t the beast of her imagination. “Your daughter will answer to me, but first she must be brought back. Where has she run to?”

McAllen grimaced, dropping his gaze. “My lads are still searching.”

“What say you?” Arran’s hand came down on the man’s shoulder. Hard. Bringing McAllen’s eyes back up. “You know not where she is?”

He’d assumed she had barred herself behind the walls of a nearby convent or relative’s home. Instead it would appear his future bride had abandoned all sensibility and decency and was running loose alone and unprotected.

The door behind them opened before McAllen could reply. All thought of his bride fled as Arran found himself staring at the woman in the doorway. Tall, slender and incredibly beautiful despite her years. Her eyes were hazel and silvery blond hair curled to her waist. Even with the different colouring, the resemblance was impossible to mistake. “You must be Bree’s mother.”

She returned a blank look through tear-stained eyes.

McAllen took her hand, pulling her to his side. “Lillian, dearest, this is Arran Kerr.” To Arran, he said, “My lady wife.”

Arran turned a frown on McAllen. “This is your second wife?”

“I’ve always had only one wife.” McAllen sounded more confounded than Arran felt.

“You’re daughter…” His gaze sharpened on Lady Lillian. The likeness was uncanny, but Arran’s head was swamped with another problem.
This
willowy lady,
this
slender and frail creature,
this
was the Lady McAllen who’d borne a dozen McAllen sons? He tried to tell himself naught had changed, she had done it and survived and surely her daughter could survive one or two of his children.

But he’d already pushed to the edge of his conscience just to take a wife and he could push no further. The vague picture he’d entertained of a robust wife, thick in the waist and sturdy of frame, was shattered.

His two problems clashed with a sudden realisation. McAllen’s daughter’s name was Breghan. A detail he’d given little thought to… Bree? Damnation, how had he missed this? Breghan McAllen and Bree were one and the same.

“The lying, scheming wench.” Arran spun about and took a deep breath. But it was too late. His temper was unleashed and he was in no mood to control it.

“Arran, wait.”

Ignoring the command, Arran marched toward the stairs. McAllen’s daughter was no timid lass running from some faceless fear. She’d met him, challenged him, talked and teased. Argued and defied. Brazenly lied and deceived.

She’d hadn’t just run.

She’d run twice.

Breghan lay on her back, eyes closed, listening to Magellan move about other side the curtain. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. Long enough to clear her head and realise how much trouble she was in.

Yesterday she’d been running high on fear. Anything and everything had seemed possible.

Today Breghan was finding it difficult to hide from the truth.

Her mother must be distraught. Her father would never forgive her. Arran Kerr would outwait her, if only to see his own brand of justice done, whatever that might be. When he discovered that Bree was Breghan, heaven help her.

“Breghan.”

Her eyes opened on a frown.

“Quick, child, you must awake.” Magellan slid the dividing curtain aside. “They are here.”

“I’m awake.” Breghan sat up, her heart pounding. At the same time she was strangely relieved. “Who is here? Father? My brothers?”

“Aye, Tristan.” Magellan hurried across the room to draw the drapery at the window. “And another.”

“You sent for them?”

“I considered doing so.” Magellan turned from the window. “Now the decision is out of my hands.”

“It matters not. You were right, Magellan. This isn’t something I can hide from.”

“While I applaud your change of heart—”

“My heart is more opposed than ever.” Breghan threw back the covers and scrambled from the bed. “I intend to stay and fight.”

“You would defy your father?”

“I already have,” Breghan reminded her.

Magellan looked set to argue. The sudden pounding on the door made her whisper hastily instead, “It will go better with you, child, if you returned on your own and weren’t dragged back. One or another of your brothers have come by at regular intervals during their search. I doubt Tristan knows for sure you are with me.”

“I’ll leave through the window at the first indication of trouble. They will not find me here.”

“You’ll go straight home?”

Breghan nodded. “I’m done with running.”

Another round of pounding rattled the cottage door, sending Magellan from the room with a terse smile in parting.

Breghan remained where she was, listening. The command came before Magellan opened the door.

“Breghan McAllen. Bring yourself out here.” The voice was low and firm yet somehow carried to her corner of the cottage. The deep timbre was painfully familiar.

Arran Kerr.

Her legs suddenly weak, Breghan edged closer to the window.

“What is the meaning of this?” Magellan called. “Tristan, why would you think your sister is here? You’re welcome to search if you will.”

“I willna chase circles around that lass,” Arran replied. “She will come to me.”

“Who are you?” Magellan demanded.

Tristan spoke up then. “Magellan, this is Arran Kerr. We followed Breghan’s tracks from the river.”

“You are mistaken. Many folk pass this way.”

“Magellan, please, if she’s here—”

“Breghan,” thundered Arran above the chatter of the other two, “if you dinna show yourself I swear I’ll smoke you out. I’ll burn this cottage to the ground.”

One leg dangling out of the window, Breghan froze. He wouldn’t dare. He was bluffing.

“Well!” Magellan protested. “I’ve already given permission for you to search the place.”

“I willna be drawn into another cat and mouse game. Bree, this is your last warning.”

He’d lowered his voice but not the menacing intensity as he spoke the name she’d given him yesterday.

So, he knew.

Breghan tried to conjure up an image of the softer aspects she’d encountered yesterday. The gentle burr when he was concerned, the tender crinkling at his eyes when he smiled. It wouldn’t come. There was nothing to stop the dread unfolding in her belly, even more so when she admitted he had some right to his anger.

The enormity of her folly was catching up to her.

And now she’d implicated Magellan and forced the woman to lie.

Breghan started moving again. She had to get away from here. She wanted her father at her side when next she faced Arran Kerr. She wanted Magellan as far away from suspicion of abetting her as possible.

As she slid to her feet outside the window, chaos erupted.

“Arran, don’t,” Tristan yelled. “I was likely mistaken and Breghan isn’t inside after all. ’Twas mere coincidence—”

“Coincidence?” cut in Arran. “I think not. Bring Breghan to me, my good woman, or get out of the way.”

The faint waft of burning heather was followed with Magellan’s cry. “This is pointless. I cannot bring you what I do not have.”

“Magellan, come away from the door,” Tristan shouted. “Christ, woman, tell me Breghan is not in there, for he really means to do it.”

“She isn’t.” Magellan’s desolate denial stopped Breghan.

Of course, for all Magellan knew, she was out the window and halfway home by now. As for Arran… She could scarce believe he’d set the cottage roof alight. Arran Kerr truly was a cold-hearted beast. A cottage could easily be rebuilt. Not so the ancient volumes handed down to Magellan through the generations, the rare roots and dried herbs she’d spent her lifetime amassing.

The fury that consumed Breghan spread faster than any fire. She ran around the side of the cottage, shouting, “Stop! Stop this at once.”

“Breghan?” Tristan grabbed her as she barrelled into him.

She twisted out of his grasp to see Magellan standing firm in her doorway and Arran holding a lit torch of heather. He hadn’t set the roof alight yet, but the intention was written on his face.

“You—you are a despicable excuse for… You are an absolute…” She couldn’t finish a sentence. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist to still the trembling as she glared at Arran. “How could you do this?” she managed at last, her voice gruff with emotion.