The Devil of Jedburgh (32 page)

The command came from his left, but Arran didn’t take his eyes off the man holding Breghan. “On what charge?”

“High treason.”

Stewart was either deluded, paranoid and demented or the man was neck deep with the conspirators. Neither question was as burning as Breghan’s fate. “Release the lady and I’ll do whatever the damn hell you want.”

Chapter Twenty

Breghan sucked in a calming breath, inhaling more sweat than air. The steel links from the man’s chainmail bit at her cheek to the beat of the horse’s uneven gait on the cobbled walkway. Her view was confined to the dark profile of the stone wall to their left. She knew Arran was just up ahead, surrounded by drawn swords and restrained by the fact that she was still at the mercy of his captors.

As they passed through the portcullis into the castle proper, the arm around her tightened. The man bowed his head over her to be heard above the clatter of hooves and clinking armour. “Need I remind you what happens if you canna keep your mouth shut?”

The threat was superfluous. She was far more afraid of what Arran would do if she made the smallest sound or move of distress. Her entire being was focussed on him, praying he wouldn’t do anything to get himself killed, praying they wouldn’t simply kill him anyway. The air thickened with the press of bodies and muttering, stamping, shuffling. Servants, perhaps men-at-arms, roused by the disruption. There were shouts, a demand to know what was happening.

“Stand down or bear the consequences,” someone barked in reply. “We’re about the queen’s business.”

Breghan sincerely doubted it. The charge levied against Arran was ludicrous. She was almost happy to be pulled from the horse and prodded through a low door into instant blackness. Because finally, finally, Arran’s arms were around her.

“Are you all right?” He dragged her up against his body. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “They tricked me. They claimed to be the royal guard and said you needed to see me.”

“That wasna all lies.”

“Come on.” A hard shove pressed them forward. “Move.”

A single sconce flickered at the bottom of a steep, narrow stairwell. She clung tight as Arran navigated the wooden steps in near darkness. “What is happening? Where are they taking us?”

“The bloody dungeons. I’ve still hope this is a mistake and not a conspiracy.” He brushed his chin over the top of her head. “You’ll be safe, sweeting. I willna allow otherwise.”

The passage at the bottom was as narrow as the stairwell, although better lit with sconces bracketed to the arched wall. The smell of animal fat and dank rot suffused the cramped space. To the front and back, squishing sounds accompanied the fall of booted steps.

Arran’s chin lifted. “You have what you want. Let the lady go before you bring the might of Kerr and wrath of McAllen down on your sorry arses.”

“There’s no a Douglas standing who’d take orders from a Kerr or fear a McAllen.” The man turned to grin at them before stooping to unlock a squat, barred gate.

“Douglases,” spat Arran. “You’re like a pack of rats salivating at the core of every disease. Prison duty is a step up in this world for you lot.”

“A temporary assignment to ensure your stay with us is rich and rewarding.” He gave a signal and she was wrenched from Arran, who resisted only long enough to realise she’d be torn apart by the pairs of hands marauding her, pressing her down onto her hands and knees. The stone was smooth and slippery. Thick sludge slurped between the spread of her fingers before she could claw them into a fist.

“You firkin’ animals!” Arran threw his arms out, flinging aside the men either side of him. An elbow knocked another out the way. He didn’t even seem to notice the one hanging on to his back.

Just as suddenly, the fire drained from his outrage and he went limp. Breghan felt the cold prick to the base of her neck.

“On second thought,” drawled the Douglas standing over her, “perhaps you should go first.” He yanked Breghan to her feet again and waved his sword at the opening that was little bigger than a hole. “Dinna fear, your visit will be short and highly entertaining. We may be animals, but you canna fault a Douglas’s hospitality.”

The two men stared each other down for a long, hard moment. It took a blade pressed to her throat again before Arran bent double and stepped into the cell. Breghan was pushed inside a moment later and the gate slammed shut. The patch of light flickering through the grate didn’t reach into the corners of the room.

Arran grabbed her hand, but instead of bringing her into his arms, he shoved her up against the wall. “Listen carefully.” His voice was hoarse with urgency. While he spoke, he stripped his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it at her feet. “The bastards put us in a cell with Sandie Armstrong.”

He reached down and she made out three advancing shadows before he came back up, pressing cold, smooth steel against her palm. “If one of them gets to you, dinna hesitate to knife the vermin anywhere you can reach.” He folded her fingers over the hilt of the dirk. “Do you understand?”

His breath came warm and heavy as he looked into her eyes, waiting for her answer, wasting precious time.

“Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Dear God, yes.”

She was left standing there, her back plastered to the wall, holding Arran’s only weapon as he lunged forward to take the fight as far from her as possible. She had no idea which man was Sandie Armstrong. Two of them were wide, bulking figures with more hair on their faces than skin. All were draped in mangy furs, some still bearing the head of the wild creature that had given its life. They came at Arran from three angles, grunting and growling like the dead animals they wore.

The grit that had kept her together so far began to seep away. Arran had given her his dagger because he knew she was going to need it. With or without a weapon, he didn’t expect to survive this fight.

A unified roar echoed off the walls as two men threw themselves onto Arran in a tangle of arms and legs and fur. The third man was taller, thinner, and he wasn’t joining in the fight. Instead he danced around the punches and kicks in a series of quick slides.
He’s looking for a way to slink around to me.

If he got to her, if he overpowered her, he’d have the dagger to use on Arran. Her temples pounded with a building pressure that blurred her vision. If he got to her, he wouldn’t need the dagger. She’d already seen that she was more lethal than any weapon that could be turned on Arran.

She twisted the dagger within the fold of her skirts, praying for strength, for a miracle, praying to a God who wasn’t listening. Arran went down in a hail of curses, one man kicking in his ribs, the other his face. The dancer saw his chance and dashed through the melee. She brought her hand away from her skirts, her fingers trembling so badly, the dagger almost slipped from her grasp.

I can’t do this. I don’t know where to strike.
Her limbs froze and time fragmented into the pulse of her heartbeat. One step brought him this side of the fight. His arm came up. His foot came down right in front of her.

The sound of Arran’s name tore from her throat in a blood-curdling scream.

He leaned in with a snarl. His hand snaked around her head, seeking purchase in her hair.

And then time was reversing. His hand pulled back. He swallowed the snarl. His entire body slid away from under him and his chin hit the stone floor with a resounding crack.

Arran dropped the man’s leg and kicked him out of the way.

In the time it had taken her to fall apart, Arran had recovered and brought down two of his adversaries. Now the fight was one on one, although far from fair. Arran was twice as bruised, twice as bloody, twice as weary as the other man. He stood closest to her, still protecting her. His breaths came out in gasps and his right elbow was tucked into his side, the side he seemed to favour as he waited for the other man to make his move.

Breghan came up behind him and pressed the hilt of the dagger into his left hand. His fingers fumbled for a moment, then he realised what she’d given him. He lunged forward with a war cry, bringing the man down flat on his back so he could pound into his chest with a dagger instead of fists.

By the time Arran had drained the edge from his bloodlust, the man’s chest was a bloody pulp of fur and shredded skin.

Breghan’s glassy stare went from the heap of gore to Arran, to find him swiping the blade clean across his thigh. The dry heave started in the pit of her belly, ejecting nothing but hot air that scalded the inside of her throat as she met Arran’s gaze.

His eyes turned down, to the dagger in his hand, to the bright red splotches staining the ragged remains of his linen shirt. “I spared Armstrong’s life once and that was once too many.” A subtle shift came over the contours of his face, as if the essence of a ghost had drifted over. As if regret lurked in the shadow of his jaw. As if a pain far worse than his injuries pinned his grimace. “A man must be capable of atrocities to protect his land and loved ones.”

Breghan looked at him blankly, not understanding, and then she did. The regret wasn’t for Sandie Armstrong. The inner pain wasn’t from another spent life branded on his soul. She shook her head at him, her heart filling with love and tears. There he stood, blood dripping into his left eye from the gash at his brow, bruises already darkening his jaw. His weight rested heavily on his left leg, and once again that arm tucked beneath his ribs to gingerly protect either or both. And his regret, his pain, was that he believed he’d turned her stomach with disgust.

“My body may be weak when it comes to blood and violence, but I assure you, darling, my mind and heart are not.” She went to him, lightly stroked a finger along the swollen line of his jaw. “There is nothing atrocious about what you did here.”

He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “I can’t leave these men to live. I—I need you to turn away.”

“I could watch you slaughter each of these men and love you even more than I already do…if such a thing were possible.”

A frown settled above his steady gaze. “Bree, please.”

Breghan backed up against the wall and slid to the ground. She would have gladly watched to prove her words. But she was mightily relieved to pull her legs up instead and rest her forehead on her knees. She didn’t lift her head until Arran returned to her side. He held out his hand to raise her up.

She ignored the offered hand and pushed to her feet. “I should be taking care of you.”

“I’ve suffered far worse.” He retrieved his cloak, fumbling with the layers of cloth as he struggled to drape it around her shoulders with only his right hand.

She shrugged out of the cloak. “Be that as it may—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Speaking of hell, I’ve been there and back once today and I’m in no mood for that tone. I intend to patch up what is left of you with or without your consent.” His fledgling grin flattened when she pointed a finger at him. “Sit!”

A short while later, she’d cut away most of her petticoats to bandage the seeping cut above his brow and strap the ribs he assured her were merely bruised and not cracked.

As she worked, Arran told her about the treasonous bond and all that had transpired. “I was meant to die tonight. I didna want to believe it, but John Stewart has turned against queen and country.”

She’d heard enough about court politics from Arran during the past weeks to question his statement now. “Turning from one doesn’t necessarily imply turning from the other.”

“I’m not blind to our queen’s faults, Bree. She surrounds herself with foreign dignitaries and servants and takes no council from her barons. And yet, she was born with the God-given right to the crown. If Mary is wrested from power, Scotland will be torn apart at the seams in unrest and civil war.”

“Perhaps it won’t come to that.” She bound his hand firmly, relying on God’s own luck that she applied the right pressure to keep the swelling down without cutting off his blood flow. He’d broken two fingers, possibly some fine bones in the flat of his hand. “We need to get you proper care. Janet was in the room with me. She would have gone to Broderick for help. Did you see him?” She gently placed his hand in his lap. “Did you see Broderick out there?”

Arran shook his head. “But he won’t be idle. He’ll know something’s amiss as soon as he hears their bogus charges.” His tattered shirt had been the first thing to go and she insisted he needed his cloak more than she did. He leaned back against the wall and held one side of the cloak open. “Come here.”

She slid just a little closer. The moment she was within reach, he brought the cloak around her like a blanket and wrapped them both inside it. She lay alongside him, her cheek to his shoulder, taking care to not touch any part of his ribs.

They lay for a long while, his thumb caressing circles through the velvet of her gown, before he spoke again. “I’m a selfish bastard.”

Breghan smiled. She should deny it. Perhaps she would. After she’d enjoyed it for a few more minutes.

“I shouldn’t have brought you to Edinburgh.”

“Now you’ve ruined the moment.” She craned her neck to look at him. “You can’t take the blame for this, Arran, you know exactly how much I wanted to come.”

“My reasons were more complicated than that,” he grunted, his thumb still caressing mindlessly. “I thought I only wanted you to not forget me. Now I know I’d always wanted… I needed… Damn my arrogance, I did everything within my power to make you love me.”

Her heart seemed to hesitate before its next beat. “Is that so terrible?”

His thumb stopped circling. He was silent so long, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. But of course not. He simply didn’t know how to lie to her.

“You are indeed arrogant,” she said, “if you think you have the power to make someone fall in love with you. Believe me, I’ve tried and failed.”

“I could have done more to push you away.”

“You did plenty.” Breghan laughed, a hollow sound of defeat and sheer exhaustion. “You didn’t ride into my life on a white steed, you know. Your sense of honour and duty is practically stifling and when your mind is set on something, God help us all. When you think you’re in the right, you’re more rigid than the iron bars holding us in here.”