The Devil of Jedburgh Read online

  The Devil of Jedburgh

  By Claire Robyns

  Raised on rumours of The Devil of Jedburgh, Breghan McAllen doesn’t want an arranged marriage to the beast. The arrogant border laird is not the romantic, sophisticated husband Breghan dreams of—despite the heat he stirs within her.

  In need of an heir, Arran has finally agreed to take a wife, but when he sees Breghan’s fragile beauty, he’s furious. He will not risk the life of another maiden by getting her with child. Lust prompts him to offer a compromise: necessary precautions, and handfasting for a year and a day, after which Breghan will be free. For a chance to control her own future, Breghan makes a deal with the Devil.

  Passion quickly turns to love, but Arran still has no intention of keeping the lass, or making her a mother. He loves her too much to lose her. But when a treasonous plot threatens queen and country, Breghan has to prove only she is woman enough to stand by his side.

  95,000 words

  Dear reader,

  It’s not that I love winter, but I love some of the things that come with winter. Here in the States, February brings some of the coldest temperatures of the winter, but it also brings the promise of spring right around the corner. So I don’t mind hunkering down in my living room next to the fire with a blanket, a kid or a dog on my feet, and a mug of hot chocolate or hot tea (or even a hot toddy) beside me. And, of course, my digital reading device of choice in hand.

  There’s something permissive about cold weather that makes it easy to laze away hours at a time reading a great book without feeling guilty, which makes February one of my favorite months. I know I can always indulge in plenty of guilt-free reading time!

  This month, Carina Press offers a new selection of releases across the genres to aid you in your own reading-time indulgence. Romantic suspense favorite Marie Force is back with a new installment in her Fatal series, Fatal Flaw. Newlyweds Sam and Nick discover that they won’t get the normalcy they were looking for post-wedding…because someone has other plans for them. Also look for author Dee J. Adams to follow up her adrenaline-packed romantic suspense debut with her sophomore book, Danger Zone, which delivers thrills and action.

  Two steampunk titles will get your gears whirling in February. Look for Prehistoric Clock by Robert Appleton and Under Her Brass Corset by Brenda Williamson to take you back to a time altered by steam and clockwork. Also in the science fiction and fantasy realm, author Nico Rosso offers up The Last Night, a post-apocalyptic tale of romance, while Kim Knox takes us into the future with her futuristic science fiction romance, Synthetic Dreams.

  And for those of you with a yen for the paranormal, we have several authors joining us for their Carina Press debuts. Blood of the Pride by Sheryl Nantus and Pack and Coven by Jody Wallace hit the virtual shelves in mid-February.

  Portia Da Costa will heat up your day with Intimate Exposure, a sexy and intense look into the world of BDSM.

  Rounding out our amazing and genre-packed February lineup are books from Claire Robyns, Charlie Cochrane, Debra Kayn, Shelley Munro, Amie Denman, Crista McHugh and Susan Edwards, with everything from historical and contemporary romance to m/m romance to a fun romantic caper. February offers a little something for everyone’s reading pleasure.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  For my fabulous editor, Melissa Johnson.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  There must have been a hundred of them. Black-hearted Kerrs with mud-streaked cheekbones, matted braids falling down naked chests dark from dirt and sun and hair. But the eyes. Black as night, black as their hearts, black as the devil’s soul.

  Breghan ran faster, tearing through the summer-thick foliage. She could hear them rapidly closing in. The high-pitched grunts were neither human nor animal.

  Branches rustled at her left, then at her right. Stubby fingers reached for her, scratching, clawing, poking, until all that remained of her gown was shredded ruins.

  And then they went for her hair and face.

  “No,” she screamed, swatting in every direction before she fell to her knees and covered her face with her arms. “Leave me be. Please, please…let me be.”

  The cruel fingers fell away.

  The grunts stilled.

  Breghan swallowed her sobs, slowly lifting one arm, then the other, afraid to look and afraid not to.

  The leader of the pack stood right in front of her.

  A shudder trembled through her. The stories were all true. He stood at least seven feet tall, blocking out the sun with his width. What she could see of his face was horribly disfigured, the skin puckered and mottled red. This one’s eyes weren’t black. No, the Kerr’s eyes were blood-red and burning bright with the wild rage of a fire-spitting demon. Only one of his names was the Devil of Jedburgh.

  Breghan’s eyes shot open to sunlight streaming through the densely covered branches. Her chest was so tight, she had to fight for every breath as she sat up straight, her gaze darting about in a wild frenzy. A late-afternoon breeze rustled the leaves above and skittered shadows across the tangled yellow gorse and long grass. Her snowy mare, Angel, grazed contentedly at the base of the tree she was tethered to. It was a perfectly normal summer afternoon.

  But there was nothing normal about this day.

  Breghan slumped back against the tree trunk.

  How long had she been asleep?

  The long shadows indicated a couple of hours at least. She had to get home, before she was missed. Little chance, she remembered with a groan. Her mother demanded her almost constant attendance of late, plucking at sleeves and pinning up hems, embroidering necklines and sewing fresh ribbons onto old slippers. An entire wedding wardrobe was to be fashioned in under a week.

  A week that ends today. By this time tomorrow, she’d be married to the Black-Hearted Kerr of Ferniehirst.

  She couldn’t make this sacrifice.

  Her father demanded too much.

  I could run away. That desperate thought was followed by a revelation. I already have.

  She hadn’t meant to. She’d simply done what she always did when it felt as if the walls of Castle Donague were closing in on her. She’d mounted Angel and the two of them had raced the morning breeze across McAllen fields. Neither the stable master nor the gate guard had blinked an eye. They knew she never went further than the river.

  This morning, however, she couldn’t stop herself. She’d veered west with the River Tiviot, onto the main road, and then she’d just kept on going and going.

  Now Breghan contemplated truly doi
ng it. She only had to stay away until the Kerr arrived to find his bride gone. His pride and her father’s shame should do the rest. The Kerr would never tolerate such an outrage and her father would never insist the jilted laird honour their brief betrothal.

  Running reeked of a cowardice that was abhorrent to her nature. Then again, opposing her father might be construed as a show of astounding courage. ’Twas more than her brothers had ever dared. Her father would be furious, but anything was preferable than marriage to the Beast of Roxburgh.

  The rhythmic thud of pounding hooves interrupted her thoughts. Breghan held completely still, grateful for the overgrown shrubbery protecting her position from the road. She peeked over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Angel was deep enough in the woods to not be seen either.

  “Halt,” called one of the men in a heavy burr.

  Eyes squeezed shut, breath held fast, Breghan waited and listened.

  “What is it, Arran?”

  “Movement in the bushes.”

  “Ah, a wee beastie for our sup.”

  “Do you no think of naught but your stomach?”

  “’Twas nothing,” decided that first voice. “We ride on.”

  Relief weakened Breghan’s limbs. In a clumsy moment, she put a hand down to steady herself. The rustle of leaves crunching beneath her palm was barely audible. Breghan froze again.

  Apparently the men and their horses were doing the same.

  She heard only the soft gurgle of the Tiviot water rushing around a nearby shallow bend.

  Into that intense silence, Angel blew her nostrils at the scent of stallion. Moments later, the brambles shook. Breghan didn’t even have time to jump to her feet. Half the bush flattened and she found herself staring at a pair of fawn leather boots.

  Her mouth opened in a silent scream and her gaze travelled up slowly, afraid to look, afraid not to. Dark blond hair covered the muscled leg between boot and plaid. She didn’t recognize the green thread running through the woven red.

  Her gaze shot straight up, past the thick waist and white linen shirt. The fierce warrior stood so tall and broad, he blocked the sunlight. Her heart slammed against her chest bone and Breghan wondered crazily if she’d fallen back into her nightmare.

  The last thing she saw was an arc of sunlight coming at her. The devil’s shooting fire from his eyes. The burning hole exploded just above her breast, sucking her into blackness.

  “You killed her.”

  “God’s truth, all I saw was that cloud of black hair. I swear I thought it a wild boar.”

  “Quit your squabbling,” Arran barked as he dropped beside the lass.

  A dark stain spread around the dagger piercing her breast. Arran made a quick judgement of the length of blade showing and the thickness of her velvet gown, and estimated the blade hadn’t gone deep. His fingers folded over the hilt of Broderick’s dagger and pulled in one swift movement. There was no sudden gush of blood. He prayed the wound was superficial, that the dark velvet wasn’t absorbing the blood, disguising a serious wound.

  He leaned over the slumped form and lifted her beneath the arms. Her head lolled to one side, hair as fine as a length of black silk sliding over her cheek to reach the ground.

  “Duncan,” he called as he struggled with the limp weight and tight bodice, “get yourself behind and hold the lass up for me.”

  “Thank God I missed her heart,” Broderick declared, stooping to retrieve his dagger from where Arran had tossed it.

  Arran glanced up with a scowl. The blame, he conceded, was mostly his. He knew better than to freeze in awed fascination, no matter that he’d plunged through the bushes to find a forest sprite kneeling at his feet. He knew that his men would be at his back and watching, ready to protect their laird and act on the first indication of trouble.

  “Make yourself useful,” he told Broderick, “and help with these ties.”

  The gown was laced on both sides with slippery ribbons that evaded Arran’s clumsy fingers. With Broderick fiddling on the other seam, they managed to work some slack into the crisscross binding. Arran gave one hard tug and the entire bodice with all the under layers came down with his hands, his callused fingers suddenly brushing against soft, cool skin.

  When two lush breasts popped free, Arran groaned a mix of disbelief and hard pleasure. He’d ripped her shift and bared her completely.

  Arran forced his attention to something far less pleasant, the short cut above the swell of her right breast. Only a small amount of blood trickled from the wound. The tension in his gut gave a little.

  “Sweet Mary,” Broderick whispered heavily.

  Arran turned to reassure his friend, only to find Broderick leering with a half-formed grin.

  “Shut your eyes,” Arran ordered, at once protective of the sight before them. “You as well,” he added to Duncan.

  Both men looked at him as if he were mad.

  Arran shrugged them off, removing his shirt and tearing a strip from the linen with swift efficiency. He folded the strip into a thick pad and pressed it down firmly over her breast.

  Who was this maiden?

  What was she doing out here alone?

  He glanced about him and saw a white mare tethered to a nearby tree, stamping nervously and pulling at the bit. “Broderick, attend the lady’s mare afore she breaks loose.”

  Grateful that the blood wasn’t soaking through the linen square, he tore the rest of his shirt into strips and wound a makeshift bandage across her chest and over the shoulder. As he secured the ends, his eyes were drawn to her face.

  Broad cheekbones with a gentle curve gave her a bold, sensual beauty. Her mouth was wide, her bottom lip slightly swollen with a natural pout that made him think of slow kisses. She was beautiful, enticing, bewitching, and he wasn’t made of stone.

  This lass had the power to put thoughts into his head, thoughts that led to wants and needs that were absolutely futile. For she was clearly no tavern wench to be tossed in passing—he could see that by her fine gown and soft skin, in the youthful innocence of her lovely face.

  Just then she gave a small sigh and tried to turn in Duncan’s arms, successfully jolting Arran back to the task at hand.

  “She’s coming around,” Duncan warned needlessly.

  Arran yanked her bodice up and pulled at the ties to keep it there.

  Breghan came to with a start. Her eyes snapped wide to take in the danger and her heartbeat sped up.

  They were all over her. Behind. On top. To the left. Primal instinct took charge. She struck back with her head and hit out with her fists. She tried to kick in vain. There was a beast astride her and pinning her legs down. “If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

  “You’re already screaming,” pointed out a black-bearded giant standing to her left.

  She glared up at him, sucked in a deep breath and loosened a piercing shrill that hurt even her own ears.

  Her hands were caught up in front of her. “Restrain yourself, lass.”

  The gruff burr was oddly gentle. She stopped struggling, but only because her arms were now as firmly trapped as her legs. The blond-haired man straddling her was half naked, and he seemed vaguely familiar.

  His shadowed jaw was square, his cheeks severely hollowed. Everything about his face was harsh with dark angles and threatening even darker premonitions, the brimming danger set off by a jagged scar that cut his left cheekbone.

  And then she remembered.

  “You—you—” she stuttered in disbelief. “You torched me.”

  One thick brow arched high. “’Tis a stab wound, lass, not a burn. A grave accident at that. You have my apology and regret.”

  Breghan glanced down and saw the wet stain in the velvet of her bodice. Her eyes came back up and anger fed into her fear.

  She hadn’t fainted from sheer terror.

  This man wasn’t the Deadly Kerr from her nightmare.

  His eyes were a clear green, she now saw, and of course he hadn’t shot fire from them. No, he�
��d only stabbed her.

  “Please release me,” she said coldly.

  “Only if you promise to hold still.”

  Breghan nodded.

  As soon as he removed himself, she jumped to her feet. And immediately clutched the awkward tension at her shoulder. Her fingers flittered and prodded from one end of the lumpy bandage beneath her arm to where it sloped down over her breast.

  Hot colour rushed to her face with understanding. Now that she was aware of it, her entire bodice pulled and strained uncomfortably. She raised her arms, to find the laces uneven, too tight in places and hanging loose in others. Her shift beneath felt as if it were bundled at her waist.

  “What else have you done to me?” she gasped, dashing a glare across the three of them.

  “Someone had to tend your wound,” Arran soothed, uncomfortably aware the lass had every right to be mad at them.

  “You did more than that. You—you—Haven’t you one whit of decency?”

  “No one here set out to harass you.”

  “You stabbed me!”

  “The laird didna throw the dagger,” Broderick offered, stepping forward. “I mistook you for a boar.”

  “Your eyesight is as poor as your aim and your chivalry is worse,” she hissed at Broderick.

  Arran grinned at his friend’s slack jaw. She turned those accusing eyes on him and he was left marvelling at the sparkling blue depths. By God, she was magnificent in anger. Her cheeks were flushed to the same rosy tint as her lips.

  “Your amusement is enlightening,” she told them. “It tells me exactly what manner of buffoons I’ve had the misfortune to cross paths with. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added with a flick of her skirts, “I’ll be on my way.”

  The lass shot off into the trees before her intention took seed.