The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  Past the point of caring about her father’s anger, she tried again. “Please, Father, I’m begging you. Please do something to help her. You can’t leave her like this.”

  But he could. And that’s exactly what he did, dragging her sobbing and pleading from the castle.

  Joan had never felt so helpless in her life. She’d failed. Her knees collapsed, and she would have slid to the ground had her father not been holding her up.

  The pain and devastation on her face had finally penetrated the black haze of his anger.

  Too late he seemed to realize that he might have gone too far. He held her up against him as if she were one of the pretty poppets he used to buy her as a child. “I’m sorry you had to see that, daughter. But it was for your own good.”

  She looked at him as if he were mad. How could that possibly be for her own good? She would never forget it. Just as she would never forget his cruelty in bringing her here.

  What he saw in her expression must have alarmed him. He looked truly uneasy as he wiped some of the hair back from her face. Feeling the chill on her skin, he jerked off his plaid to wrap around her. “Your mother is dead to us both. We will not speak of her again.”

  He was right in that. They didn’t speak of her again. But it wasn’t her mother who died, it was her father, who didn’t rise from his bed after a fever struck him down two years later.

  She didn’t mourn him. He’d been dead to her since the day he’d taken her to see her mother hanging in a cage. Her father had taught her a lesson that day, although not the one he intended. The image of her mother treated so brutally and Joan’s inability to do anything to stop it would stay with her forever, as would her hatred toward the king who’d put her there and the man who had refused to lift a finger to help her. She never saw her father in the same way again.

  She would never see many things the same way again. No longer was she a spectator in the war between Scotland and England. From that day forward, seeing Edward of England defeated and Robert Bruce on the throne became all that mattered. She’d failed to free her mother from the cage, but she would do everything she could to ensure that her mother’s suffering had not been in vain.

  She should have taken the lashing. At least those scars might have had a chance to heal.

  1

  Carlisle Castle, Cumbria, England, April 16, 1314

  YOU ARE DRIVING me wild,” the young knight said as he frantically pressed his hot mouth all over her neck. “God, you smell so good.”

  Joan wished she could say the same, but as Sir Richard Fitzgerald—the second-in-command of the Earl of Ulster’s Irish naval forces—had cornered her after the midday meal, he smelled distinctly of smoked herring, which needless to say was not her favorite.

  When he tried to press his mouth on hers again, not even the prospect of learning the movements of the entire English fleet could have stopped her from turning her head. “We can’t,” she said softly. The slight breathiness in her voice was not from passion, but from the effort of fending off a determined would-be lover tired of hearing no. “Someone might discover us.”

  Which was why she’d chosen this as a place to meet. It was private but not too private. She never left herself without a means of escape.

  Deftly twisting out of his tentacle-like embrace with the ease of someone who’d had practice escaping men with hands like a hydra many times before, she looked around anxiously as if to prove her point.

  They stood in a quiet section of the garden in the castle’s outer ward, where she’d announced that she was going to take a stroll after the long meal. As she’d intended, Sir Richard had followed her there and had pulled her behind one of the rose trellises.

  The young captain scowled, his face flushed with frustrated desire. With his light eyes, blondish-red hair, ruddy, wind-burned complexion, and sturdy build, he bore the marked stamp of his Irish forebears. He was not unattractive. Not that it mattered. She’d lost her weakness for handsome young knights a long time ago.

  “No one would discover us if you would agree to come to my room. My squire can sleep in the barracks for the night.”

  “I couldn’t,” she said, as if the suggestion shocked her, though it was hardly the first time she’d heard it.

  His smile might have been charming to someone with less experience in the ways of men. “Nothing untoward will happen,” he assured her with a gentle brush of his finger on her cheek.

  Right. Every time she heard false promises like that, it became more difficult to feign wide-eyed innocence. With some effort, she managed. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, his voice turning husky. “We can just spend a little time alone together. I thought you wanted that.”

  She gnawed anxiously on her bottom lip, as if contemplating the illicit offer. His gaze heated as he obviously contemplated equally illicit things about her mouth.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “But it’s too risky, and there is plenty of time—”

  “No there isn’t,” he snapped, losing patience with the two-week-long seduction that he no doubt thought would have progressed much further than a very few stolen kisses by now. She was supposed to be easy prey. “I received orders yesterday. I’m to leave in three days.”

  Finally, the information for which she’d been waiting! Joan had begun to despair of ever hearing anything of import from him. Young knights were usually so eager to boast and brag—which is why she targeted them (that and they weren’t married)—but Sir Richard had been frustratingly closemouthed.

  Until now.

  She hid her excitement and relief behind a mask of concern. “Orders? You are leaving? But I thought you had until June to muster at Berwick.”

  “I’m not going to Berwick.” He sounded distracted. His eyes had dropped to her chest again—a frequent occurrence. “God, you are so beautiful. There isn’t another woman like you.”

  As he looked like he might try to kiss her again, she shuffled “nervously” and spoke quickly. “You’re not? Has the war been called off, then?”

  He glanced up from his lustful study of her breasts. She hoped he thought her as stupid as she sounded. If his amused but slightly patronizing smile was any indication, he did.

  “No, the war hasn’t been called off. But my duties are on the sea in advance of the army.”

  Which is why she was here with him. It was rumored that the Earl of Ulster—Sir Richard’s commander who was currently in York meeting with King Edward—would be in charge of supplying the castles in advance of the English invasion. King Robert the Bruce would love to know of their plans. Though Ulster was Bruce’s father-in-law, he was Edward of England’s man.

  She acted as if the news of his leaving was devastating. “But where are you going? When will you be back? Will it be dangerous?”

  Whether he would have answered her questions, she would not find out. The sound of approaching voices put a quick end to the conversation. Leaning over, he pressed a quick kiss on her lips that she could not avoid. Herring.

  “Meet me later,” he whispered before slipping away.

  Not a chance in Satan’s garden, she thought with a shudder. At least until she had a means of escape.

  Cursing, knowing she might not have another opportunity like this again, she walked out from behind the trellis to greet the ill-timed interruption as the group of ladies came around the corner of a large hedge that surrounded some of the raised flower beds.

  Joan had been so close. But her contingency plan had worked too well. She hadn’t wanted to risk being alone with him too long. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep putting him off. It was a dangerous game she played, and she knew only too well what a fine line she walked.

  This was not the first time she’d encouraged a man to get information. She’d been spying for Robert the Bruce for almost six years now.

  Shortly after her father’s death, the Bishop of St. Andrews, William Lamberton, a loyal supporter of Bruce’s who was being held in England at the
time, had approached Joan to see if she would be willing to serve as an intermediary between Bruce and his imprisoned wife. Queen Elizabeth had been captured along with Joan’s mother, but she’d been spared a cage for confinement under the supervision of Sir Hugh Despenser the elder—Joan’s newly named guardian.

  The bishop’s offer was exactly the opportunity Joan had been waiting for to do something, and she’d agreed immediately. Although admittedly, at the time, she had no idea what she was getting into. Over the years her role had grown increasingly more important—and more dangerous—shifting from messenger to spy after she’d falsely been declared illegitimate, dispossessed of her inheritance, and sent to live with her cousin Alice Comyn, who had married Sir Henry de Beaumont, one of King Edward’s most important barons in the north. Joan’s position in de Beaumont’s household had given her unexpected access to important information—and important men.

  With her “tainted” blood, infamous mother, and no one to defend her, Joan had been easy prey. Men had targeted her for their unwelcome attention since she was fifteen. She’d been too young to protect herself then, but eventually, she’d turned it to her advantage.

  Although some men—like Sir Richard—had a hard time hearing no, over the years she had learned to handle even the most determined of pursuers. Thanks in large part to the man who’d served as her personal sentinel since he’d first learned of her work for Bruce.

  Lachlan MacRuairi, who’d freed and then later married her mother, had taught Joan how to move around without being seen, how to extract herself from unwanted situations, and, if necessary, how to defend herself. It was because of him that she’d been made a secret member of the elite Highland Guard, Bruce’s highly skilled team of warriors who had been recruited for the most dangerous missions. Only Lachlan knew her identity; the other members of the Guard simply called her the Ghost.

  The name fit, probably more than they realized. Most of the time she felt like a shadow. There, but not really there. Seen, but unseen. Unable to touch or be touched, and incapable of feeling.

  The ladies stopped to return her greeting but did not invite her to join them on their walk. As this was what Joan expected, she wasn’t disappointed. It was a lesson she’d learned a long time ago. If you don’t expect much of people, it won’t hurt when they don’t give it to you. Her father had been her first example, but many more had followed.

  Realizing that it was getting late, and that her cousin would be looking for her soon to help her pick out what to wear for the evening meal (a process that seemed to take most of the afternoon), Joan started to make her way over the portcullis of the interior moat to the inner ward.

  As the guardian of the castle for the king, de Beaumont had been given the largest suite of rooms on the top level of the new two-story tower that only had been completed a handful of years ago. As companion to her cousin, Joan had a small antechamber off the “lord’s chamber.” It wasn’t large, but it had a window directly overlooking the countryside beyond the east wall, and most important . . . it was private. Unfortunately, her cousin intercepted her, and it was hours before Joan was able to seek the solitude of her chamber.

  At first, she didn’t notice anything amiss. She tossed the plaid she wore around her shoulders on the bed, kicked off her slippers, pulled the pins from her hair, and threw them on the small dressing table before moving to the window.

  She froze. The tiny piece of silk thread that she’d tied to the latch on the shutter had been snapped.

  Excitement burst through her. Finally! She had him. It was a game between her and Lachlan. Known for his ability to get in and out of anywhere without being seen, he’d been surprising her for years—and she’d been trying to catch him.

  Trying. Unsuccessfully, at least, until now. A rare smile turned her mouth. The feeling that filled her chest was so foreign she almost didn’t recognize it: happiness.

  Moving swiftly to the ambry door, she pulled it open. “Hello, Father.”

  Calling him Father had started out as a jest to make him feel old—he’d just turned forty to her twenty—but she knew it wasn’t just that anymore. The man her father had called a bastard, brigand, and pirate was much more of a parent to her than her own had ever been.

  She heard a very un-fatherly curse before the big warrior materialized from behind her gowns. He scowled, although for a man with the war name of Viper there wasn’t much behind it. “How did you know?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and quirked a brow the way he did to her. “You don’t expect me to tell you all my secrets, do you?”

  Many people who knew him would be surprised to see how easily his mouth curved into a smile. The mean brigand with the black heart had changed, though he’d probably die before admitting it. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

  “Not bad, little one. If all my men were so easily trained, my job would be a hell of a lot easier.”

  She grinned. Then realizing that she might actually be beaming, she sobered. “As much as I look forward to our little family reunions, I’m assuming for you to have risked climbing through that window your reason for being here is important.”

  He nodded and motioned for her to sit. She sat on the edge of the bed and he took a seat opposite her on the stone windowsill. He shot a meaningful glance to the door. She shook her head. “My cousin and Sir Henry are still in the Hall.”

  He nodded and continued. “Carrick plans to make an attempt on the castle tonight here along the east wall.” He gave her a dry look. “I know it goes against your nature—God knows it’s against your mother’s—but try to stay out of danger and not go running toward it, will you?”

  She laughed. “I’ll do my best, and I appreciate the warning. But I hope the earl has a good plan. The English are tired of Bruce taking back all of his castles—they’ll not give up one of their most important without a fight. I don’t have to tell you how well defended it is.”

  “Nay, I had a devil of a time—” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “If that’s a trick to try to get me to tell you how I got in, it isn’t going to work.”

  She blinked at him innocently, which he didn’t believe for a minute.

  “Christ, now I know where she got it from!”

  Her brows drew together questioningly.

  “Your sister. Christina gives me that look every time she’s done something naughty—which seems to be a daily occurrence.”

  Joan couldn’t prevent the tiny pinch in her chest. She’d never regretted the decision not to return to Scotland with her mother after Lachlan had rescued her—Joan had chosen her path and knew it was a solitary one—but she did regret not knowing her young half siblings. She had three now: Erik, who would be five in a few months; Christina, who was three and a half; and Robbie, who was almost eighteen months.

  “You know what the Bible says: ‘as ye sow, so shall ye reap.’ ”

  Lachlan shook his head with a sigh. “That’s what your mother says.”

  She smiled.

  He told her what he knew of Edward Bruce’s plan to take the castle, which in her opinion—and Lachlan’s from the sound of it—seemed to be more a “why not take a shot as long as we are here” than a well-thought-through operation.

  “So the bulk of the men will attack the main gate, while a small force in black cloaks to blend into the night will attempt to slip over the curtain wall behind the kitchens?” she summarized. “It seems like I’ve heard something like that before,” she added dryly, referring to James Douglas’s taking of Roxburgh Castle and Thomas Randolph’s taking of Edinburgh Castle, which had used similar tactics.

  Lachlan shook his head. “The king’s brother will never be accused of inventiveness. But I think he is tired of hearing about Douglas and Randolph and wants to have his own ‘miraculous feat of warfare.’ Just see that you are nowhere near the kitchens after midnight.”

  “No late-night snacks for me, I swear it. Even if the cook makes apple tarts.”

  He shook hi
s head and chuckled. “Now you sound like Erik. Don’t turn your back on your sweets with that one around.”

  She smiled, but when their eyes met, she suspected he’d guessed what she was thinking—there was little chance she’d get that opportunity. At least not while the war was going on and while she remained undiscovered. She was too valuable here. If she were discovered . . . well, they both knew what would happen then.

  “That reminds me. I have something for you,” Lachlan added.

  “A tart?” she jested, trying to cover the oddly emotional moment.

  It didn’t work. “Nay,” he said seriously. “This. You are one of us now, and since a tattoo isn’t appropriate, I thought this might suffice.”

  He handed her a gold bracelet. It was about two and a half inches wide and in the shape of a cuff. It opened with a hinge on one side and two tiny latches on the other. It was beautifully designed with a carved ornate pattern on the outside that reminded her of the old crosses in the churchyards back home in Buchan in the northeast of Scotland. But it’s what she saw on the inside that made her gasp.

  She looked up at her stepfather with her heart in her throat. The design lightly etched on the inside of the cuff was familiar to her, although she’d never seen it. The Lion Rampant and spiderweb was the mark tattooed on the arms of the members of the Highland Guard. Hers was personalized with something else that was important to her—two tiny roses. The pink rose had become a symbol among the people to protest her mother’s cruel and barbaric punishment.

  She didn’t know what to say. She feared if she said anything, he would know how much this meant to her, but hiding her emotions was part of the armor that enabled her to do her job. “It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she managed. “This means . . . a lot.”

  Maybe understanding more than she would have liked, he nodded. “Rock made it.” Joan had heard of the newest member of the Highland Guard—and the feat he’d performed in climbing Castle Rock to help take Edinburgh Castle. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful with it. Enough people know what that means.”