The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  He grinned. “Smart lass.”

  He was a moment away from dropping a kiss on her soft red mouth before he caught himself.

  Christ, where had that come from? It was as if kissing her were the most natural thing in the world.

  Perhaps guessing his thoughts, she sobered and took a cautious step back. “Thank you, Sir Alex,” she said again before slipping into her chamber.

  Alex stood staring at the closed door for a long moment before retracing his steps and returning to his own chamber. But the strange interlude with Joan Comyn stayed with him long into the night.

  4

  ALEX THOUGHT THE meeting would never end. De Beaumont—as keeper of the castle—and Pembroke—as an earl and the man of highest rank—had been measuring their cocks all morning, and frankly, neither had anything worth bragging about.

  Two of King Edward’s most important barons seemed more interested in the sound of their own voices than in planning this damned war. Posturing, positioning, vying for attention . . . that was all Edward’s commanders seemed interested in, and Alex was bloody tired of it. At least when he was with the Highland Guard they’d always had a common purpose, even if they didn’t always agree on how to get there. But these two were more worried about who would ride in what order and lead which part of the army than they were about tactics and strategy. After Alex’s suggestion to request a parley with Bruce to see if they might come to terms before marching was swiftly (and decisively) dismissed, he had been only half-listening anyway.

  Alex tried not to let the frustration get to him, but he was running out of time. The inroads he’d thought he’d made in London two years ago were harder to remember the farther they marched north. At first the king had seemed willing to listen to Alex’s pleas for the people in the Borders and his warnings that Bruce was stronger than his numbers appeared. Edward had said he would consider Alex’s suggestion of a parley.

  He hadn’t considered it for long. Thanks to the problems with his barons, Scotland had become Edward’s rallying cry. His distraction. His way of proving to his people that he was his father’s son, and a king they could believe in. Alex knew it was going to be next to impossible to dissuade Edward from his course. Which didn’t mean Alex wouldn’t try. But it was becoming increasingly clear that no one was willing to listen to reason—certainly not the cock-measuring de Beaumont and Pembroke.

  His thoughts turned to something far more pleasant. He wondered how Lady Joan’s ankle was this morning. Perhaps he would seek her out after the meeting to check on her.

  He found himself oddly curious about Bella’s daughter. He knew that after she’d been falsely declared illegitimate, and her claim to the Buchan earldom given to her cousins, Lady Joan now served as a companion to one of those cousins—Alice—who was married to de Beaumont. He doubted anyone truly believed the lie that Joan was not Buchan’s daughter (instead the product of an illicit affair between Bella and Bruce), but no one wanted to see the daughter of a notorious traitor rewarded with an earldom. He recalled some other contrivance about consanguinity—related godparents?—had been used as well.

  They were a convenient pretense, that was all. Edward ensured the support of de Beaumont in his fight against the Scots—as de Beaumont would be fighting for his own lands—and no one cared about the daughter of a dead earl and a rebel “whore.”

  He wondered what Joan thought about it. Did she regret not returning to Scotland when she’d had the chance all those years ago? Ironically, Alex had been part of the team who had rescued MacRuairi and Bella from Berwick Castle when they’d been captured not long after Bella’s return to Scotland. MacRuairi had given the then fourteen-year-old Joan an opportunity to go with them, but she’d declined, saying that her life was in England with her Comyn uncle and cousins. It had broken Bella’s heart.

  Given what had happened in the interim, Alex wondered whether she would make the same decision today. The lass had hardly been rewarded for her loyalty to the English cause.

  It was close to the midday meal by the time the meeting finally broke up. Alex was going to go in search of her when he caught part of the conversation taking place in the group of young soldiers walking ahead of him.

  “Long night, Fitzgerald? I thought you were going to fall asleep there for a while when de Beaumont was talking about whose men would sleep in the barracks at Wark and whose would have to set up tents outside the gates.”

  Alex had been about to doze off himself. He hadn’t slept much last night. He’d been too busy thinking.

  “I feel like I just swam from here to Ireland,” another man answered. “I’ve never been so . . . satisfied.”

  From the way he said it—like a cat that had just lapped up a big bowl of cream—Alex understood what kind of satisfied he meant. Obviously the young redheaded knight had spent the night with a lass.

  Alex recognized him now. He was one of Ulster’s young sea captains. Sir Richard Fitzgerald was a promising young soldier from a powerful family and said to be one of the best seafarers in Ireland. Perhaps he’d give MacSorley a challenge one day.

  Not that it would be any day soon. Alex knew there was no one who could come close to the West Highland chieftain. Hawk—MacSorley—was the best seafarer not just in Scotland but likely in Christendom. He was also the best swimmer, as Alex could personally attest. Years ago during training, MacSorley had saved his life in the stormy seas near the Isle of Skye.

  Why the hell was he thinking of that now?

  “Ah, the lady finally succumbed, did she?” one of the men said. “And I use the term ‘lady’ very loosely. From what I hear the quiet, mysterious lady is a she-cat in bed. I wouldn’t mind her sinking her claws into me. When you’re done with her, of course,” he said to Fitzgerald.

  Alex stiffened at the crude talk. No man should talk about a woman that way—any woman—and it was worse, as these men were knights. They should know better, damn it.

  Alex was about to remind them of that fact, when Fitzgerald spoke. “You should see her breasts,” the young captain said with an exaggerated groan. “Hell, if she wasn’t Buchan’s bastard, I might be tempted to marry her just to bury my face in them every—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. Alex had him slammed up against the castle wall with his hand around his throat. The reaction was pure instinct, and if the black rage that was pounding in Alex’s ears was any indication, the lad was lucky Alex hadn’t killed him outright.

  Fitzgerald’s hands had gone directly to his neck and were trying to pull Alex’s away from his throat, but the younger man might as well have been trying to pry steel. Alex’s muscles were as rigid and fixed as an iron bar.

  “I’ve heard enough of your vile lies,” Alex said in a voice he didn’t recognize. Hell, it had the low, deadly edge of MacRuairi’s. “How dare you speak of a lady that way.”

  Fitzgerald’s friends had finally recovered from their shock. “Let him go,” one of them said, though he made no move to challenge Alex. “He can’t breathe.”

  Realizing that Fitzgerald’s eyes were bulging, Alex lightened his hold just enough to let the other man suck in a few gasps of air. Fitzgerald gaped at Alex like he was a madman—which wasn’t that far off from how he felt.

  “What . . . hell . . . Seton?” Fitzgerald said, pulling on Alex’s hand some more to release him.

  “What’s going on here?” Alex recognized Pembroke’s voice behind him. “Let him go, Seton.”

  Alex wasn’t inclined to do as he asked.

  “That’s an order,” Pembroke added angrily.

  It took a few moments for Alex’s head to clear enough to recognize the earl’s authority. The king had put Alex under his command, damn it.

  With a sound of disgust, Alex released his hold on Fitzgerald’s neck with one more hard thrust against the wall. But the urge to kill still surged through his veins.

  Seeing his expression, the young seafarer took a step back.

  “What is wrong with you, Seton?
I’ve never seen you like this.”

  That brought Alex up hard. Pembroke was right. For a moment Alex had forgotten himself. He’d been every inch the ruthless brigand he had been becoming in the Guard—not the chivalrous, conscientious knight the English knew him to be.

  They’d never suspected his role in Bruce’s army, and he wanted to keep it that way. But something told him he’d revealed too much.

  Pembroke might be an arse, but he was a sharp one. “Your arm must be feeling better.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Damn. Unthinkingly, he’d used his right arm to pin Fitzgerald.

  Pembroke didn’t wait for him to answer. “I’ll expect you to start training with the rest of the men when we reach Berwick.”

  Alex nodded, cursing silently.

  “Now explain to me what was happening here.”

  “I have no idea,” Fitzgerald said first. “One minute I was talking with my friends and the next Seton was trying to kill me.”

  Alex stiffened. “I was defending a lady’s honor from foul lies.”

  Pembroke frowned and looked at Fitzgerald. “I will not have ladies maligned—”

  “It wasn’t a lie,” Fitzgerald said angrily. “I didn’t realize Seton knew the lady.” With his red hair and fair complexion, he couldn’t hide the flush that came to his cheeks as he undoubtedly recalled his crude words. “I apologize for what he overheard, but it was the truth. I spent the night with Lady Joan.”

  Alex made a sound that was suspiciously like a growl, took a step toward him, and might have sunk one of the fists he had clenching at his side through Fitzgerald’s teeth if Pembroke hadn’t stopped him.

  “Leave us,” the earl said to Fitzgerald and his friends. “I will see to this.”

  With a few wary glances in Alex’s direction, the young knights did as he asked.

  “Your defense of the woman is admirable,” Pembroke said to Alex, “but in this case unwarranted. The lady in question is gaining something of a reputation for enjoying the attentions of eager young knights. For all her quiet reserve, it seems the daughter is much more like the mother than she appears.”

  Alex didn’t believe it. It didn’t fit with the sweet, modest young lass whom he’d met last night. The English spoke lies about Bella, and now they must have spread to her daughter.

  “I’d heard that she’d set her sights on Sir Richard,” Pembroke said. “Did you not see them at the evening meal last night? Their heads were bent so close together I’m surprised either of them was able to eat.”

  Last night. Alex felt the blow like a hammer to the chest. Suddenly, it all slid into place.

  “Nay,” he said numbly. “I wasn’t at the evening meal.”

  He’d been scouting most of the day and night chasing after any of Edward Bruce’s remaining men. He hadn’t returned until after midnight when he’d been climbing the Captain’s Tower stairs and an angel had fallen from the heavens into his arms.

  An angel coming from the very tower where Fitzgerald likely had a room who had claimed to be sleepwalking. Sleepwalking.

  And he was fool enough to have believed her.

  He felt like a damned idiot.

  He caught her before she entered the Hall for the midday meal. With surprising finesse for one so young, Sir Richard had Joan pulled into a storage room and pressed up against a wall with his mouth on her neck before she could react.

  But she’d put an end to it—all of it—with ease. Sir Richard would not be propositioning her or demanding she come to his room again. Nay, Joan suspected he wouldn’t come within a few hundred feet of her after this.

  It had to be done. The trick with the sleeping powder wouldn’t work twice. He already seemed confused about what had happened last night. She’d hoped he wouldn’t remember anything, but perhaps she hadn’t given him enough.

  Tears poured down her cheeks. Crying was a skill that had been difficult to master but had proved useful more than once. She choked on a few more sobs and stared up at him incredulously. “What do you mean you won’t marry me? After last night . . . you have to do right by me!”

  The look of horror and fear on the young knight’s face didn’t dim any on the repeating. Her demand of marriage had cooled his lust as surely as a swift dunk in an icy loch.

  “But I c-can’t . . . surely you see . . . you’re a bast—”

  Fortunately for him, he didn’t finish the word. She might have dragged this out a little longer just to see him suffer.

  “But what of your honor?” she couldn’t resist adding. “I thought . . .” She sobbed a little more for effect. “You are a knight.”

  As if that should explain it all. The fact that it should made it that much more ridiculous. Knightly code or not, a proud nobleman like Sir Richard wouldn’t think of marrying a “bastard” with a less-than-maidenly reputation—even if he had actually seduced her.

  What would she do if one of these “noble” men ever did the “honorable” thing? It would make her job a lot more difficult and it wouldn’t be as easy to get rid of them, that was certain.

  Joan had learned that the swiftest way to rid herself of a man she’d targeted who was growing impatient with “no,” or might be beginning to suspect she wasn’t the “easy” mark he’d been led to believe, was to mention one word: marriage. They scatted like frightened mice before a cat. It was shameful, really. But undeniably effective.

  “I’m s-sorry,” he stuttered, darting for the door as if the devil were nipping at his heels.

  Without another word, he was gone, and that was that.

  Joan sighed. It was hard not to be cynical when men never surprised her.

  At least they didn’t usually. But Sir Alex Seton—the man the Guard had called Dragon—had. She didn’t know what she expected from the Guardsman who’d betrayed Bruce and his brethren (which now included her), but it wasn’t the kindness, consideration, and yes, gallantry, that he’d shown her last night. For a few minutes she had almost been able to believe that she was as innocent and maidenly as he thought her.

  Good gracious, when he’d lifted her in his arms to carry her up the tower . . . she could still feel the reverberation from the way her heart had slammed into her chest. She could also still feel the strength of the powerful arms wrapped around her, and the steely hardness of his shield-like chest.

  She’d felt safe and secure, warm and protected. It would have been so easy to close her eyes, rest her cheek against his broad chest, and let herself forget—just for a moment. But she couldn’t, of course. She wasn’t a starry-eyed, naive maid anymore, no matter how much he’d made her want to believe otherwise.

  She should have been annoyed by his high-handedness, but the romance of the gesture had affected her more than she would have guessed. Perhaps her jaded heart wasn’t completely hardened and impervious as she would like to think.

  For more reasons than one, she would be wary. Alex Seton was dangerous. Dangerous not only for how he made her feel, but for what he knew. He might not know her identity, but he knew about the existence of a high-placed spy in the English camp. And although he might be a traitor, he was undoubtedly a highly skilled and savvy one. She would not underestimate him, or the threat he posed. She had to avoid him in the future at all costs.

  He was a Scot fighting for the English—the worst kind of traitor in her regard.

  But it wasn’t fair. A traitor who’d betrayed his king and friends should have some kind of black mark across his face to warn her. He certainly shouldn’t look as if he’d ridden straight out of Camelot.

  She wondered if it was all for show. Was there perhaps one honorable knight left in England, after all?

  Her mouth quirked with laughter at the silly thought. Alas, she would not be able to find out. Avoiding him was going to be her primary goal. She hoped he didn’t make it difficult on her.

  She need not have worried. As soon as she entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, she realized the gossipmongers at the castle had take
n care of Sir Alex for her.

  One look at his face when he saw her was enough to tell her that he’d heard the rumors. The judgment in his hard, crystal-clear blue eyes, the disdain in the tilt of that sidelong glance, the mild distaste that turned his mouth as he took in her appearance—and the cut of her gown—shouldn’t bother her.

  Usually, she didn’t mind that people thought her a “harlot” like her mother, because Joan had been “linked” to a number of men. Actually, as it helped her cause, she had never done anything to dispel the rumors. Her wanton reputation put her even more firmly beneath their regard and suspicion. In addition to making them underestimate her, it also gave her access to men she would not otherwise have had a cause to speak with privately.

  But she couldn’t ignore the blush that heated her cheeks when Sir Alex’s gaze dropped to the low-cut bodice of her gown or deny the pinch of disappointment—and maybe even hurt—in her chest when he turned sharply away.

  So much for the fantasy of gallant knights. He couldn’t have made his disregard or disapproval more clear.

  Fine. She straightened her back and proudly thrust out the chest that seemed to cause so much attention. She had a job to do. And if men thinking her a wanton made that job easier, she would wear gowns that put the Whore of Babylon to shame. She didn’t care what any of them thought. She knew the truth and that was all that mattered.

  She was a ghost—they couldn’t touch her, and she didn’t feel anything.

  When Sir Alex left Carlisle Castle not long after Sir Richard the following morning, Joan was glad. Two problems had been solved, leaving her able to concentrate on the only task that mattered: finding out whatever information she could for Bruce—and not getting caught doing it.

  5

  Berwick Castle, Berwick-upon-Tweed, English Marches, May 16, 1314