The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  But maybe not as soon as he’d like with his shite job Pembroke was trying to foist off on him.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Seton?” Pembroke asked.

  Knowing how to follow orders also didn’t mean Alex did so in silence. God knows he’d questioned half of Boyd’s orders whenever his partner had been put in charge of a mission. But Alex wouldn’t keep his mouth shut when he didn’t agree with something. Pembroke, it seemed, didn’t like it any better than Boyd had.

  “Aye. The loading of the ships can be overseen by the captain and his men.” Or any one of a dozen men of lesser rank in Pembroke’s command. “I can serve you and the king better by accompanying you. I know the roads between here and Dunbar better than anyone.”

  If they were scouting for places the army could be attacked, there was no one who could help more than Alex. Pembroke knew that. They all knew that. Shouldn’t they be trying to take advantage of his knowledge? Did they want to end the war or not?

  Christ, what the hell was he doing here?

  At times Alex wondered. The ineptitude was getting to him. Christendom might see the English as the “civilized” side, but clearly civilized didn’t mean sensible or rational.

  He was supposed to be doing some good, damn it. Somehow when he’d torn his guts out and betrayed his friends to try to put an end to this bloody war, he hadn’t imagined himself overseeing the loading of the cargo. It was drudge work, plain and simple. It was like having one of your best leaders in charge of digging latrines—a waste. How was any of this going to prevent villages from burning and innocents from being caught in the flames?

  “It was the king who suggested you for the job. Despenser said as much when he passed on the king’s instructions.”

  Alex cursed angrily. He should have guessed. Lady Joan wasn’t the only one who’d made an enemy of Despenser. Apparently Despenser was throwing some of the blame for his failed affair in Alex’s direction. He’d wager the king hadn’t said a word about who would oversee the loading of the cargo. But whatever Despenser had done last week, it obviously involved a meeting with the king.

  “I’m surprised that the king thought it important enough to name someone for the task,” Alex said, not hiding his skepticism.

  Whatever else he might be, Pembroke wasn’t a fool. He, too, probably questioned Despenser’s message, but apparently had no intention of challenging the king’s new favorite. “Aye, well, if I were you, I’d settle whatever score you have with Despenser, or I suspect you’ll be attracting a lot of notice with the king.”

  Alex didn’t know who angered him more: Despenser, for his underhanded attempt to settle personal grievances using his position with the king, or Pembroke, for going along with it even when it was clearly not the best thing to do to prepare for the battle, that if they were to relieve the garrison at Stirling Castle by midsummer’s day, could only be weeks away.

  Over the next few days Alex had a lot of time to think about it—and vent his frustration with the carrying of heavy crates and barrels. He had frustration aplenty. Not only toward the woman who practically ran the other direction when she saw him or Despenser for his juvenile vindictiveness and Pembroke for not taking advantage of his knowledge, but also for his continued exclusion from meetings of Edward’s top commanders—meetings that he should be a part of, and had been a part of, until someone suggested he was the damned spy.

  He was no closer to exonerating himself on that count either. He’d confronted Sir Adam about his suspicions yesterday, after the older knight returned from the scouting trip near Dunbar that Alex should have been on.

  Sir Adam hadn’t been surprised—or offended. “I would have been suspicious of me as well,” he said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Not only did Sir Adam have an explanation for being in the priory—it was where his youngest son had been laid to rest when he’d died of a fever exactly a year before—he also provided Alex with information that made it extremely unlikely that he was the spy.

  The night before Sir Adam had returned, a group of soldiers had stopped a monk after a night of revelry in town “to have some fun with him.” Alex’s mouth hardened. In other words, they were harassing him. “The monk seemed to be holding his pouch too tightly and grew agitated when they asked what he was hiding. It turns out he was carrying a missive with the approximate number of troops at both Wark and Berwick, including a breakdown of infantry and cavalry, as well as the names of all the barons who have arrived so far and the size of their retinues. My name was on it, as was yours.” But unlike Alex, Sir Adam had not been to Wark, making it unlikely that he had passed on the information. Sir Adam paused significantly before continuing. “There was also a mention of who had not yet arrived.”

  Alex grimaced, knowing Sir Adam was referring to the earls who had not answered—and might not answer—Edward’s call to muster.

  “Aye,” Sir Adam said, reading his expression. “I’m sure Bruce would like nothing more than to know that Lancaster and his fellow earls—and their cavalry—will not be joining the campaign. Although if it encourages King Hood to stay and fight and not scurry off into one of his fox holes, I almost hope they do not show.”

  Alex hadn’t thought of that, but Sir Adam might be right. One of the reasons Alex had gone over to the English was because raids, skirmishes, and ambushes weren’t getting them anywhere anymore. The pirate warfare, the so-called dirty war that Christendom accused Bruce of fighting, could only take them so far. The righteousness of Bruce’s cause would only be proved one way: by fighting like a knight—in other words, by a pitched battle of army versus army. But that was something Bruce had adamantly refused to do to this point. Would the earls’ absence change his mind? Could Bruce finally be brought from the trees and fox holes of ambuscade to the battlefield?

  Alex didn’t think so—Bruce had been adamant on this issue whenever Alex had brought it up—but he supposed if the odds were enough in his favor it was possible. But against such a powerful army, even without the earls, would Bruce ever think the odds in his favor?

  “But this is interesting,” Sir Adam added. “The note mentions Despenser’s mission, but that is all. No details are given.”

  That was interesting. Whoever it was had probably not been at the meeting last week. That he hadn’t probably only made them suspect him more.

  “I assume the monk was questioned further,” Alex said, referring to who might have given him the note.

  Sir Adam nodded. “Fortunately, he did not require much encouragement.”

  Torture was not uncommon on either side, but Alex didn’t like it. To him it was the very antithesis of chivalry and beneath the dignity and honor of a knight. Torturing a churchman—or woman for that matter—was even worse. The “do whatever it takes” and “ends justify the means” attitude wasn’t reserved just for Scots. The English fought just as dirty, they just hid it beneath fine surcoats with colorful arms.

  Right and wrong had always been so clear to him. Did anyone actually believe the vows of knighthood and code of chivalry anymore? Sometimes he wondered whether he was the idealistic relic that Boyd had so often accused him of being. It was not a little disconcerting.

  “Unfortunately,” Sir Adam continued, “he was unable to provide much information. He claimed to be just a courier. Messages were left for him in the confessional and he picked them up and delivered them to another confessional in Melrose.”

  Alex nodded. It was consistent with the practice Bruce had employed a few years ago. The “couriers of the cloth,” as Bruce called the monks and nuns who delivered messages and passed other important intelligence, were an important part of Bruce’s intelligence network.

  “So the monk never saw the person who left the message?”

  “He claims not.”

  “I suppose that would be too much to ask.”

  Sir Adam smiled at the wry comment. “Whoever it is, they are careful. They’ve been doing this for a long time and
aren’t likely to make a mistake.”

  “People always make mistakes.” Alex paused, an idea forming. “Although since we don’t have much time we might have to encourage them into making one.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’d like to see the note. Who has it?”

  “The soldiers brought it to Pembroke. I assume he still has it.”

  It didn’t escape Alex’s notice that Pembroke hadn’t told him anything about it even though he was supposed to be searching for the spy.

  When Alex confronted him about it later that day, Pembroke wasn’t surprised that Alex had learned about the captured communiqué and didn’t object to Alex studying it. He handed him the folded piece of parchment with the broken wax seal. “It won’t do you any good,” he said. “There are no identifying marks. It’s basically a list.”

  The English commander was right—there was nothing personal on the parchment, not even a greeting—but Alex took it anyway. Something bothered him about the handwriting, and he wanted to look at it a little longer.

  By Friday, when he was done with his job to oversee the loading of the cargo, he was no closer to figuring out what was bothering him. About the note, that is.

  He knew exactly what else was bothering him, and when he saw her walking back from the village—alone, damn it—he decided he’d waited long enough.

  Joan didn’t delude herself that the dark, brooding stares she’d been the subject of for the past few days meant that Alex would heed her request. Or that she would be able to avoid him forever. She sensed he did not give up easily.

  But he had given up before, hadn’t he? On Bruce and on the Guard. Eventually he would give up on her; she only had to make him see that she didn’t need a knight in shining armor to ride to her rescue.

  For that was what this was about. She’d reached that conclusion over the past few largely sleepless nights trying to figure out what had motivated his declaration, and what he saw in her. As far as he knew, she was a dispossessed, illegitimate daughter of a rebel who’d shared the bed of more than a few men—hardly the type of woman a man would be anxious to have for a wife.

  But Alex was a natural protector, and he obviously saw her as in need of rescue. His honor wouldn’t permit him to walk away, even if she clearly was not the sweet, innocent lass he surely had thought to find for himself. She suspected his friendship with her mother was also playing a part. Maybe he thought that by “saving” Joan, he was making reparations to her mother.

  Whatever motivated him, it couldn’t continue. Alex was interfering with her job. She hadn’t identified a new target yet—she felt self-conscious every time she spoke with a man at a meal with the way she sensed Alex watching her—and it had taken her two days to pass the message to her contact at the mercery. He had her so jumpy she felt like she was being followed half the time.

  But if she needed more reason, which she didn’t, she had it folded up in the purse at her waist to be burned as soon as she returned to her chamber. When she’d returned to the mercery to pick up the silks for her cousin that had been the reason for the first visit, she’d been surprised to be handed a message. Knowing it must be important—Bruce rarely took the risk of contacting her—she’d taken a quick glance before sliding it into her purse. It had been easy to read, as there were only three words. But the meaning—and the warning—was clear: Beware the Dragon.

  She’d always known Bruce had men watching her in case she was ever in trouble, but she hadn’t realized just how closely they were doing so. But someone had obviously seen her with Alex and passed on the information. She winced, almost hearing Lachlan yelling at her for going anywhere near Alex.

  Of the members of the Highland Guard, only Raider had been more betrayed by Alex’s defection than her stepfather. The two men were opposite in every way. Lachlan had no rules, and Alex lived by them. From what she’d picked up over the years, it had taken Alex a long time to earn Lachlan’s respect. And the fact that Alex had done so no doubt made Alex’s leaving an added betrayal. Joan suspected that against Lachlan’s inclination he’d come to like the young knight, making that betrayal personal.

  Lachlan would be furious to hear that Joan was seen in Alex’s company. If he ever found out Alex had kissed her, he would probably kill him. She paled a little, vowing never to let that happen.

  She was nearly to the bridge when she felt the first prickle. Shifting the bundle of linen-wrapped fabric in her arms, she looked up to see him standing like a sentry with no intention of letting her pass.

  A flicker of fear that he might be following her again dissipated on seeing his damp hair, and she realized that he’d just come from a wash in the river. He’d been working down there the past few days, and he must have finished for the day. She didn’t know what he’d been doing and hadn’t been inclined to ask, as she was just grateful for the time away from his too-penetrating stare.

  Her heart jumped, of course, as it did every time their eyes met. She’d almost grown accustomed to it.

  Almost.

  But the warm prickle that spread over her skin and the feeling that every one of her senses had just come alive? She didn’t think she would ever get used to that.

  Nor would she get used to the golden-god-just-stepped-off-Mount-Olympus good looks and powerful, capable-of-vanquishing-dragons-with-his-bare-hands physique.

  She’d never realized that she was so shallow, but it seemed she was susceptible to the superficial appeal of a handsome face and a few muscles. Her eyes scanned the broad shoulders, bulging arms, and rock-hard chest. All right, maybe quite a bit more than a few, but it was no excuse to be as weak-kneed and starry-eyed as a lovesick girl. She was a member of the elite Highland Guard, for goodness’ sake. She might not wield a sword like her brethren, but her job was just as important—maybe even more so.

  She had a task—a duty that she’d dedicated her life to and never strayed from since she’d seen her mother in that cage. It was disconcerting to realize how susceptible she was to feminine weakness from which she’d thought herself immune. By all rights, she should be.

  Annoyed by her silly reaction to him, she gave him an acknowledging nod and tried to walk around him. No luck. He shifted to block her path, forcing her to reach out and steady herself against that chest she’d just been admiring or risk plowing right into him and probably ending up in a very undignified sprawl on her backside.

  “Where’s your escort?” he demanded angrily.

  So much for niceties. She dropped her hand from his chest before she was tempted to do something like spread her palm over the steel-hard plane. Holding the package with both hands now, she took a step back to avoid the warm scent of soapy male—in this case myrtle—failing horribly.

  “Why would I need an escort when I have you following me?”

  “I wasn’t following you.”

  She arched a brow.

  “This time,” he modified. “Although it appears maybe I should have. You shouldn’t be walking around town alone.”

  She tried not to roll her eyes or let her temper spark. But clearly that protective streak of his made him deaf to her wishes. If he were her husband, he’d probably lock her in a tower somewhere. Though the thought was in jest, she couldn’t help but think of her mother. But Alex wasn’t anything like her father . . . was he? How well did she really know him? And how many times had she pointed out that it was none of his business?

  “I thank you for your concern, my lord, but I have no need of an escort for a quick trip into town.” She smiled. “Just as I have no need of unsolicited advice from overzealous knights in shining armor.”

  The only indication that he’d heard her was the slight quirk of his mouth. “What were you doing?”

  She debated repeating that it was none of his business, but realizing that would only make him more curious and harder to shake, she said, “Running an errand for my cousin.”

  He eyed the package in her arms. “I pres
ume that is the errand?”

  She nodded.

  He held out his hand. The standoff lasted about two seconds before Joan acceded to the inevitable and handed it over—but not without a scowl.

  He grinned. But gracious in victory, he stepped aside, allowing her to pass. They walked in companionable silence through the gate. She liked him, she realized. Too much. As was becoming more and more evident. He was getting harder and harder to resist. She felt the noose of inevitability tightening around her neck, knowing that if she didn’t do something soon it would be too late.

  “From the weight of this bundle,” he said, “I’m going to guess that you and your cousins finally made it inside the mercery?”

  Normally the jest might have made her smile, but she was feeling too much like a cornered hare. “Why are you doing this, Alex? I’ve told you how I feel.”

  The smile fell from his face, and his expression drew hard and impenetrable. “I don’t think you have. I think you lied. What I want to know is why.”

  Heat flew to her cheeks. “Your arrogance is truly astounding. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your pride, but I assure you it’s the truth. We would not suit.”

  He grabbed her by the arm, and mindful of the people bustling around them, he pulled her around a building—the infirmary, maybe?—before hauling her up against him. “This has nothing to do with my pride, damn it. And we would suit perfectly. You know that as well as I do.”

  From the way their bodies practically locked together, she could hardly argue the point. God, he felt incredible. The warm solidness of his chest against her breasts, the strength of his arms wrapped around hers, the hard press of his manhood between her legs and against her stomach . . . everything fit perfectly.