The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  The noise of the door had caused the occupant to stir. The monk turned from his curled-up position on the plaid-covered pile of straw and glanced over in Alex’s direction as he entered. Though the lamp Alex had placed on the single table in the room didn’t offer much light, he was relieved to see that the monk didn’t have a face full of bruises and a nose pointing in the wrong direction.

  The thin churchman with tonsured head clutched the blanket around himself tighter and scooted back toward the wall. He was younger than Alex expected—probably no more than twenty—and had the kind of face that was neither plain nor attractive, but was unremarkable, which no doubt helped his role as a courier. He didn’t stick out.

  Realizing that he was frightening him, Alex schooled some of the fury from his face. Seeing a stool tucked under the table, he pulled it out and sat, hoping that by getting down lower it would make him seem less threatening.

  It seemed to work, as the young monk’s expression changed from frightened to wary. “What do you want? I’ve told them everything I know.”

  Alex didn’t think he had, but he knew that confrontation and threats weren’t the way to proceed. “I need your help.”

  The evenly voiced plea surprised the monk enough for him to sit up. Still, he eyed Alex as if he were a snake coiled and ready to strike. “What kind of help?”

  “The woman you are trying to protect is in danger.”

  If he hadn’t been looking for it, Alex might not have seen it. But there was a telltale flicker of shock in the monk’s eye.

  Christ, he’d been right. It was a woman. He cursed. The ramifications ran through his head and Alex had to fight to keep his emotions in check. If she is bloody well involved in this, he was going to . . .

  “What woman?” the monk said an instant too late, and then added somewhat accusingly, “You are a Scot.”

  “Aye, with friends and family on both sides of the border, which is why I’m here. If I figured it out, how long do you think it will take the others to do the same? She is in danger, and I can help.”

  “I told them before, I don’t know anything. I never met the person who left the note. I’m only a courier.”

  “Perhaps,” Alex agreed. “But I think you know more than you are saying.” He leaned forward, taking a stab in the dark. But he had always been good with a blade. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

  The monk wasn’t old or experienced enough to have learned to control his expression, and Alex easily detected the flash of fear in his dark eyes. “No! I told you I never saw her!”

  Her.

  The lad quickly realized his mistake and, eyes wide, clamped his mouth shut as if it might make him mute. But it was too late.

  Alex’s face turned as hard as granite. “You did see her. Tell me what you know.”

  No wonder the English hadn’t had to torture him; the lad fell apart at the first threat. Christ, what was Bruce thinking to rely on such innocents?

  The monk started to babble and sob. “I didn’t. I swear. I never saw her face.”

  He was too scared to be lying. “But you saw something,” Alex said.

  The lad wasn’t a complete coward. He took a deep breath and tried to get himself under some semblance of control. “No,” he lied.

  Alex fought to control his impatience. He was tempted to drag the young churchman to his feet and give him a good shake. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides. “I am trying to protect her, damn it.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I have no wish to see a woman harmed, and if they find her, you can be assured she will be.”

  “But you are one of them.”

  He was. Though for some reason it made Alex grit his teeth. “Aye, but we are not all monsters.” He paused, and then said intently, “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Alex waited.

  “She was wearing a dark cloak—the color of claret—trimmed with ermine, but I only saw her from the back. I arrived at the confessional a few minutes early by accident and saw her leaving.”

  Alex’s heart was beating so fast he could barely get out the words. “Describe her.”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  Alex’s patience was set on a razor’s edge. “Tall, short, thin, round?”

  “Definitely not tall. She was short”—the monk stood and held up his hand to the middle of his chest—“about here. And definitely on the plump side.”

  Alex held his breath. His entire body seemed poised on the edge of a precipice. Joan was tall for a woman and slender. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye.” The monk seemed to sense the importance. “Do you know her?”

  Alex shook his head and breathed a sigh of relief. “Nay. I don’t know her.”

  And he’d never been so relieved about anything in his life.

  This time when Alex returned to his room, he did collapse on the bed, and he didn’t need the whisky to help him fall asleep.

  God, give her strength. She could do this.

  Joan drew a deep breath as she stood outside the door. A few minutes, that was all. All she had to do was pretend for a few minutes. The powder would do its job, she would destroy the seal, and her cousin would be safe.

  She still couldn’t believe it. Not only had Margaret been sending information to Bruce, but she had also guessed Joan’s secret. “You remember, cousin,” she said. “I know you. I knew you as a girl, and I know you could not have changed that much. I know you were more interested in the war than you appeared, and I know you would not be with all those men without a reason. I also know how much you loved your mother.”

  Joan had been stunned silent.

  Margaret, it seemed, hadn’t accepted the broken engagement with the Earl of Ross’s son. She and John were in love and hoped to marry once the war was over. So she passed information to the monk when she could to help the man she loved.

  She’d only started recently. The idea had come to her when she thought Alice was getting suspicious of Joan. She thought two spies would confuse them, especially as she was at a separate castle at the time.

  But her cousin had made a mistake. In a romantic gesture, Margaret had used the imprint of a betrothal ring John had given her to seal the missive, and she feared that if Sir Henry saw it, he would recognize it. So Joan was here to destroy the evidence and prevent her cousin from being arrested as the spy.

  Simple.

  But it wasn’t simple at all. It was Alex.

  Without any more hesitation, Joan knocked, trying to ignore the way her hand shook.

  She’d done this before; she could do it again.

  But then the door opened and her stomach, heart, whatever else was in her chest, slammed to the floor. Dear God. She would have swallowed, but her mouth was too dry.

  She’d never done this before. She’d never pretended to seduce a man—a half-naked man—who made her knees weak. Who made her wish that maybe it wasn’t pretend.

  He was gorgeously tousled; his blue eyes not their usual too sharp and penetrating, but soft and sleepy, and his dark golden-blond hair deliciously mussed, as if she’d just dragged him from bed—which undoubtedly she had.

  But it was his state of clothing—or rather the lack thereof—that truly undid her. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and in the soft light of the single candle she’d brought with her, his chest glowed like a carved shield of bronze.

  Good gracious, she’d thought he’d looked imposing on the practice yard, but it was an entirely different imposing when facing it in the middle of the night—alone—standing no more than a foot away, in a small, intimate, barely lit doorway where she could see up close just how broad his shoulders were, how big the muscles were on his arms, and how steely flat and hard was his stomach.

  The breeches that looked to have been haphazardly pulled on hung low on that hard stomach and narrow hips, revealing a thin trail of hair that she dared not follow, no matter how curious she was or how thick and long that column of flesh it l
ed to appeared.

  He slept naked, she realized. Which was something else she shouldn’t think about, but her cheeks flushed hot and awareness flooded ever corner of her body as her gaze shot back to his.

  She had to get the situation back under control—get herself back under control—but he looked warm and inviting, and entirely too attractive for her peace of mind.

  Who was seducing whom?

  He recovered before she did, which wasn’t exactly a promising start. “What the hell?” He dragged his hand through his rumpled hair, which forced—for how could she not look?—her gaze back to his chest and the now flexed muscles in his arm. God in heaven! Something low and heavy did a little stutter step in her stomach. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Her mouth had gone dry again. With considerably more difficulty, she lifted her gaze back to his.

  But dear Lord, a man shouldn’t be so enticing!

  That was her job.

  Remembering what she needed to do, she straightened her spine and shook off the haze that had fogged her brain since he’d opened the door. Without waiting for an invitation—which she knew she would not be receiving—she pushed her way past him into the room, not giving him the opportunity to stop her. She ignored the smell of warm, spicy male as she stood there and tried to keep her knees from wobbling. “You said if I changed my mind, I knew where to find you. Well here I am,” she said with a smile.

  But he didn’t look at all pleased to see her in his chamber. His very small chamber. Despite her vow not to think about the intimacy of the situation—or any kind of intimacy, for that matter—a shudder of awareness ran through her.

  Ignoring the forbidding frown being sent in her direction, she scanned the room. It didn’t take long, as it was all of about ten feet by five feet. Other than the bed—which she wasn’t going to look at until she had to—there was a small table, a chair, a trunk, and an iron brazier. She was relieved to see a jug on the table. It would have been awkward to send for something. The bag of powder suddenly felt very heavy in the hem of her cloak. She’d made a hole in the seam, which would enable her to remove it quickly and unseen.

  This is wrong. You are playing with fire.

  But what other choice did she have? How else could she get the missive away from him for long enough to make sure the seal would never be deciphered?

  “You’ve changed your mind about letting me court you?” he asked suspiciously.

  He was too smart. That was part of the problem. “Not exactly,” she admitted. “But you were right.”

  Now he didn’t just sound suspicious, he looked suspicious. “About what?”

  Remembering her role, she attempted to appear cool and matter-of-fact, although her heart was beating like the wings of a not-very-brave sparrow as she nonchalantly walked over to the jug. Taking a deep breath, and making sure she positioned herself to block his view, she slid the powder from her sleeve and sprinkled a little in the cup before pouring a drink. She pretended to take a sip, before turning back to him with a face as if he’d tricked her. It was whisky, and not the wine she’d assumed.

  “What we have is special,” she said boldly—challengingly. “And I see no reason to waste it.”

  Courage . . .

  Perhaps she should have drunk the vile brew after all. It was much harder than she thought it would be to push her cloak back from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor at her feet.

  13

  ALEX FROZE. EVERYTHING went still. Except for his heart. That was beating erratically and wildly.

  This must be a dream. Please, let it be a dream.

  For if it were a dream, he could reach out and touch her. If it were a dream, he could rip that diaphanous slip of fabric posing as a night rail off the body that he could see tantalizing hints of in the backlit candlelight, push her back on the bed, and give her exactly what she was asking for.

  But it wasn’t a dream, damn it. It was only too real.

  Christ. A cold sweat ran over him. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t think. His mind was too filled with illicit thoughts about what he wanted to do to the wicked enchantress who’d just invaded his chamber and offered him a bite of the apple. The most beautiful, succulent apple he’d ever beheld.

  Eyes that heavily lashed and seductively tilted should be dark, but hers seemed impossibly blue as she stared up at him with her boldly carved features, snow-white skin, and wide crimson lips, offering to fulfill his deepest, basest desires.

  He hadn’t realized how many he had until that moment.

  Quite a few of them would involve the high, generously rounded, and tautly tipped breasts, the generous size and exquisite shape of which he could easily make out under the thin swath of linen. He swore, his cock twitching hard as he made out the deep shade of pink of her nipples. He wanted to suck those little pearls of pink deep into his mouth and nibble them between his teeth until she arched and squirmed.

  He forced his gaze away from her breasts. But the slide downward didn’t help. The slim hips only made him think of holding on as he drove in hard and deep, and the long, slender legs were only too easy to imagine wrapped around his waist, squeezing him tighter . . .

  He swore again and turned away, his body a rigid mass of throbbing steel. He was as hard as a rod and so primed for release he could come with one firm stroke.

  She had no bloody idea how badly he wanted to take her up on her offer.

  But he wasn’t going to do this. No matter how much he wanted to—and every nerve ending in his body reverberated with wanting to.

  It wasn’t right. Not like this. The next time he made love to a woman she would be his wife. It wouldn’t be one night of passion and lust without promises, it would be making love with vows and a future.

  Still, it wasn’t easy to get the words out. His mouth was pulled as tightly and angrily as the rest of him. “This isn’t what I meant, and you know it. You need to leave, Joan. Now.”

  Those catlike blue eyes never flinched. She arched a very delicate, very dark brow in challenge. “Now who is pretending?” She walked toward him, holding the cup of whisky out to him. He waved it away. He didn’t want a damned drink, he wanted her. “I know you want this. You need not fear your prefect Sir Galahad reputation will slip. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He didn’t like when she called him that—even in jest. It reminded him too much of MacRuairi, who hadn’t said it in jest. Alex wasn’t moralistic, damn it. Was it so wrong to have honor? To have codes and ideals? To try to do what was right? To want sharing such intimacies to mean something?

  “You’re wrong,” he said intently. “I don’t want this.” He held the door open. “I want you to leave.”

  Maybe if his mouth wasn’t so white and his jaw so flexed Joan might have believed him. Clearly, he was furious at her for showing up in his room like this and wanted her to go. But just as clearly, he was fighting giving in with everything he had.

  He just needed one more push.

  She’d known it wouldn’t be as simple as just showing up to his room. Known that Alex’s honor would make things . . . difficult. She’d even realized what she might have to do. But she’d never been the seducer before, and the role didn’t sit well with her.

  Could she really . . . ?

  She didn’t finish the question. The answer was clear. Yes, she could. She would do whatever it took. Her cousin had been trying to help Bruce—help her—and she wouldn’t let her come to harm.

  She set the cup down on the table for a moment, to do what she had to do.

  This isn’t me, she told herself. It’s only a role. You are in control.

  But it felt very real as she leaned up against him and gave him that push, placing her hand on the part of him that could not lie. A part of him that from her experience thought very little about honor.

  It was the first time she’d ever touched a man so boldly—so intimately—and the shock, the heat, the size of him would have made her yank her hand back if
he hadn’t made a deep sound low in his throat that was half tortured, half pleasure, and all desire.

  It was working, and it gave her courage. “Liar,” she murmured, the huskiness in her voice coming out all on its own.

  He reached for her wrist to pull her hand away, but instinctively her fingers tightened around him. It was a good instinct. The hand that he’d wrapped around her wrist froze as he made another sound—this one deeper and more tortured than the last. For one long heartbeat he held her hand to him, maybe even pressing it a little harder against an almost imperceptible movement of his hips.

  He liked it. Liked it a lot.

  He was as hard as a column of marble. But instead of cold stone, he pulsed with heat. Heat that spread and enveloped her, as the realization of what she was doing and how much he liked it—how much she liked it—took hold. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t nervous, she was undeniably, unexpectedly aroused. Very, very aroused. Her body felt as warm and melty as syrup.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen to her.

  Their eyes met, and all thoughts of pretense and roles fled. What was between them was there in the open, raw, hot, and honest.

  Maybe Alex wasn’t the only one lying to himself. Maybe she wasn’t here just for her cousin. Maybe the thought of him leaving and never coming back mattered more than she wanted it to. Maybe she wanted something to hold on to.

  One kiss. Was that so much to ask? One kiss with nothing between them, and then she would have him drink the whisky.

  “Joan . . .” His voice was a hoarse, strangled plea for her to put a stop to this.

  But she wasn’t going to do that. Not yet, at least. Leaning into him, she lifted her mouth to his. “Please, Alex, just kiss me.”