He held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t bother arguing. Your husband already has a sword out there with my name on it, I will not give him another. And it would be deserved if I let you walk out of here alone. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”
From the way she blushed, he figured he wasn’t going to like it.
He didn’t. He exploded again. “You came in with some of the women from town? You mean some of the whores who make their rounds in the barracks?” He raked his fingers through his hair. This was just getting worse and worse. “And what if one of the men was ‘interested’?”
“I just pretended to be with the women to get through the gate, and I have men waiting for me nearby.”
Alex made a sound that was more of a snort. “As if they would have been any good to you in here.”
“If you take me to them when I am done, they will see me safely back.”
He started to ask back to where, but stopped himself. She must have understood why. When their eyes met, he could see the sadness in the realization that they were on opposite sides now.
He nodded. He would be able to return her to Boyd’s men without too much of a detour from the route he would take with his men to Hailes.
“Now, tell me about this woman you are to marry. Do you love her?”
He winced, suspecting he was the one blushing now. “Christ, what a thing to ask, Rosalin.”
“You do!” she exclaimed happily, throwing her arms around him again. “Oh, Alex, I’m so happy for you. Does she love you? Of course, she must. You are one of the most wonderful men I know. The quintessential perfect, handsome knight. Sir Galahad to the rescue,” she said with a laugh.
Not her, too? Is that what everyone thought of him? Christ, how embarrassing. Not to mention untrue. It made him feel like some kind of fraud.
He extracted himself, uncomfortably going back to the question. Did he love her? He’d never put words on it, but aye, he did. And did she feel the same about him? He didn’t know. She liked him, which was enough for now. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was arranged by the families?”
“Not exactly.” More like it was arranged by him and ordered by the king.
She stared at him for a long time. “No . . . you didn’t?” She laughed, clapping her hands. “You did! I can’t believe it. Maybe not Sir Galahad after all.”
Now he was really uncomfortable. How the hell had she guessed? Did he have debaucher of innocents—he stopped, not letting himself think about that—branded on his forehead? “Let’s just say I have a little more sympathy for your husband.”
Though he said it lightly, the sentiments behind it were not. She knew the reasons for his leaving, including what he thought had been Boyd taking advantage of her when she was their hostage. Boyd had been wrong. But Alex had been wrong to think that forgetting his honor in the arms of a woman he loved was a sin that would never be laid at his feet. A sin that might be more complicated than it first appeared.
She put her hand on his arm. “I feel to blame for what happened. It wasn’t his fault, Alex. I know you thought it was, but I wanted what happened as much as he did. I loved him to distraction. I still do. It was everything else I thought I couldn’t live with.”
Alex shook his head. “It wasn’t you. As I told you then, it had been a long time in the working.”
“But I know how hard it was for you. I was there—I saw what you were going through. I know Robbie is sorry for some of the things he did and wishes it could have been different.”
“I very much doubt that,” Alex said dryly.
“He does. You were like a brother to him, though he was too blinded by anger and vengeance to admit it. Maybe . . . do you ever think about going back?”
He wished he could say no. But he couldn’t lie to himself. Every day he thought of what he’d given up. The challenges. The danger. The feeling as if he was part of something important. The camaraderie. Aye, most of all that. The Guardsmen had been the closest friends he’d ever had—even if it hadn’t always felt like that. Walking away from them had been like walking away from part of himself. But he’d had to do it. He couldn’t keep doing what he was doing. He just hoped to hell that in the end it would all be worth it.
“It hasn’t been the same—Robbie hasn’t been the same—since you left,” she said, guessing his thoughts. “They need you, Alex.”
Alex shook his head; she was wrong. “I saw them not long ago.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “When?”
He explained what had happened with the little girl and how he’d been surrounded. “They let me go, but your husband was very clear about what would happen the next time we met.” He shook his head. “Nay, there is no going back.”
“You are sure?”
He smiled; that was the second time he’d been asked that today. “I am.”
“I suppose it would be difficult to explain to your new wife,” Rosalin said with a smile that was just as sad as his. “She is probably from some illustrious English family.”
Alex grimaced. He hadn’t been holding back her name intentionally, but he hadn’t volunteered it either. “Not exactly.”
She lifted a brow. When he finally said her name, Rosalin gasped. Then she paled. “Bella’s daughter? I knew she looked familiar. Good God, Alex, you can’t marry her! It isn’t my husband’s sword you will need to worry about, it’s Lachlan’s dagger. He’ll kill you when he finds out.”
It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him. “Why should MacRuairi care? He barely knows her.”
An odd look crossed her face. “That won’t matter. She’s family, and he won’t have her—” She stopped, embarrassed.
“Married to a traitor?” Alex said tightly.
Roslin nodded apologetically.
“Aye, well, we can’t always pick our relatives. I’m sure Boyd has expressed similar opinions.”
She laughed at that. “Maybe once or twice.”
“Let’s go find your brother. I wager he’s going to have something to say about this as well.”
Alex was right. Initially Clifford was just as happy to see her as Alex had been, but when he realized what she’d done, he’d been even more furious.
Alex left her with her brother with a promise to return in the morning and went in search of Joan.
But for the first time, he wasn’t looking forward to it. He hoped Rosalin had been wrong that Joan had seen them. He didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he risk anyone knowing about Rosalin’s presence in the castle.
After fleeing the courtyard, Joan had returned to her room and was helping Alice remove the pins from her hair when Bess arrived with the message that Alex was waiting downstairs and had requested to see her.
Alice waved Joan off. “Go, do not let your duties to me interfere. Besides, you have been as glum as a child staring in the window of a closed confectioner shop all evening. I hope it isn’t a lovers’ spat already?”
Actually, it sounded as if she hoped exactly the opposite.
“I’m tired,” Joan said. “That is all. But I should see what he wants.”
“Don’t hurry back on my account,” Alice said, sounding very sorry for herself. “One of us should have some fun tonight. Henry is in another one of his meetings.”
That was the kind of information Joan should be focusing on—not why Alex had his arms around Robbie Boyd’s wife.
But she couldn’t get the image out of her mind. They’d looked so perfect together. The handsome, gallant knight and the beautiful “fair” maiden. With her blond hair, delicate complexion, and princess-perfect features, she looked to be in the first blush of womanhood and as innocent as an angel. It couldn’t have been more brutally—or cruelly—brought home to Joan that this was the kind of woman Alex was meant to wed. The perfect English rose. The Fair Rosalin.
Once the initial stab of pain had relented, it hadn’t taken Joan long to recognize the woman reputed to be one of the most
beautiful in England. They had crossed paths from a distance a few times in the past at court in London when Joan had still been living with the Despensers. Joan had been as surprised as everyone else to hear that Rosalin Clifford had been taken hostage by one of the most notorious and hated Scotsmen in England, the Devil’s Enforcer, Robbie Boyd. But unlike everyone else, Joan knew the truth that Rosalin hadn’t been forced to wed Boyd, she’d wanted to.
So why was Rosalin here? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Alex?
Joan didn’t need to be one of the best spies in England to know that Rosalin meant something to Alex—it had been as clear as day on his face.
What had surprised her was how much that meant to her. She’d been jealous and scared. Scared that she would lose him, scared that he would hold her up against this other woman and wonder what he’d been thinking, scared that she’d allowed herself to get too close, and most of all scared that it might be too late to do anything about it.
She had to try to pull away, while she still could. Focus.
He was waiting for her in the entry hall. The boyish smile that curved his lips when he turned and saw her cut like a knife through her heart. It seemed a taunt of everything she wanted that wasn’t hers even if it seemed to be. It was all pretend. A glass house of illusions that could be shattered at any moment.
She forced herself not to show her hurt. To keep her expression cool and serene. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
He frowned a little at her polite tone. “Aye, I’m afraid I have something I must attend to at my lands in East Lothian. That is the reason Pembroke wished to see me. I should only be gone for a few days, but I must leave first thing tomorrow.”
“I hope it is nothing too serious, my lord.”
“As do I,” he said, although he didn’t sound convinced.
She could not hide all her emotions, it seemed, as her voice came out worried and entreating. “You will be careful?”
He smiled. “I will endeavor to return to you exactly as I have left you.”
She returned his smile, appreciating the attempt at humor even if the idea of him being hurt made all those emotions she was trying to hide stir like a tempest. “Then I will wish you a safe journey, my lord, and see you upon your return.”
She gave a short nod and would have turned away had he not caught her. The feel of his hand on her arm made every nerve ending jump with awareness. She could feel his heat, smell the now-familiar scent of sandalwood soap, and the sensations raced through her blood in a hot rush, weakening her knees—and her resolve.
“I thought I saw you earlier,” he said.
She gave no indication that the words had made her heart start to bang. “You did?”
“Aye, by the Constable Tower. Were you looking for me?”
“I may have been on my way to the chapel at the time.”
He studied her face. Looking for some kind of sign of deception, perhaps? “I ran into an old friend.”
“You did?”
Maybe she wasn’t as good at hiding her feelings as she thought, because he nodded as if he knew she was lying and was trying to apologize. “A woman who is like a sister to me.”
“You need not explain.”
“I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”
“There isn’t.”
“It’s just that it’s . . . complicated.”
He said it with a smile, but the easy humor of before seemed forced. Lies, deceptions, and half-truths had a way of doing that—she should know.
She could have let it go at that. But something provoked her to push—to test. Did he trust her enough to tell her the truth? “Who is she? Perhaps I will cross paths with her when you are gone.”
Had she not been looking for the hesitation, she would have missed it. But if he considered telling her the truth, he decided against it. “No one you would know. But I’m afraid she was only here briefly and has already gone.”
Joan looked him right in the eye and saw no signs of deception. For someone who despised lying, he did it well. “How disappointing.”
It was. Now she wasn’t the only liar between them.
17
WITH ALEX GONE, Joan turned to her duties with renewed determination and focus. The date set by Edward Bruce and the commander at Stirling Castle for the English to relieve the garrison was less than two weeks away. King Edward would have to leave in the next week if he was going to make it in time. It would take at least a week of marching—maybe more—for the army to reach Stirling from Berwick.
So instead of wondering what Alex was doing, prevaricating over every word of their conversation, and thinking about what else he would do for Rosalin Boyd if he cared about her enough to lie for her, Joan concentrated on her cousin. Or more accurately, on her cousin and her husband. But Alice and Sir Henry proved surprisingly unhelpful and unusually closemouthed.
She didn’t think they suspected anything, but she couldn’t be sure. More likely it was merely a result of the increased effort by the king to find the spy and the tightening of information as the war drew near. But she couldn’t shake the sense of disquiet.
Disquiet that only increased when she went to town to send a message to Lachlan that she needed to speak to him (not only to warn him about the betrothal but to start building the bridge that might allow Alex to return) and had the distinct feeling of someone following her. When she returned to the castle and saw a few of Despenser’s men pass through the gate a short while after, she felt the first chill of fear.
She cursed herself again for the mistake she’d made with Sir Hugh. She never should have targeted him in the first place, but to make him feel a fool by appearing to discard him for Alex . . . that had not been smart.
He was a dangerous enemy out for blood, as she’d seen in his expression when he’d congratulated her on her engagement on the day of the hawking excursion. She’d dismissed the chill that had raced through her then, but now seeing his men . . . it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
She knew she had to be careful—very careful.
There was one piece of good news. Upon returning to her chamber, Joan learned from Alice that Sir Hugh the elder had arrived with some additional men from Wales. Her former guardian had always been kind to her and had even tried to stand up for her with the king when Sir Henry first raised doubts as to her paternity. She would never forget the show of loyalty, and it was with true fondness that she returned his big hug at the midday meal under the watchful glare of his son beside him.
Before letting her go, the older man insisted that she come to his rooms later that evening (once he’d seen to his duties to the king) where she could tell him everything that she’d been doing since he’d seen her last, “including more about this knight who has won your hand.”
She ignored the younger Sir Hugh’s comment that from what he’d heard, she’d been “doing quite a lot,” and promised the older knight to see him later.
With the queen’s arrival, she and her bevy of ladies-in-waiting had taken over the higher tables, so Joan retreated to a trestle table farther away from the dais to join her cousin Margaret among some of Sir Henry’s household knights.
She was only a few feet away when she stopped midstep and gasped. The color leeched from her face as every ounce of blood in her body crashed to the floor. She had to grab hold of the edge of one of the tables to prevent her legs from collapsing.
Oh God, it couldn’t be.
“Is something wrong, my lady? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
One of Sir Henry’s men—Sir Bertram, she thought his name—must have seen her sway and had come to her rescue, offering her a steady arm to hold on to. She took it, not only for the solidity but also to block the person she’d seen from her view.
Only then did the shock dissipate enough for her to respond. Nay, not a ghost (irony, that), though she wished he were—there was no one in the world she would like to see dead more than him. “I felt a little light
-headed for a moment,” she said with a wobbly smile to the young knight. “But I’m fine now.”
“Are you sure?” Sir Bertram asked with obvious concern. “You are shaking and your hand is as cold as ice.”
Realizing that people were beginning to stare, she forced a calm, serene mask to her face that she did not feel. “Perhaps a glass of wine would help.”
Sir Bertram immediately jumped to do her bidding, leading her to the table and ordering one of the serving girls to bring the lady some wine.
Somehow Joan made it through the meal. She evaded her cousin’s questioning glances and laughed and jested with the rest of the table as if nothing were amiss. But the cold sweat on her forehead and chill in her bones told differently. She was painfully aware of the powerful knight in Despenser arms seated not twenty feet away. Let me go . . . She could still feel his weight on her pinning her down as she struggled.
Though Sir Phillip Gifford had merely been a squire the last time she’d seen him, she would never forget the man who’d raped her.
When he’d been sent to Sir Hugh’s lands in Wales four years ago, and she’d gone to live with Alice and Sir Henry, she’d thought to never see him again. But with the war and her being in such close proximity to the English leadership, she should have realized this could happen. She should have known. She should have been prepared.
But in truth, she feared nothing could have prepared her for seeing him again.
Alex. She felt his absence acutely. It wasn’t that she needed his strength; it was as if his inherent goodness might somehow blot out the evil.
At the first opportunity, she excused herself to retire to her chamber where she could think and recover from the shock in private. Margaret offered to accompany her, but Joan declined—not ready to answer the inevitable questions.
She realized the hastiness of her decision a few moments later when her path to the door was blocked by a big, mail-clad warrior in a white surcoat with the familiar black, yellow, and red arms.
Her heart pounded. She didn’t need to look up to see the handsome features, golden-blond hair, and brilliant green eyes to recognize him. Recognition was visceral. She felt it in the disgust that crawled over her skin and the revulsion that slithered down her spine in a shiver. And if that weren’t enough, the smell would do it. For months she hadn’t been able to get his scent out of her nose or his taste out of her mouth. Brandy and licorice. Two things that she used to find pleasant, but after made her want to retch.
The Ghost Page 23
