The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  He smiled. “I was also thinking that I forgot to give you something. I brought it back with me from home.” He laughed. “I think my mother feared I was never going to ask for it.”

  She was obviously perplexed. “For me?”

  “Aye, for you,” he said, pressing a kiss on her nose. He rolled over her and fished around on the ground beside the bed for his sporran. Digging inside with his fingers, he pulled out what he was looking for and got back into position with her nestled half on top of him before opening his palm.

  She gasped, her eyes shooting to his in shock and accusation. “Alex!”

  For a moment she just stared at the circle of gold and stone with the eyes of a starving child who had glimpsed a plate of sweets in a window. When she looked back at him her eyes were damp and shimmery. “It’s beautiful.” He could hear the emotion in her voice. “But I couldn’t accept—”

  “It’s a betrothal ring,” he said, cutting her off. “You have to accept it.”

  She looked like she wanted to refuse again, but eventually she nodded.

  Taking her hand, Alex slid the ring onto her slender finger. It was a substantial piece of jewelry. The band was thick and engraved with an intricate design taken from the Seton arms, and a large sapphire—nearly a half-inch in diameter—was inset in the middle with another thick band of decorated gold around the edge.

  It wasn’t until he saw her holding it out to look at it on her hand that he wondered if she would like it. It had been in his family for so long he’d always assumed his bride would wear it. But perhaps she would like something more delicate and heavily jeweled.

  “If you don’t like it,” he said, “I can have something made.”

  She snatched her hand back as if he were trying to take it from her. “I love it. It’s the most beautiful ring I have ever seen. I would be honored to wear it for as long as you wish me to.” It was a strange thing to say, and he might have followed up on it had she not asked him a question. “You said you got it from your mother. Was it hers?”

  He nodded. “For a time. She gave it to my brother to give to his wife, but when Chris died, Christina returned it to the family.” Not only had his brother been one of Robert the Bruce’s closest companions, he’d been married to his sister, Christina Bruce. “It’s been in our family for generations, though.” He smiled. “Family legend says that it was given to an illustrious ancestor by Charlemagne for deeds on the battlefield, but I think it more likely that it came from another ancestor, the Count of Boulogne—our arms came from him.”

  “The dragon?” she asked.

  He tensed but could not completely stave off the pang that landed somewhere in his gut. “Wyvern,” he corrected automatically.

  “Of course,” she said.

  She’d turned her face from his, but he sensed something anxious—almost nervous—in her voice.

  It was an odd mistake to make. Most women of her rank would have been raised to identify the symbols of arms easily and with the correct terminology. When Alex had been a member of the Highland Guard, Lachlan MacRuairi had purposefully called it a dragon to annoy him. It had worked. It had also eventually led to his war name. Now it only brought back memories that he’d tried for two years to push aside.

  Perhaps sensing his question, she explained hastily, “I saw the inscription on your sword.”

  Metuenda Corolla Draconis. Fear the Dragon Shield. Bruce had given him the sword some time ago, and he probably should have left it behind, but he’d been reluctant to get rid of it. But how had she seen . . .

  “I noticed it when you were fighting with Sir Robert Felton.”

  She must have good eyesight. Accepting the explanation, he held up her hand. “I’m glad you like the ring. It actually reminds me a little of your bracelet.”

  He thought she tensed a little as he brought her arm closer. “It’s very fine work,” he said, examining the intricate pattern of the cuff. “And an unusual style. Reminds me of some of the armbands the Romans were said to wear, but the design looks to be Norse. Where did you get it?”

  He released her arm and she yanked it back.

  She paused a shade too long before responding. “My father gave it to me.”

  She never spoke of her father, and he’d hesitated to ask her about him. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, had been an abrasive, hard-arsed, ill-tempered bastard, and Alex had assumed they had not been close. But maybe he was wrong. “It must mean a lot to you,” he said.

  She shrugged evasively.

  “I’ve never seen you without it,” he added.

  “But how . . . ?” She snapped her mouth shut.

  He smiled. “I noticed it under the sleeve of your gown. I saw the imprint through the fabric.”

  She stilled again, but then looked up at him. “You are very observant, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I learned from the best.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  It was his turn to be evasive. “An old friend.” Ewen “Hunter” Lamont, the best tracker in the Highlands. Returning to the bracelet, he asked, “Why were you hiding it?”

  She propped her chin on his chest and said matter-of-factly, “I did not want Alice to see it.”

  It didn’t take him long to realize why. When Joan had been declared a bastard and her inheritance taken from her, her cousins had been the ones to benefit. They were the heirs to Buchan and as a result would have been entitled to all his wealth, including jewelry.

  He swore, his fingers sweeping a strand of hair from her lashes and lingering on the soft skin of her brow. “It’s criminal what they’ve done to you. Anyone who knew your father can see the resemblance. I swear to you, when this damned war is over, I will do everything in my power to see it returned to you.”

  She put her hand flat on his chest as if to stop him. “Nay, Alex, I don’t want you to do anything on my behalf. Truly, it means little to me.”

  He frowned. “How can you say that? Your father was one of the wealthiest men in Scotland.”

  Something dark and angry flashed across her features. But he wondered if he imagined it when she smiled, scooted up, and pressed her lips against his. “Do you really want to waste time right now talking about my father?”

  The arm that was around her waist slid a little lower, enabling him to cup her bottom in his hand. Her very velvety and soft naked bottom. A fact that he was viscerally aware of as he instantly hardened.

  “How’s that stamina of yours now?” she asked playfully.

  He groaned as her lips sent a trail of fire along his jaw and neck.

  Before she realized what he intended, he flipped her on the bed and rolled on top of her. Those moves Raider had taught him had come in handy many times, but maybe never as handy as this.

  It was funny, though. For a split second it almost seemed as if she had anticipated his movement. She tensed and started to move her leg as if to block him.

  But there was certainly no resistance now. She practically melted under him. God, he liked her under him. On top of him. Whatever the hell position she wanted, as long as she was naked and he had full access to all that creamy, delectable skin.

  Pinning her arms over her head, he started to kiss his way down her body. He couldn’t wait to make her squirm and beg. “We have all night to find out.”

  Or so he thought, but somewhere after the third or fourth time of working on his stamina, Alex was roused from a deep—very deep—sleep by a sound.

  Knowing Joan was just as exhausted as he, if not more so (he’d lost count after seven or eight of how many times he made her cry out), he was surprised when she immediately stirred as well. She was as alert as a warrior, he thought with amusement.

  The sound of the outer door—for that’s what he realized had woken him—was followed a moment later by the sound of a table or chair leg squeaking against the floor, and then someone crying out. “Ouch! Where’s the blasted candle? Joan!”

  Joan’s gaze flew to his. “Hurry and hide,” she whispe
red. “It’s Alice. She must have seen the light.”

  They’d forgotten—or been too exhausted—to blow out the candle.

  Hearing the unmistakable sounds of footsteps coming toward the room, Joan slid from bed, grabbed her robe, and threw it on as she raced for the door. Opening it, she slid outside, effectively blocking the entry and preventing her cousin from coming inside. By the closeness of Alice’s voice, it was just in time.

  “There you are,” Alice said as if Joan had been hiding.

  “Where else would I be?” Joan said with dry, exaggerated patience. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  Alice didn’t hear or didn’t care about the subtle reprimand. “Henry can’t sleep. He has a horrible headache. I told him about your magic powder, and he sent me to fetch some.”

  Magic powder for sleeping? Something about that struck him, although Alex couldn’t put his finger on why.

  He paused in his effort to put his clothes back on and get the bed linen back in some semblance of order.

  There was a long pause before Joan responded. “I’m afraid it’s all gone. You had the last of it.”

  “Can’t you fetch some more?”

  “Nay. I brought it with me from Carlisle.”

  “Well then, what am I supposed to do?”

  Alex shook his head. Alice acted as if it were Joan’s fault. He didn’t know how Joan put up with it.

  She wouldn’t have to for much longer, he swore. He had even more cause to want to see this blasted war at an end.

  “You could try a tincture of all-heal,” Joan offered, referring to the herb commonly used to treat sleeplessness—valerian. It was used for many illnesses, including digestive complaints and nausea.

  “He doesn’t like that. He says it makes his stomach hurt.”

  It also sometimes had that effect.

  “Perhaps just a posset of warm milk and ale, then?” Joan suggested patiently.

  Alice made some exaggerated sound of exasperation. “Oh very well. But Henry won’t be pleased. He was looking forward to your powder. I’ve never fallen asleep so quickly and slept so soundly.”

  Alice left soon afterward, and Alex reluctantly took his leave shortly thereafter. But something about that powder bothered him for the rest of the night.

  19

  JOAN FINISHED HER yawn with a deep sigh. She was exhausted, but happily so. She couldn’t recall ever being this happy.

  “There you go again,” Margaret said. “You have that look of that big barn cat we used to have after he caught a mouse.” She gave her a pointed look in the direction of Joan’s hand. “Does it have something to do with that ring on your finger? I don’t recall seeing it last night before you went to bed.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Joan murmured noncommittally. “Don’t you?”

  Margaret shook her head and laughed. “I won’t ask, although I am interested in how he managed to get that to you before you left your room for morning prayers.”

  “It’s a mystery indeed,” Joan said with exaggerated piousness—which was fitting, as the two women were walking from the chapel to the Hall to break their fast.

  Her cousin wasn’t believing any of it and just laughed. But after a moment she sobered and said in a low voice, “You will be careful, won’t you, Joan? I don’t want to see you get hurt, and Sir Alex isn’t the kind of man not to take notice of things.”

  Joan wanted to dismiss her cousin’s concerns, but she knew she could not. Margaret was right. Alex was far too observant—and smart for that matter. And although she would like to say she was being careful, their growing closeness was causing her to relax her guard and make mistakes. She couldn’t believe she’d referred to the wyvern as a dragon. Good thing she remembered the sword inscription. And then there was his questioning about her bracelet, not to mention Alice’s sudden appearance to demand her magic sleeping powder. Joan feared she’d lost every bit of blood in her face when her cousin mentioned it.

  Joan didn’t think he’d made the connection, but she never should have given Alice that powder. Of everything she’d done in the name of helping Bruce’s cause, drugging Alex—accidentally or not—shamed her the most. She dreaded his ever finding out about it.

  But to Margaret’s point, she nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tell him the truth.”

  Whatever it was her cousin thought she was going to say, it was not that. Margaret stopped just outside the entrance to the Hall and pulled her aside, away from the steady stream of mostly soldiers entering the Hall.

  Margaret looked around to make sure no one could overhear and said in a low voice, “Are you sure that is wise? You are giving him a very big sword to hang over your head. Can you trust him?”

  “With my life.” She would need to.

  “And what about what you are doing?” Margaret asked.

  Joan knew to what she referred. “I will continue as long as I am needed, hopefully with help.”

  It took Margaret a moment to understand that she meant Alex turning back to Bruce. Her eyes grew as round as two large coins. “Do you think that is possible?”

  Joan answered truthfully. “I don’t know. But I hope so.” Her future happiness depended on it.

  “What are you two whispering about again?” Alice said, breaking away from a few of the ladies she was walking with to come up to them with a sharp stomp of impatience. “I swear, everyone is being so secretive lately, I shall be glad when this war is finally over.”

  On that they could agree, although Joan was dreading watching Alex ride away. What did they have, a few days? Four . . . five at the most? She felt a sharp pinch in her chest. Could she convince him by then or would she watch him leave, knowing that it was over?

  She couldn’t let that happen. Last night had been so perfect. Well, after the jealousy part, but perhaps that had been understandable. Sir Hugh was certainly trying to get his revenge. But she would not curse him for it, not when it had brought Alex to her room and led to a night she would remember for the rest of her life. She’d never felt warmth and closeness like that before. She’d never felt so relaxed and . . . happy. Without realizing it she looked down at the ring on her finger and smiled.

  “What’s that?” Alice said, reaching for her hand.

  Joan resisted the urge to snatch it back. “I was just showing Margaret,” Joan said. “Alex gave it to me. It’s a betrothal ring.”

  Alice’s mouth hardened. She dropped her hand. There was something on her face . . .

  “It’s very pretty,” Alice said.

  “I’m glad you approve, Lady Alice,” a deep voice said with wry amusement. “I intend to see that Joan gets everything she deserves.”

  Joan turned, surprised to see that Alex had come up behind them. He was so blasted quiet! Maybe she should call him Ghost.

  She gave him a sharp look—not for sneaking up on her, but for what he’d said to Alice. It could be an innocent comment, but despite her plea to him last night, Joan didn’t think it was. She hoped Alice hadn’t taken anything by it. Joan could not afford to have any kind of wedge between her and her cousin—not if she wanted to be kept within the circle of information. A circle that had definitely been tightening.

  For once Joan couldn’t tell her cousin’s thoughts from her expression.

  “What a pretty sentiment,” Alice said. “My cousin is fortunate to have found you.”

  Ever the stalwart knight, Alex had come up by her side. He took her hand, put it in the crook of his arm, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a voice that no one could doubt, “Nay, it is I who am fortunate.”

  She felt her heart swell and her cheeks grow warm as she basked under the glow of his love for her.

  The warmth and contentment lasted throughout the day, although unfortunately Alex was called away by Pembroke after breaking his fast, presumably to report on his journey to East Lothian.

  He sent a message later that he had to ride out to Wark, and she w
as disappointed when he had yet to return by the evening meal.

  Their handful of days had been whittled down by one. But what did she expect? There was a war coming.

  To that end, she took the message about the earls’ refusal to answer King Edward’s call to her contact in the village under the pretense of purchasing some new fabric for a bridal gown. Avoiding blue—the traditional color of purity for a bride—she found a beautiful ivory brocade with an intricate scroll design in silk gold thread.

  It was silly to buy it. It had cost a small fortune and a good portion of her meager savings. There was every chance she would never wear it. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist. One of Margaret’s attendants was a masterful seamstress, and Joan knew she could make her something beautiful at a fraction of the cost of a dressmaker in the village.

  She’d stayed in the Hall to discuss it with her after the evening meal and had gotten so caught up in the excitement of all the details, hours had passed before she realized it was getting late.

  No doubt Alice would be furious that she hadn’t been there to help her ready for bed—again—but Joan was too happy to care. Nay, not just happy, she was giddy.

  Good Lord, she was acting like a besotted young bride-to-be with no other care than a wedding to plan, not a highly valued spy in the enemy camp with the biggest battle in Bruce’s eight-year war just around the corner. But there was no reason she couldn’t do her duty and carve out a few moments of happiness for herself—while she could. Even a wedding that could well be pretend was still fun to think about for a woman who’d never expected to have one at all.

  She’d just entered the corridor when the bell rang for compline. She had lingered a long time. It must be half past nine or so. Outside the last vestiges of daylight were fading streaks of gray beneath the cloudy night sky, but inside where light had a hard time penetrating thick stone walls, it had been as dark as night for hours.

  The bell from the chapel tower was still reverberating in her ear when she sensed a movement behind her and turned just as someone grabbed her.

  “Hello, sweeting,” he said, pulling her against him from behind and breathing down her neck. “I’ve been waiting for you.”