The Ghost Read online

  She’d been so furious—and yes, hurt—by Alex’s accusations that she hadn’t been able to resist taunting him. She might have even known what he would do. She might have even wanted it. If he’d ravished and devoured her with lust the way he was supposed to, she was certain she would have been able to push him away and revile him the way she should. He would be just like all the others.

  But he wasn’t like all the others. He was different. And his kiss was very different. It was gentle and tender—almost reverent.

  She didn’t understand it. How could he think her a wanton and kiss her like this? It was beautiful. Sweet. Shattering. With every smooth caress, with every gentle press, with every tender stroke, he ripped her defenses to shreds. He stripped her bare, revealing yearnings—desires—that belonged to another person. The person she’d been.

  He kissed her like she meant something. Like she was special. He made her feel like a woman who was worthy of respect—not just a quick, lusty swive against the wall—and she hated it.

  These feelings made her weak. He made her weak.

  But she couldn’t break away. It simply felt too good. That she felt anything at all was a surprise. She’d thought herself incapable after the horror of that day. But the numbness—the coldness—that she usually felt wasn’t there.

  She loved the solid hardness of his body against hers, which didn’t make any sense. All that strength should be threatening. He could hold her down. Prevent her from moving. Instead it made her warm and melty. And maybe a little achy.

  She couldn’t help but remember how all those muscles had looked in the flesh. How they’d flexed and rippled as he moved.

  She wanted to make them jump under her fingertips. She wanted to slide her hands up the hard ridges of his back and shoulders, over his bulging arms, and maybe even across the steely bands of his stomach.

  She’d never felt desire so physically or viscerally—even that first time before everything had gone so terribly wrong—and the intensity of it took her by surprise.

  Surely that was the explanation for the little gasps emitting from low in her throat. Gasps that seemed to be encouraging him to respond with a deep groan and a deeper swirl of his tongue.

  His hands moved from cradling her head to down her spine and then to her waist and hips. He was folding her into him, bending her back, bringing her closer.

  Confusing her.

  All she could think about was the heat of his body, the dark, spicy taste of his mouth, and the sharp pull of sensation that drew her closer with every deft stroke of his tongue. He kissed wonderfully. With skill and purpose and something else . . . feeling? He didn’t rush, smother, or slobber with eagerness. He was slow and calculated—as if all he cared about was making her feel good.

  It was working.

  His hand moved over her breast and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Heat gathered under his palm. Her nipple grew taut. He rubbed her, circling the pad of his thumb over the throbbing tip until she pressed against him. Arching into the firm cup of his hand.

  He had great hands. They were so big and strong, but surprisingly gentle. He didn’t grasp too tightly or squeeze too hard, or move too roughly.

  At first. But then his control started to slip, and he moved a little quicker, a little harder, and maybe a little rougher. But she didn’t mind. She liked it. She felt it in the increasing fierceness and intensity of his groans. The thick column of flesh wedged between her legs began to grind in slow, sensual circles reminiscent of . . .

  That was when the memories returned. She jerked back suddenly. Harshly. Horror stripped the color from her face.

  My God, she’d almost . . .

  What was she doing? She couldn’t do this. The fact that she’d wanted to—even for a moment—struck her cold. But the feelings had been so powerful, so overwhelming, so intense.

  She knew better than to trust those feelings; she was more surprised that after all that had happened she still had them.

  He seemed just as shocked as she about what had happened—and just as horrified. He recovered first. Somewhat.

  “Shite.” An instant later, he winced as if he couldn’t believe he’d just said that. After raking his fingers through his hair, he stood a little straighter and tried again. “I must beg for your forgiveness. I hope you will accept my apology for the dishonor I have done you. I have no excuse. I do not know what came over me, but I assure you it will not happen again.”

  Joan couldn’t believe it. The sharp sound of a laugh was out before she could prevent it. Was he for real? There was something so charmingly old-fashioned and proper about him, she felt as if she’d slipped back in time into the pages of some faerie tale. Would he bend his knee and hand her his sword to do her will? Good gracious, she knew exactly what had come over him. Lust. Desire. Passion. It made people do things they never intended.

  “You have much to learn about dishonor, Sir Alex. A kiss hardly qualifies.”

  She’d meant it more wryly than sarcastically, but she could tell by the way his jaw clenched and his eyes darkened that she’d offended him—unintentionally as it was. He gave her a hard look. “Maybe it is you who have much to learn about honorable men, my lady.”

  The reply took her aback. She stared at him. With a short bow of his head, he moved past her up the stairs, leaving her to ponder what he’d said.

  9

  JOAN? I ASKED you a question.”

  Startled from her reverie, Joan turned to her cousin with a smile as they walked down the high street. It was Whit Monday, the day following Whitsun—or Pentecost—and one of the biggest celebration days of the year. Villeins would be free from service for the entire week and, as in most big towns, war or no war, Berwick was celebrating with a fair. The streets and markets were more crowded than she’d ever seen them. “I’m sorry, Alice, I was thinking. What is it that you asked?”

  Alice’s scowls tended toward petulance and this one was no different. “You’ve been distracted all week. Whatever is the matter with you? I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

  As it was the truth, Joan could hardly argue.

  Alice eyed her speculatively. “Perhaps Sir Hugh’s leaving has upset you more than you let on? I doubt a week’s absence will cause his eye to wander, although I suppose you are right to worry. He is a man.”

  Alice’s experience with her husband’s affairs had obviously colored her view of men in general. Not for the first time since that night in the tower Joan wondered the same about herself. “Maybe it is you who have much to learn about honorable men.” Was Alex right? Had her view of all men been colored by her experience with a few? She didn’t want to think so. She’d met few honorable men and so many more who weren’t. It was hard not to become cynical.

  But she wasn’t so cynical that she couldn’t acknowledge that she might have misjudged Alex. Her first impressions may have been right. Despite his judgmental reaction to her “behavior,” he seemed to truly believe some of the principles most men only parroted, such as honor, gallantry, and chivalry. Yet he’d turned his back on his friends and betrayed them.

  She knew him well enough now to know that he must have had a reason—or thought he’d had a reason. Lachlan had been very closemouthed on the subject when he’d told her about it, except to say that “Sir Galahad” had never fit in, and he and Boyd had been a mismatch from the start. It just didn’t make sense.

  Nothing about him made sense, least of all her reaction to him. A week later and she was still confused by what had happened. She’d kissed him back, not because she had to but because she wanted to. She’d done what she thought impossible and welcomed a man’s kiss.

  More than welcomed, she thought with a grimace of shame. She’d kissed him openly and wantonly, no doubt only reinforcing his opinion of her. That was probably why he seemed to be making a concerted effort to avoid her all week. Though she had felt his eyes on her more than once. He must be wracked with shame for dishonoring himself by frolicking with a woman of