The Ghost Read online

  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