The Ghost Read online

  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