The Ghost Read online

  He grinned. “Smart lass.”

  He was a moment away from dropping a kiss on her soft red mouth before he caught himself.

  Christ, where had that come from? It was as if kissing her were the most natural thing in the world.

  Perhaps guessing his thoughts, she sobered and took a cautious step back. “Thank you, Sir Alex,” she said again before slipping into her chamber.

  Alex stood staring at the closed door for a long moment before retracing his steps and returning to his own chamber. But the strange interlude with Joan Comyn stayed with him long into the night.

  4

  ALEX THOUGHT THE meeting would never end. De Beaumont—as keeper of the castle—and Pembroke—as an earl and the man of highest rank—had been measuring their cocks all morning, and frankly, neither had anything worth bragging about.

  Two of King Edward’s most important barons seemed more interested in the sound of their own voices than in planning this damned war. Posturing, positioning, vying for attention . . . that was all Edward’s commanders seemed interested in, and Alex was bloody tired of it. At least when he was with the Highland Guard they’d always had a common purpose, even if they didn’t always agree on how to get there. But these two were more worried about who would ride in what order and lead which part of the army than they were about tactics and strategy. After Alex’s suggestion to request a parley with Bruce to see if they might come to terms before marching was swiftly (and decisively) dismissed, he had been only half-listening anyway.

  Alex tried not to let the frustration get to him, but he was running out of time. The inroads he’d thought he’d made in London two years ago were harder to remember the farther they marched north. At first the king had seemed willing to listen to Alex’s pleas for the people in the Borders and his warnings that Bruce was stronger than his numbers appeared. Edward had said he would consider Alex’s suggestion of a parley.

  He hadn’t considered it for long. Thanks to the problems with his barons, Scotland had become Edward’s rallying cry. His distraction. His way of proving to his people that he was his father’s son, and a king they could believe in. Alex knew it was going to be next to impossible to dissuade Edward from his course. Which didn’t mean Alex wouldn’t try. But it was becoming increasingly clear that no one was willing to listen to reason—certainly not the cock-measuring de Beaumont and Pembroke.

  His thoughts turned to something far more pleasant. He wondered how Lady Joan’s ankle was this morning. Perhaps he would seek her out after the meeting to check on her.

  He found himself oddly curious about Bella’s daughter. He knew that after she’d been falsely declared illegitimate, and her claim to the Buchan earldom given to her cousins, Lady Joan now served as a companion to one of those cousins—Alice—who was married to de Beaumont. He doubted anyone truly believed the lie that Joan was not Buchan’s daughter (instead the product of an illicit affair between Bella and Bruce), but no one wanted to see the daughter of a notorious traitor rewarded with an earldom. He recalled some other contrivance about consanguinity—related godparents?—had been used as well.

  They were a convenient pretense, that was all. Edward ensured the support of de Beaumont in his fight against the Scots—as de Beaumont would be fighting for his own lands—and no one cared about the daughter of a dead earl and a rebel “whore.”

  He wondered what Joan thought about it. Did she regret not returning to Scotland when she’d had the chance all those years ago? Ironically, Alex had been part of the team who had rescued MacRuairi and Bella from Berwick Castle when they’d been captured not long after Bella’s return to Scotland. MacRuairi had given the then fourteen-year-old Joan an opportunity to go with them, but she’d declined, saying that her life was in England with her Comyn uncle and cousins. It had broken Bella’s heart.

  Given what had happened in the interim, Alex wondered whether she would make the same decision today. The lass had hardly been rewarded for her loyalty to the English cause.

  It was close to the midday meal by the time the meeting finally broke up. Alex was going to go in search of her when he caught part of the conversation taking place in the group of young soldiers walking ahead of him.

  “Long night, Fitzgerald? I thought you were going to fall asleep there for a while when de Beaumont was talking about whose men would sleep in the barracks at Wark and whose would have to set up tents outside the gates.”

  Alex had been about to doze off himself. He hadn’t slept much last night. He’d been too busy thinking.

  “I feel like I just swam from here to Ireland,” another man answered. “I’ve never been so . . . satisfied.”

  From the way he said it—like a cat that had just lapped up a big bowl of cream—Alex understood what kind of satisfied he meant. Obviously the young redheaded knight had spent the night with a lass.

  Alex recognized him now. He was one of Ulster’s young sea captains. Sir Richard Fitzgerald was a promising young soldier from a powerful family and said to be one of the best seafarers in Ireland. Perhaps he’d give MacSorley a challenge one day.

  Not that it would be any day soon. Alex knew there was no one who could come close to the West Highland chieftain. Hawk—MacSorley—was the best seafarer not just in Scotland but likely in Christendom. He was also the best swimmer, as Alex could personally attest. Years ago during training, MacSorley had saved his life in the stormy seas near the Isle of Skye.

  Why the hell was he thinking of that now?

  “Ah, the lady finally succumbed, did she?” one of the men said. “And I use the term ‘lady’ very loosely. From what I hear the quiet, mysterious lady is a she-cat in bed. I wouldn’t mind her sinking her claws into me. When you’re done with her, of course,” he said to Fitzgerald.

  Alex stiffened at the crude talk. No man should talk about a woman that way—any woman—and it was worse, as these men were knights. They should know better, damn it.

  Alex was about to remind them of that fact, when Fitzgerald spoke. “You should see her breasts,” the young captain said with an exaggerated groan. “Hell, if she wasn’t Buchan’s bastard, I might be tempted to marry her just to bury my face in them every—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. Alex had him slammed up against the castle wall with his hand around his throat. The reaction was pure instinct, and if the black rage that was pounding in Alex’s ears was any indication, the lad was lucky Alex hadn’t killed him outright.

  Fitzgerald’s hands had gone directly to his neck and were trying to pull Alex’s away from his throat, but the younger man might as well have been trying to pry steel. Alex’s muscles were as rigid and fixed as an iron bar.

  “I’ve heard enough of your vile lies,” Alex said in a voice he didn’t recognize. Hell, it had the low, deadly edge of MacRuairi’s. “How dare you speak of a lady that way.”

  Fitzgerald’s friends had finally recovered from their shock. “Let him go,” one of them said, though he made no move to challenge Alex. “He can’t breathe.”

  Realizing that Fitzgerald’s eyes were bulging, Alex lightened his hold just enough to let the other man suck in a few gasps of air. Fitzgerald gaped at Alex like he was a madman—which wasn’t that far off from how he felt.

  “What . . . hell . . . Seton?” Fitzgerald said, pulling on Alex’s hand some more to release him.

  “What’s going on here?” Alex recognized Pembroke’s voice behind him. “Let him go, Seton.”

  Alex wasn’t inclined to do as he asked.

  “That’s an order,” Pembroke added angrily.

  It took a few moments for Alex’s head to clear enough to recognize the earl’s authority. The king had put Alex under his command, damn it.

  With a sound of disgust, Alex released his hold on Fitzgerald’s neck with one more hard thrust against the wall. But the urge to kill still surged through his veins.

  Seeing his expression, the young seafarer took a step back.

  “What is wrong with you, Seton?