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JOAN COULD BARELY close the door behind her, her hands were shaking so badly. Actually, her entire body was shaking. Her skin was like ice. Fear and panic had invaded her body like a snowstorm in the dead of winter and wouldn’t let go.
It’s all right. You are safe. It’s over. Nothing happened.
But it had been close. Too close.
She crept through the darkness of the corridor, winding her way down the stairs of the Captain’s Tower from Sir Richard’s third-floor chamber.
She felt clumsy . . . awkward . . . tentative. Her heart was still beating like a drum in her chest and ears. She couldn’t shake the moment of terror. God, she could still feel his hands on her, pinning her down, not letting her move. The memories had come hard and fast and for one horrible moment she had been paralyzed with fear. It had been too similar. She’d thought he was going to . . .
But then her plan worked and the threat had collapsed in a drugged heap. The panic, however, remained.
Good gracious, she’d been so shaken she’d almost forgotten to search his room! A search that had resulted in a missive with his orders and details regarding the ports and shipping routes for getting the necessary supplies into Scotland for the war. An army of the size Edward was gathering would require far more than they could carry, even in an extensive baggage train. Now she knew how it would get there.
There were probably only a handful of people who knew the information she had discovered, and soon one of them would be Robert the Bruce. Thanks to her.
It had been worth it, she told herself. But her frazzled nerves didn’t seem to realize that. The shadows seemed to jump out at her as she wound her way down the darkened corridors. At well past midnight, most of the lamps had already been extinguished for the night. She hurried down the stairs, going down faster than she should, trying to put as much distance between her and what had nearly happened back in that room, when her slippered foot landed awkwardly on one of the narrow stairs. The stairs were made of stone, and as they became worn with use, they could become slippery. She discovered this the painful way when her foot slid out from under her.
She tried to catch herself, and in doing so wrenched her ankle in the effort to find her footing. She tumbled down the last part of the spiral staircase, and likely would have landed in a painful heap at the base had someone not caught her.
“Christ! Are you all right?”
She was so startled to feel the man’s hands on her, it took a moment for her to process his words . . . and his face.
But when she did . . .
God in heaven! A heart that she thought incapable of catching did just that. If she still believed in handsome knights riding to the rescue, this man would have personified her fantasy. Dark golden-blond hair shimmered in the flickering light. Piercing blue eyes that were so crystal and clear they seemed to sparkle in the darkness. A finely featured face that might have been boyish were it not for the slightly skewed once-broken nose and the dark shadow of stubble shaped into a quarter-inch beard. Tall and broad shouldered, he had the lean solid build of a man who lifted a sword for a living. He’d caught her as if she weighed nothing, and the hands holding her were big and strong.
But even were he not wearing chain mail and surcoat, she would have known he was a knight. He looked like he should be riding on a white charger with his sword held high in the air ready to vanquish dragons and rescue fair maidens, which given their current position was appropriate.
Suddenly aware that he’d caught her in a way that might be construed as intimate—and the feel of her breasts crushed against the solid steel wall of his chest certainly felt that—she blushed (for real!) and tried to regain her composure as she pushed back to extract herself from his hold.
“I’m fine,” she said unevenly, sounding more like a starry-eyed maid than she’d ever sounded in her life. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have troubled—”
She stopped suddenly, crying out in pain as she stepped back and put weight on her twisted ankle. She might have stumbled again had he not still been holding her arm.
“Careful,” he said gently, steadying her on the stair above him. “You’re hurt.”
He had a very nice voice. Deep, soft, and soothing. There was something kind and almost gallant about it.
Good gracious, she really was getting carried away with the knight fantasy, wasn’t she? A long time ago she’d believed in the stories of handsome men in shining armor who not only espoused knightly ideals but also lived them. Now she knew differently; experience had cured her of all her illusions. Men like that only existed in faerie tales. With every lecherous look and dishonorable suggestion by the “knights” around her, they proved it to her. Honor, nobility, and respect didn’t mean a thing when lust was involved. Men—even knights—only wanted one thing.
But this man wasn’t looking at her like that at all.
Not knowing what to make of it, she frowned and told herself to give him time. He would probably try to turn his role of rescuer to his advantage soon. She could hear it in her head: How can I thank you? she would ask, and his response with a wicked smile, I’m sure we can think of something.
Aye, something that no doubt included mouths and tongues, and him trying to grope her chest.
Having successfully cleared the stars from her eyes, her voice (and heartbeat) returned to normal. “It’s my ankle. I seem to have twisted it.”
His expression shifted to one that seemed to be of genuine concern. “Are you sure it’s not broken?”
She nodded. “It’s a little tender, that’s all. I will wrap it when I get back to my room, and I’m sure it will be fine.”
She’d never noticed how tight and narrow the stairwell was—or maybe it was just because he was so big. His shoulders almost spanned the width. He seemed to have confiscated all the air. She was finding it difficult to breathe, and then when she did . . . her senses were filled with leather, wind, and the hint of something spicy . . . maybe cloves?
She was a tall woman at six inches over five feet, but even standing on the stair above him, the top of her head only came up to his chin. But their faces were close, and she was too aware of every inch between them—of which there were only a precious handful.
She studied his face again. He was even better looking than she’d realized initially. There was something vaguely familiar about him . . .
She gasped, shock making her forget herself for a moment. No wonder she thought he looked like a fantasy. He was a fantasy—her fantasy, as it turned out.
Joan had never forgotten the handsome young knight who’d caught her fourteen-year-old girlish imagination at the market in Roxburgh six years before. At the time, she hadn’t realized he’d been with her mother. She simply thought him the most magnificent young knight she’d ever seen. Sir Alexander Seton. She’d learned his name in the intervening years, and his place in the Guard . . .
Suddenly, what else that meant struck her.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” he asked.
Aye, something was wrong. Alex Seton wasn’t a gallant knight by any cry of imagination—he was a traitor.
Rescuing two young women in as many days was a bit excessive—even for him. MacSorley would have been making jokes at Alex’s expense for weeks.
The fact that this was among his first thoughts after catching the woman falling down the stairs told him how much the confrontation with his former brethren still was weighing on him.
His other thoughts were equally troubling—especially when he recognized the young woman in his arms. Having lustful thoughts about Bella MacDuff now MacRuairi’s daughter shamed him. But Christ, the lass was even more stunning than he remembered (and old enough for him to notice, as opposed to the last time he’d seen her). With her dark-as-midnight long, wavy, and naughtily mussed hair, her wide, red mouth, snow-white skin, and take-me-to-the-bedchamber-and-ravish-me-senseless eyes, the lass was sin and sensual pl
easure personified.
It didn’t help that she looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed. She was wearing a dressing gown, for Christ’s sake, and the soft, sensual, barely covered womanly curves had been crushed against his chest. He would have had to be a eunuch not to have been affected by such intimate and not-much-separating-them contact with a body divined for pleasure. Generous breasts, a dainty waist, slender hips, long legs perfect to wrap around . . .
He stopped. What the hell was wrong with him?
He knew exactly what was wrong with him, and it was bloody inconvenient to be reminded of it right now. Hell, he usually had better control. He always had better control.
But then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone in a dark stairwell with a beautiful, scantily clad woman in his arms in the middle of the night. Actually, as he realized that had never occurred before, he probably could be excused for the inappropriate direction of his thoughts and the swift reaction of his body.
Both of which vanished, however, when he realized she was hurt.
“My lady?” he asked when she didn’t respond to his question right away. She was looking at him so strangely. Almost as if she knew him. Had she noticed him all those years ago? He hoped not. God knows, any connection to the Guard could be disastrous for him. King Edward would be furious that he’d kept such information from him and would demand to know their secrets and their identities. Alex may have left the Guard, but that was a betrayal he could not stomach.
“Nay,” she said hurriedly, lowering her gaze from his. “There is nothing wrong. I just realized I do not know who I should thank for saving me from a lot more than a twisted ankle.”
“Alex Seton at your service, my lady,” he said with a surprisingly lighthearted bow. He didn’t usually go out of his way to charm young ladies—actually he usually avoided them—but he wanted to put her at ease.
Her mouth quirked, catching on to his game. “Lady Joan Comyn, Sir Alex. I would curtsey, but I’m afraid you might have to catch me again if I tried.”
Just how much he wouldn’t mind holding her again surprised him—as did the resulting wave of heat that coursed through his blood at the thought.
Remembering his role, however, he forced it aside. “Well, my lady, why don’t I help you back to your room so you can tend to that ankle.”
She looked alarmed. “I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure I can make it on my own.”
“It’s no trouble, and I insist. It isn’t safe for you to be wandering the castle at night alone.” Which begged the question . . . “What were you doing in here anyway? I thought the ladies were in the new tower?”
She blushed, lowering her gaze again. Her long, delicate lashes rested on her cheeks like wisps of a silken raven’s wing. Christ, her skin was unreal. It was soft, powdery, and as flawless as freshly fallen snow.
“I don’t remember, my lord.”
He frowned. “You don’t remember?”
She shook her head. “I sometimes walk in my sleep.”
Alex nodded with understanding. “My brother used to do that when he was a child.”
Her eyes widened; clearly she hadn’t expected that. “He did?”
“Aye. It terrified my mother the first few times it happened—she thought he would fall down the stairs or walk into the sea beyond the gate and drown himself. But John only seemed interested in visiting the kitchens.” He smiled at the memory. “He consumed an entire apple tart one night. I thought he was faking until I caught him myself.” John’s eyes had been open but eerily glazed over, and he’d acted as if Alex wasn’t there. “She had special locks put on his windows and doors, but it seemed to resolve itself after a few years.”
“He no longer does it?”
Alex shook his head; the wave of sadness that overtook him was not as sharp as it used to be, but it was still painful. “Both my brothers were executed eight years ago after the Battle of Methven. You have probably heard of Christopher.”
Everyone had heard of Sir Christopher Seton. He wasn’t surprised when she nodded.
But unlike everyone else, she did not go on about it or look at him with expectations that he could never hope to fulfill.
“I’m sorry,” she added softly.
Alex acknowledged her sympathy with a nod, and then pushed the maudlin thoughts away with concern of his own. “Perhaps you should think about a lock on your door or having one of the servants sleep in front of it. Next time someone might not be there to catch you.”
And Alex knew falling down stairwells wasn’t the only danger in a castle like this—a castle populated largely by soldiers, some more rough than others. When he thought of how vulnerable she was in such a state . . .
Every muscle in his body hardened with rage that was both instinctive and, he recognized, disproportionate to the circumstances.
“You are right.” As if sensing his anger, she put a hand on his arm. “I should have done so. It just hasn’t happened in a while and caught me unaware.”
Alex took one look at the very dainty, very soft and feminine hand resting on his arm and felt the strangest sensation. It was both instantly calming and instantly something else—something hot, jolting, and filled with awareness. He’d never felt anything like it, and the fierceness of the sensations took him aback.
Bella’s daughter, he reminded himself. But that was too easy to forget when her very womanly body was only a few inches from his in a dark and suddenly excruciatingly small stairwell.
The lass was far too desirable for his peace of mind. He also felt a strange connection to her—as if he knew her. He didn’t, but feeling as if he did was oddly disarming. She was disarming.
With effort, he forced his mind from bedchambers, thin chemises barely covered by velvet robes that did little to hide a body that he’d give his eyeteeth to see naked, silky, tousled hair that should be spread out on a pillow—or draped over his naked chest like a silken veil—and the faint scent of rose water.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I will be forced to turn in my spurs if you do not let me help you back to your chamber.”
She tilted her head, studying him with a slightly bemused expression on her face. “You take your knightly duties seriously, don’t you?”
There was something dry in her voice that bordered almost on sarcasm. He frowned, stiffening. “I do.”
She studied him a few moments longer before finally putting her hand in his. “Well,” she conceded. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for interfering with a knight’s duties.”
The shock of contact was followed by a blast of warmth. Her fingers were so soft and small tucked inside his. He didn’t want to let them go, but reluctantly he moved her hand to the curve of his elbow for support.
Alex liked that she was teasing him. He’d wager it was just as much a rarity for her as it was for him. “And I wouldn’t be much of a knight if I let you think it was all duty.”
Christ, was he actually flirting with her? He didn’t flirt with anyone. He was too serious, too focused on the war, and had been since he wasn’t much older than she. Women weren’t to be trifled with, they were to be protected, admired, and treated with formality and respect.
Disarming.
He concentrated on helping her down the last few stairs, which wasn’t easy, as she seemed reluctant to put too much weight on him or lean into him too closely.
Does she feel it, too?
He couldn’t be sure—her thoughts were difficult to read. But the realization that he might not be alone in his attraction only made the situation more uncomfortable and fraught with tension. Every touch, every brush of their bodies made his body jump and his skin flush with heat.
When they finally reached the courtyard, he gave up. This was ridiculous, damn it. She was wincing every other step, and at this pace it would be dawn before they made it to the tower.
Taking matters into his own hands, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. Ignoring her gasp o
f shock at being carried like a bairn, he gritted his teeth and fixed his eyes straight ahead. He wouldn’t think about how good she smelled, how soft the hair was that was brushing against his chin, or how her bottom bumped perilously close to the growing bulge in his braies with each step. A little lower . . .
“What are you doing?” she demanded, oblivious to his suffering.
He didn’t need to glance down to see the eyes that were surely shooting daggers at him—he could hear her outrage in her voice.
“Carrying you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I can see that,” she snapped back furiously. “But I did not give you permission—”
“You were in pain, and I knew you would object, so I decided to make it easy on you.” He looked down at her with a smile. “You’re welcome.”
He could feel her eyes on him, studying his face as if looking for something. “Are you always so high-handed?”
“Only when I anticipate someone is going to be unreasonably stubborn.” He laughed again at her expression. “Besides, I prefer to think of it as gallant.”
“Is that so?” she drawled. “I guess that means I’m the helpless maiden in need of rescue to your Sir Galahad?”
Unknowingly, she’d hit a nerve. She wasn’t the first person to call him that, though the other—MacRuairi—had done so with considerably more disparagement. Pushing aside the bad memory, he smiled. “Now you’re getting the idea.”
She shook her head as if he were an incorrigible bairn. “I hope you don’t expect me to swoon.”
She looked so adorably disgruntled he laughed again. “Nay, a simple thanks will suffice.”
All too soon, they reached the door to her chamber. He set her down carefully—and maybe a little too reluctantly. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but her good nature won out. Her mouth twisted in a smile. “As it would be shrewish to argue when I have arrived so quickly and in such comfort, I think I’ll swallow my pride and just say thank you.”
The Ghost Page 5