Alex didn’t miss the question in the other man’s gaze, but he didn’t bite. “I think it has more to do with her mother than with her sire. That and giving de Beaumont a reason to fight in Scotland.”
“Do you know the lass?”
“Nay.” Alex paused. “I knew her mother.”
And he knew how much Bella had loved her daughter. It would kill her to see what had become of her. From what he’d learned the past month, Sir Richard wasn’t the first man Joan Comyn had been linked to, nor apparently—if the looks being exchanged between her and Despenser were any indication—would he be the last. The lass couldn’t be making her interest more clear. And bloody hell, just look at that dress! It was a walking invitation, cut so low across the bodice that he was sure Despenser was holding his breath waiting for her to cough or sneeze. God knew, Alex did so every time she laughed or took a deep breath.
Sir Adam glanced around, although none of the other men who had come from Wark with them to report to Pembroke were listening. “Have care, lad. Your recent place in Bruce’s army has made you suspect enough; a connection to one of Scotland’s more notorious rebels isn’t something I’d remind people of.”
There was something about the warning that didn’t sit right. Alex’s brows drew together in a hard frown. “Am I being accused of something? I’ve given Edward no cause to doubt my loyalty.”
“You are a Scot,” the older man said. “That is reason enough for some.”
Alex wished someone could have told that to Boyd. To his former partner, being born in England made him English—no matter that he’d lived in Scotland his whole life and considered himself a Scot.
Still Alex sensed there was something more Sir Adam was trying to tell him. “But . . . ?”
Sir Adam looked around again and lowered his voice. “Bruce is reported to have a high-placed spy in the English camp, and with the campaign ahead, the king has made it a priority to uncover him.”
Alex was well acquainted with this spy. “The Ghost,” as the spy was referred to in the Guard, had provided some key information to them in the last few years. But when he realized what the other man meant by it, he was incredulous. Bloody hell. “And they think it is me?”
Sir Adam shrugged. “Your name was mentioned as a possibility.”
The ludicrousness and irony of the situation were not lost on him. Alex had made enemies of his friends and brethren to fight for the English, and the English thought he was still working with the men he’d betrayed. He drew himself up. “It isn’t true. I despise subterfuge and deceit. Besides, how would I have been passing this information all the way from London?”
“I didn’t say I believed them—or that it made sense. But your pleas for peace and urge for negotiation have not gone unnoticed.”
“So because I am tired of seeing my people suffering and want an end to the war I am a spy?”
Alex knew Sir Adam understood—he was in the same position. As barons with lands in the Borders, they were caught in an impossible situation. Damned by the English if they supported Bruce and damned by Bruce if they didn’t—with the brunt of the war being waged on their lands and their people being the ones suffering no matter which side they fought on.
“I feel the same as you, but they suspect anyone who is not calling for Bruce’s head. They don’t want a peaceful solution. Edward will never recognize Bruce as king—he has that in common with his father, at least.”
There was very little Edward II of England had in common with the powerful Edward I, the self-styled Hammer of the Scots, but Alex was beginning to think Sir Adam was right. Despite his efforts the past two years, Alex was no closer to persuading Edward to recognize Bruce’s legitimacy to the throne—something that he knew Bruce would demand before a permanent truce could be reached. More and more, it seemed as if the only solution—the only way to end the war—was going to be on the battlefield by right of arms. The righteousness of the Scot cause would be determined by God. But if Bruce continued to refuse to take the field against Edward, what then?
This damned war could go on forever. And everything Alex had done would have been for nothing. Alex muttered a curse of frustration. He wasn’t going to let that happen, damn it.
Seeming to understand the sentiment, Sir Adam put his hand on his back. “If it’s any consolation, it isn’t just you. They suspect most of us.” Alex knew what he meant by “us”: Scots in the English army. “Except maybe young Comyn,” Sir Adam added wryly.
Aye, it would be a snowy day in hell before young John Comyn spied for the man who’d killed—many said murdered—his father before the altar at Greyfriars, the act that had launched Bruce’s bid for the crown eight years earlier.
The English distrust of the Scots in their ranks wasn’t new. The opinions and advice of the Scots were often given short shrift by their compatriots. It was one of the many—many—frustrations that Alex had had to deal with since joining the English.
But if the English thought he was the spy, they definitely weren’t going to listen to anything he said.
All the sacrifices Alex had made to put himself in this position to try to end the war wouldn’t mean a damned thing. He thought of the looks on his former brethren’s faces the last time he’d seen them and knew what he had to do.
“I appreciate the warning,” Alex told the other man. “But I intend to prove that it isn’t me.”
Sir Adam arched a brow. “And how do you plan to do that?”
It was simple. “I’ll find the damned spy myself.”
6
PEMBROKE WAS SURPRISED by Alex’s offer but accepted it nonetheless. He had no reason not to. If Alex was successful, the English would have their spy, and if he was unsuccessful, they would be no worse off.
Pembroke undoubtedly thought that Alex would be in a better position to find a Scot spy being a Scot himself. Alex knew better than to think his offer would deflect suspicion from him, but as he had nothing to hide, he wasn’t worried.
As he came out of the lord’s solar where he’d met with Pembroke, Alex glanced around the Hall, seeing only a handful of people still lingering over the meal—or more specifically, the wine. The dais and high table, however, were deserted. He was glad of it. What Joan Comyn did and whom she did it with were no business of his, but that didn’t mean he wanted to watch it.
He spoke too soon. No sooner had he stepped out of the Hall into the corridor that led to the west postern than he heard a husky laugh that sent a bolt of lust straight to his bollocks. It shouldn’t be familiar, and he had no reason to recognize it, but he did.
Instinctively, he stepped into the shadows. It wasn’t necessary. It was clear the couple that had just slipped out of the alcove at the opposite end of the corridor hadn’t noticed him. They were too busy doing God knows what, in the middle of the day, damn it, when anyone might happen upon them!
His teeth gritted. Was it his imagination or did that indecent gown look a bit rumpled? When she adjusted her bodice in apparent confirmation a moment later, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side.
That wasn’t all that was tight. His entire body seemed to have gone as rigid as stone.
Alex didn’t understand his reaction. The visceral, primitive response was utterly foreign to him. What was it about the lass that made him so . . . angry? Why should he care whose bed she slept in? It didn’t concern him. He barely even knew her. She was nothing to him.
But her mother had been.
Maybe that was it. Maybe this irrational anger he felt at seeing Joan Comyn dishonor herself had to do with Bella. Bella was, or had been, his friend, and it was because of the Guard—well, MacRuairi, at least—that she had been forced to leave Joan behind in the first place. There might have been no choice, but that didn’t make Alex feel any less responsible.
So when Joan left a moment later, Alex followed her. He was going to talk to her, that was all. It was his duty, he told himself. He owed it to her mother.
Joan was already
having second thoughts. She’d been right to be wary of Sir Hugh. He was nothing like the young pups she’d targeted before. Keeping him at arm’s length was going to be a challenge.
Good gracious, he’d had her in that alcove before she’d even realized what was happening. Only the fact that she said her cousin was waiting for her had enabled her to leave with the “one kiss” he’d demanded as forfeit for letting her go.
Fortunately, he didn’t taste like herring, but even the swift press of his mouth had alerted her to the danger. Sir Hugh Despenser knew what he was doing; he was obviously practiced at seduction. It was a good thing she was immune.
The “until tomorrow” that he’d whispered as she left had the distinct feel of a promise, and she was half-tempted to plead illness for their ride. But she couldn’t waste the opportunity to gather information about the troops at Wark. It would be worth any difficulty, she told herself. Still, the cat was suddenly feeling very much like the mouse.
Instead of returning to the tower, she decided to take advantage of the lengthening day—it wouldn’t be dark for at least a few more hours—to leave a message with her contact. Bruce would want to know about the additional Welsh call to muster and the discord between the English leaders as soon as possible.
Fortunately, she’d brought a plain, dark hooded cloak for just this purpose. It covered the gown she wore underneath—which would hardly go unnoticed—and enabled her to blend in with the villagers going back and forth between the burgh and the castle.
Another benefit of her loss of status was the additional freedom of movement it afforded her. No one cared about the comings and goings of a bastard. She could largely move about as she liked without comment or notice, and unlike her cousins, she was not expected to take an escort or guard.
She was, however, careful and prudent about when she ventured into town by herself. Though she could defend herself if necessary, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by being forced to do so.
A quick trip into town in the late afternoon should be safe enough. The soldiers would be attending to their afternoon duties and the alehouses would not be crowded yet (in other words, she wouldn’t need to dodge overamorous drunks).
Indeed, the high street was still bustling with merchants and shoppers as she made her way down the cobbled path to the mercery, where she would meet her contact for the first time. Though she knew Bruce and the bishop would have chosen the person with the utmost care, Joan admitted a bit of apprehension. The passing of information was when she felt her most vulnerable.
She missed her “Italian nun,” but her former contact, Janet of Mar, had been forced to retire from Bruce’s service a few years back when her identity had been uncovered. Since then Joan had had a series of contacts—mostly clergy—but this time it was the wife of the cloth merchant. Joan didn’t know who she was or why she was trustworthy; all she’d been given was a name.
Joan was standing outside the shop, looking through the window to see if the woman was inside, when she caught the reflection of movement behind her that made her heart race.
It took a moment for her thoughts to catch up with her pulse. She couldn’t believe it. The shock that someone was following her, and more significantly, that she hadn’t noticed, quickly turned to anger. How could she have missed him? Perhaps it was her frazzled nerves after being cornered so easily by Despenser. That was the only explanation she could come up with for how easily he’d escaped her notice.
Sweet Jerusalem! She’d been seconds away from making contact and attempting to pass a message.
But who would be following her and why?
The answer came an instant later. Now that every one of her senses was flaring, it took everything she had not to tense as she felt the large presence move up behind her.
“Aren’t you going in?”
The deep voice made her spine straighten and skin tighten. The reaction was anger and annoyance. She was sure of it. Mostly.
Very slowly, she turned to meet the penetrating gaze of Alex Seton.
If she needed proof of the danger and threat he posed, she had it. She’d been trained to evade, but he’d been trained to track—probably by the same person.
She should be thinking of how to rid herself of him as quickly and definitively as possible. Instead she was struck by the crystal-clear blue of his eyes—the color seemed almost unreal—and by the weariness of his expression.
He looked as if he’d barely slept in weeks. As if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d even missed a spot shaving this morning. The thin line along the left underside of his jaw seemed a testament to his exhaustion, and something about that made her chest clench. She felt the strangest urge to reach out and smooth a comforting hand over that stubbled jaw.
But why should she care if he was tired? Why should she want to comfort him? He’d followed her, she reminded herself. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
She lifted her chin, eyeing him angrily. “Not that it is any business of yours, but not today.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” he said.
She frowned at his dark tone, at the same time noticing the tiny white lines around his hard-set mouth. He was acting angry, which didn’t make sense. If anyone had a right to be angry it was she.
She crossed her arms. Putting a little more of a barricade between them seemed prudent; she sensed he very much wanted to put his hands on her. “Why would I wish to do that?”
“If that gown you are wearing is any indication, you need some new ones. Preferably with a bit more fabric.”
She gasped—a few times—in both shock and outrage while staring at him incredulously. Of all the . . . “How dare you! What I wear is no business of yours. The last time I looked you are not my father or my husband. I have a guardian—I do not need another.”
“You do if he lets you walk around in gowns like that.” He paused, giving her a hard look. “Men might get the wrong impression.”
She was holding on to her temper by the last wispy threads, yet her voice was deceptively calm. “And what impression is that?”
If she expected him to back down, she was to be disappointed. Looking her square in the eye, he said baldly, “That you wish to bed them. Despenser clearly had that idea.”
She might have admired his audacity if she wasn’t practically sputtering with outrage. “And you can tell all this from a dress? What a unique talent you possess. What are my slippers telling you?” She gave him a sugary smile. “Let me give you a hint: it starts with go and ends with Hades.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate her sarcasm. “It isn’t just the dress; your behavior has made you the subject of unpleasant rumors. How do you think it looks when you and Despenser come tumbling out of an alcove in the middle of the day?”
He’d seen her? Joan flushed, although she had no cause to, blast it! She hadn’t done anything of which to be ashamed. She was using the tools she had in her power—turning what had once made her vulnerable into a strength—to find out important information that would help win this war. Her reputation was a small price to pay, but that didn’t give him a right to judge her.
“I don’t even want to think what your mother would say,” he added.
She bristled. That there was more truth to his observation than she wanted to admit only made Joan more defensive.
But remembering her role, and her supposed alienation from her mother, she said, “My mother is a rebel and traitor to the king who left me when I was twelve. What she may or may not have to say is irrelevant.” She gave him a hard stare. “You did not tell me you knew her—makes me wonder if there is a reason why. Perhaps you do not wish to remind people that not so long ago you fought for the enemy?”
The tinge of heat that flooded his face told her that her arrow had found its mark. He was a traitor—a man who had switched sides and betrayed his compatriots and king—and he thought to lecture her about appearances and behavior?
Was this judgmental, s
anctimonious prig really the kind and gallant knight who’d carried her to her room last month? Perhaps she should thank him for curing her of all her illusions.
“This isn’t about me,” he said stiffly.
“How convenient,” she replied dryly. “I don’t recall making it about me either. Why should I not give my unsolicited opinion about your ‘behavior’? I wonder what my mother would say about your switching sides. I think I’d rather be thought a harlot than a traitor.”
The sudden darkness of his expression almost made her regret her words. The transformation was rather . . . extreme. She wouldn’t have thought it possible for the golden knight to look so scary. It wasn’t as difficult to imagine him as a nasal-helmed “Phantom” now.
Belatedly, she thought to take a step back, but his hand had whipped out to stop her. She’d never felt anything like it—or been so brutally aware of a man’s touch. His grip was like iron, and she could feel the press of every finger like a vise wrapped around her skin.
Mother Mary, he was strong! And those hands . . .
She might have shuddered.
She’d almost forgotten that they were standing before the mercery in the middle of the high street until he dragged her a few steps around the side of the building. He’d obviously realized that they’d been attracting attention.
“I am not a traitor,” he said roughly. “I had my reasons.”
She was sure he did—just as she had hers. Ignoring the fierce race of her heart, she lifted a challenging brow. “And I am not a harlot.”
The words seemed to take him aback. He frowned. “I never said you were.”
“Didn’t you?” She reached up with the arm that wasn’t clamped in his grip to pull aside her cloak. “But look at my gown.”
He looked down, and just like that everything changed. The anger firing in the air between them turned to something else entirely. Something hot and charged and even more dangerous.
The weight of his gaze on her chest was as warm and heavy as the palm of a hand. Heat flooded her breasts with even more heaviness, and her nipples grew tight and hard under his steady perusal.
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