The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  His jaw tightened.

  Her belly clenched . . . low.

  The tic below his jaw began to pulse and those tiny white lines reappeared around his mouth.

  He wanted her, but he didn’t look happy about it, and something about that stung. It stung quite a lot, and brought out a streak of heretofore unknown wickedness in her. Wickedness that made her want him to eat his words. Every last one of them.

  If he thought her a whore, so be it. He was just like all the rest. People always let you down. Why would she have expected more?

  She leaned into his hold, pressing her body against his. “And what of you, Sir Alex?” She blinked up at him coyly. “Although I’m sure a chivalrous knight like yourself is too principled for tumbling out of alcoves.”

  Senses Alex didn’t even know he had exploded at contact. It had been hard enough holding back his desire when those incredible breasts had been displayed only inches away for him to admire every mouthwatering ripe curve, every delectable point, and every tantalizingly deep crevice.

  Christ, she was practically bursting out of the gown. The fabric seemed to stretch to the breaking point to contain all that straining flesh. All he had to do was reach down, slide his finger along the edge of her bodice, and he’d see the pink of her nipple. What shade would they be? A delicate light pink or succulent, berry red like her mouth?

  Aye, looking was difficult, but having them crushed against his chest, that was torture unlike any he’d ever felt before. He ached to touch them, to feel the full weight in his hand, to rub his finger over the silky skin and pebbled tips, to squeeze and lift them to his mouth and tongue. Just thinking about it made him crazed with lust. His body was as hard as a damned spike.

  Those siren eyes didn’t help any. They dragged him in and made him think of pleasure. Of hot, twisted limbs in bedsheets, of sweaty, naked flesh, of sin and passion and lust.

  She was temptation and base desire, and a damned fantasy come to life. It took everything he had not to pull her into his arms and cover that taunting, but achingly soft red mouth with his. He knew how good she would taste, how good she would smell. Like warm honey and flowers in the spring . . .

  The fierce intensity of his reaction infuriated him. He knew what she was doing, damn it. She was only trying to provoke him. He should be repulsed by the obvious ploy. But his body sure as hell didn’t understand. It throbbed, ached, and tightened to the point of pain.

  Ploy or not, he was good and provoked. He was going to take what she offered, damn it, and teach her a lesson about prodding hungry lions with a stick—or in this case, two very firm and barely covered breasts that he’d be picturing for too many nights to come.

  He slid his arm around her waist to pull her even closer, groaning at how good she felt. She seemed to melt right into him. She gasped at the movement, and his mouth was about two seconds away from smothering the next one, when he suddenly swore and pulled back.

  Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t teach women lessons like that. He sounded like a barbarian. Women were to protect, cherish, honor, and revere.

  He released her so quickly she seemed to need to catch herself. But that didn’t explain the slightly dazed look on her face. She blinked a few times, staring at him in confusion.

  Clearly she’d expected him to kiss her, and just as clearly she’d been surprised when he hadn’t.

  But was there something else? Had she wanted him to kiss her? Had the ploy been less of a game than he thought?

  He raked his hand back through his hair, and told himself not to think about that. The lass was confusing him enough. When he thought of how close he’d come to doing something dishonorable—maybe very dishonorable—it shamed him.

  How the hell had this happened anyway? He’d only wanted to talk to her, but when she’d left the castle instead of returning to the tower he’d become curious about where she was going, and, admittedly, whom she might be going with.

  He’d been angry—maybe more than angry—and so he’d acted like an arse.

  He’d only wanted to protect her, damn it, but his well-intentioned warning had gone all wrong. Instead of the delicate diplomacy that the situation demanded, Alex had come storming in with the blunt force of a hammer. The only other person who could make him lose his temper like that had been Boyd.

  He took a deep breath as if he could forcibly purge the torrent of emotions that still raged in his blood. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped, and then started again. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

  The wariness in the way she eyed him filled him with shame. This wasn’t him, damn it. He didn’t argue and lose his temper with young women—or threaten to ravish them against a wall.

  Wariness, however, did not dull the blade of her tongue. “For what?” she asked. “For following me? For accosting me in the streets? For lecturing me about that which is none of your business? For being a sanctimonious, self-righteous prig? Or for nearly doing yourself that which you judge me for doing?”

  His mouth hardened. She might be right, damn it, but he didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. He was trying to apologize. “I was speaking out of concern—”

  “I don’t want, nor did I ask, for your concern.”

  He could feel the anger building again and tried to contain it, but his spine stiffened. “I don’t think you realize the ramifications of what you’re doing and the lasting harm it might do. I’m trying to protect you.”

  His words had no effect. She seemed to be struggling to contain her anger. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue me from myself, Sir Alex. Despite your belief that I am not capable of thinking for myself, I know exactly what I’m doing and the ramifications.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I don’t think you are incapable of thinking for yourself, damn it.”

  He couldn’t recall ever forgetting himself and swearing in the company of a lass before. But she didn’t appear to notice and acted as if he hadn’t spoken. “You may have known my mother, but you are not responsible for me, nor does it give you a right to interfere, lecture me, or give me the wisdom of your opinion. All I want from you—the only thing I want—is that you leave me alone.”

  He suspected his eyes were every bit as flashing and sparking as hers when their gazes met. His jaw was locked; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  What was it about this lass that made him so crazed? That made him act like an arse and feel like a barbarian? That made him tempted—even now when she was so obviously furious with him—to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she listened to him?

  Bloody hell.

  When she marched off, he didn’t try to stop her. Leaving her alone was exactly what he should do.

  7

  IT RAINED THE next three days, delaying the ride with Sir Hugh, but Monday dawned bright and sunny—much to Joan’s dismay.

  She knew she should be anxious to go to Wark, but the brief respite had only increased her wariness where Sir Hugh was concerned. For three days he’d stalked her like a predator ready to pounce, and for three days she’d made sure she did not leave her chamber without the company of one of her cousins.

  Proving his astuteness, Sir Hugh seemed suspicious when he commented about it at dinner one night. Whether he believed her explanation about her “duties,” she didn’t know. But his gaze definitely sharpened when he saw Margaret approaching the stables with her.

  “Lady Margaret,” he said. “What a delightful surprise.”

  Clearly it wasn’t.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming along,” Margaret said with a bright, good-natured smile. “But after being cooped up in the castle for most of the week, I couldn’t pass up the prospect of a ride.”

  Joan held her expression impassive as Sir Hugh’s gaze flickered to hers before turning back to her cousin’s. Margaret was more skillful with dishonesty than Joan realized. She’d asked her cousin to accompany them, claiming—honestly—that she wasn’t sure she could trust Sir Hugh no
t to try something untoward.

  “Of course not,” he assured Margaret. “I am delighted to have the company of not one but two beautiful women.”

  Margaret blushed prettily and allowed him to help her on her horse.

  When he turned to Joan next, she could see that he was unable to completely mask his annoyance. “I’m beginning to wonder if I misunderstood you, my lady,” he said in a voice that only she could hear as he helped her up.

  Joan feigned ignorance. “My lord?”

  “Perhaps you are not as adventuresome as you claimed?”

  She flushed, hoping he interpreted it as maidenly rather than as guiltily. “I’m sorry, my lord, this was . . . unavoidable. Margaret was so excited that I could not tell her no.”

  He held her gaze with an intensity that made her want to shiver. “Then you have not reconsidered?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good,” he said, his dark eyes as hard as onyx. “I do not like feeling as if I am being led around by the bit like this horse.”

  She did not miss the warning in his tone. Sir Hugh was done with the chase. She wasn’t going to be able to put him off with excuses much longer. But how much was she going to be willing to risk for information?

  This was the first time she’d experienced difficulty with one of the men she’d targeted, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Sir Hugh didn’t respond the way the others had, and she feared she’d overestimated her experience in dealing with men. He was only the fourth man she’d attempted to get close to for information.

  Targeting important young knights had seemed a natural extension of what she’d been doing before. She had a knack for being in the right place at the right time to hear information from her guardians, as well as listening while not appearing interested, shifting topics without notice, encouraging people to talk, knowing how to goad men into bragging with more information than they should, and “disappearing” into the background so people forgot she was there. Why shouldn’t she be able to apply these skills to all the young men who pursued her? But the others had been, if not simple, then at least nothing she couldn’t handle. She wasn’t sure she could say the same about Sir Hugh—with or without sleeping powder!

  He seemed to be waiting for acknowledgment from her. Once she nodded, they were off. The guard that Sir Hugh had arranged to accompany them followed at a discreet distance, but close enough if any harm befell them.

  Apparently satisfied by her assurances, Sir Hugh put aside his initial annoyance and proved himself again the charming host, regaling them with war stories and tales of his squirehood on the short journey along the Tweed.

  She was enjoying herself so much that she was surprised when the castle came into view. Like Berwick Castle, Wark Castle was located on the important river that bisected a large part of the Borders—the Tweed ran nearly one hundred miles from the Lowther Hills just north of Moffat to the North Sea at Berwick. But that is where the similarities between the two castles ended. The single tower, simple gatehouse, and curtain wall of the motte-and-bailey-style Wark was nothing like the massive, multitowered, multidrawbridged royal administration center of Berwick.

  Due to the limited grounds inside the wall, most of the soldiers at Wark were camped on the fields below the motte hill of the castle, and Joan could see the yellowed white of the tents peppered across the green grass of the countryside from quite a distance away.

  She swallowed. There were so many of them. For the first time, she was confronted with the massive size of the army King Edward was gathering to march against her countrymen. At Berwick, where most of Edward’s commanders had congregated, there were perhaps only a thousand men. Here at Wark there must be about ten times as many. And more would be coming in the next few weeks as the June tenth deadline to muster approached.

  She looked in awe and horror at the tents that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. Good gracious, would Bruce even be able to raise half this many men? A third as many?

  The pit in her stomach seemed to grow a little heavier before she scolded herself for the worry that suddenly felt disloyal. Robert the Bruce had become known for his ability to defy the odds; he would do so again.

  Her job was to provide information; the king would decide what to do with it.

  But how many were there?

  Joan could have kissed her cousin when she exclaimed, “My word, I’ve never seen so many tents! There are hundreds of them. Half the population of London must have answered the king’s call!”

  Sir Hugh smiled at the exaggeration. There were thought to be as many as eighty thousand people in London. “Not quite that many,” he said with a wink and a smile. “Yet.”

  Joan hoped he was jesting. Forty thousand was impossible. Even the current king’s father, the powerful Hammer of the Scots, Edward I, had only amassed an army of perhaps twenty-five thousand in his biggest campaign in Scotland sixteen years ago—when the English had decimated the Scots at Falkirk. The second Edward’s popularity and power were nowhere near his father’s. How many could he hope to raise? Ten thousand? By her estimation there must be nearly that many right now. She bit her lip. Fifteen?

  Again she could thank her cousin for asking what she was thinking. “How many more men are coming?” Margaret asked. “And where does the king intend to put them?”

  Joan laughed along with Sir Hugh, but waited anxiously for his answer.

  “At least another few thousand when the Welsh arrive, and many more if the barons do their duty.”

  Joan weighed the risks and decided to ask, knowing another opening like this might not arise. “What of the other earls, my lord? Will more of them be arriving as well?”

  Perhaps the biggest unknown—and what was causing the most whispers and speculation among the leadership (both Scot and English)—was whether the Earl of Lancaster, who held five earldoms and was the most powerful magnate in England, would set aside his differences with Edward to fight against the Scots. Similarly the status of the earls of Warwick, Lincoln, Arundel, and Warenne were also unknown. Given the number of men at these earls’ command, if they decided to fight it could swell Edward’s numbers considerably—especially in the numbers of deadly English cavalry—and be potentially disastrous for the Scots. Lancaster alone could command an additional five hundred horses. Roughly the same number as the entirety of the Scot cavalry.

  Bruce thought they would find an excuse not to appear, but if she could get confirmation of that it would be a huge coup and a vital piece of information for him.

  Sir Hugh didn’t appear surprised or alerted by her question. It was undoubtedly on many people’s minds. “The king is certain the earls will see the wisdom of doing their duty to their king.”

  “And if they do not?” Margaret asked.

  He gave a shrug that harkened to his Gallic roots of generations earlier that said precisely nothing.

  It wasn’t long before they reached the castle, and Sir Hugh was giving them a tour of the grounds and practice yards where the ordinary foot soldiers, many of whom were farmers and yeomen inexperienced in warfare, were being put through extensive training by the battle-hard knights and men-at-arms who had been serving both Edwards in the Scottish wars for years.

  Margaret was right. Joan had never seen so many men crowded into one area in her life. It was a little disconcerting. And with few women about they were attracting quite a lot of attention. She was glad for both her modest gown (the one she’d worn to the feast had done its job—maybe too well) and Sir Hugh’s impressive escort.

  Still, she and Margaret were subject to quite a few long, admiring stares. Not used to being the center of attention, Joan felt oddly conspicuous—like an exotic bird in a menagerie.

  Her cousin must have been feeling the same. While they waited in the shade of a large tree—the day had grown uncommonly hot—for Sir Hugh to finish speaking with one of the captains, Margaret leaned over and whispered, “Why do I have the feeling some of these men haven’t seen a la
dy in some time? If I ever need a boost to my vanity, I guess I know where to come.” She gave a mischievous smile. “We probably shouldn’t tell Alice about this. She’d be here every day. She likes nothing better than a boost to her vanity.”

  Joan gave a snort of laughter, which she discreetly muffled with her hand. Margaret had always had a sharp sense of humor that Joan had enjoyed. The two cousins had been extremely close as young girls, and if it wasn’t for the war that had put them on opposite sides—though Margaret didn’t know it—Joan suspected they would have remained that way.

  She knew that Margaret attributed Joan’s pulling away to the change in her status that had directly benefitted her cousins, but it wasn’t that. Margaret hadn’t made her a bastard and disinherited her; King Edward and de Beaumont had done that. Nay, she’d pulled away from Margaret because she was one of the few people in England whom she knew it would be painful to betray.

  “Your sister is very beautiful,” Joan said diplomatically, not wanting to appear disloyal.

  “She is certainly that,” Margaret agreed.

  “You are as well,” Joan pointed out. Margaret was lovely—perhaps not as perfectly beautiful as her sister, but few could be. Her hair was more brown than blond, and her eyes were green rather than blue, but her smile was full of good humor that her sister could never hope to emulate.

  Margaret’s mouth twitched. “You are kind to say so, cousin, but you don’t need to worry about me. I know my strengths and weaknesses as well as I do my sister’s, though I don’t expect you to agree with me in your position.” She meant as Alice’s tiring woman. “Alice can be . . . difficult.”

  They both knew how much of an understatement that was. Joan gave her cousin a thoughtful glance. “How is it that you have not yet married, Margaret? I thought there was some talk a few years back.”

  A shadow crossed her cousin’s pretty face, but it was quickly replaced by a smile and a shrug. “It fell apart when our families decided to fight for different kings.”