The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  “Your father?” Sir Hugh asked.

  She shook her head. Knowing it was dangerous but unavoidable, she admitted, “Nay, my mother.”

  She’d spent years distancing herself from the “rebel” Isabella MacDuff, severing any connection between them, and she hated reminding anyone of it.

  His eyes sharpened with something that made her wariness seem warranted. “Seton knew your mother? How? When?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  He stroked his short, pointed beard thoughtfully. “I may just do that.”

  She didn’t like the speculative edge to his voice and was glad when he let the subject drop. But she couldn’t help but feel that she’d made a mistake. She didn’t want Alex Seton’s scrutiny, but she did not want to make trouble for him either.

  And Sir Hugh Despenser was trouble. She had no doubt about that.

  More trouble than he was worth.

  Joan had escaped detection for so long because she knew when to back away, and every instinct was clamoring for her to do that now.

  She always listened to her instincts.

  But as she didn’t look forward to telling Sir Hugh that she had indeed reconsidered, she was glad when they arrived back at Berwick to be told that her cousin “needed her immediately,” and that she was to “find her the instant she arrived.”

  Thank goodness for her cousin’s “emergencies.” Joan wondered which hem had come undone or which stain “the stupid laundress” had not gotten out. For someone so concerned with her appearance, her cousin was not a neat eater or drinker. She had dribbles of wine and greasy fingermarks on her gowns after each meal. Stains that, of course, it was the laundry maid’s responsibility to get out—not Alice’s to keep clean.

  But before Joan could answer her cousin’s summons, Sir Hugh caught her by the wrist. She tried not to flinch. There was nothing offensive or repulsive about his touch, yet there was no denying that something about it felt that way.

  “I will expect to see you tonight.” His voice left no room for argument.

  She pretended to misunderstand. “I will be at the evening meal if my cousin does not need me.”

  “See that she doesn’t,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “And I wasn’t talking about the evening meal.”

  The surprise that widened her eyes did not need to be feigned. He certainly didn’t waste any time.

  She was tempted to tell him of her decision right then, but wanting at that moment only to get away, she merely nodded.

  He released her, and she went to join Margaret, who had waited for her. “What was that about?”

  Joan shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “It didn’t look like nothing.” Realizing Joan wasn’t going to say anything, Margaret added, “Be careful with him, cousin. Sir Hugh is spoiled, and not used to being told no.”

  Once again realizing how astute—maybe too astute—her cousin was, Joan nodded.

  A few minutes later they entered a maelstrom. Every item of clothing that her cousin possessed seemed to be strewn across all available surfaces of the bedchamber. A young maid—Bess—was standing before the fireplace twisting her hands and near tears. She’d never looked so relieved to see anyone.

  Joan immediately took control. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Finally!” Alice said, turning from where she was buried under a stack of velvet, wool, and silk. “If I’d known you were going to be gone so long, I would never have agreed to let you go. I needed you.”

  Joan ignored the dramatics and didn’t point out that she’d been gone only a half-day—less time than she’d told her.

  Margaret rolled her eyes. Whereas Joan thought it easier to humor Alice, her sister did not. “Stop being so ridiculous, Alice. You knew exactly how long Joan would be gone. She is your companion, not your villein. She doesn’t need your permission to enjoy a morning ride. Now, what dire emergency is it this time?”

  Alice gave her sister a blistering glare, but did not argue with her. Though Alice was the elder by two years, sometimes it seemed the opposite.

  “I can’t find my new bracelet. One of the maids must have stolen it.”

  No wonder the girl looked close to crying. She probably thought she was about to be tossed into some prison cell or put in the stocks. Joan’s mouth pursed in anger. Her cousin’s dramatics were one thing, but her inclination to accuse the servants of everything was inexcusable and ugly. She hated when those in power took advantage of those who were not.

  “I’m sure you just misplaced it,” Margaret said. “Why don’t you wear another one?”

  “I can’t wear another one! Henry gave me this one.” She looked close to tears. “He loves when I wear his gifts.”

  Joan began to suspect that there was more than a bracelet at work here. “The gold and ruby bracelet?”

  Alice nodded.

  Margaret walked over to the maid and told her what she wanted her to do. Relief swept her face, and she nodded enthusiastically before rushing out the door.

  “Wait! Where is she going?” Alice demanded.

  “To fetch your bracelet,” Joan said calmly. “The clasp came loose on our journey from Carlisle. You asked me to take it to the goldsmith as soon as we arrived. Bess has gone to fetch it.”

  “Oh,” Alice said, oblivious to the terror she’d inflicted on the maid. “I must have forgotten.”

  Margaret gave her a look and shook her head. “I guess so. Much to poor Bess’s misfortune. And look at this mess!”

  Joan pushed a few gowns out of the way to clear some space and motioned for her cousin to sit. “Now,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about.”

  To which Alice responded by bursting into tears—real ones, which was unusual for her cousin. Through the chokes and sobs Joan surmised that Alice suspected Sir Henry of having—or at least planning—another affair.

  Alice’s eyes hardened to a glittering and very icy blue. “He was talking with that shameless flirt Lady Eleanor. I know she’s had her eye on him for some time.” Joan very much doubted that. Lady Eleanor seemed to be fiercely in love with her dashing young husband, Lord Henry de Percy.

  Joan had actually been surprised to see the Percys at Berwick. Having recently been freed from prison after his part in the execution of the king’s favorite Galveston, de Percy did not seem likely to fight for the king who’d imprisoned him. He’d reportedly refused his summons. But he was close to Clifford, which she suspected explained his presence now.

  Alice was still sobbing. “Now he claims that he has an important meeting tonight, which may go very late. He told me not to wait up for him.”

  Important meeting? That caught Joan’s attention.

  “What kind of important meeting?” Margaret asked.

  Alice threw up her hands, exasperated by what she clearly thought an irrelevant and inconsequential question. “He said something with only the king’s closest advisors. Pembroke, Clifford, Despenser, Henry, and maybe a few others, I don’t know. But don’t you see, it’s probably an excuse.”

  “There is a war coming,” Margaret said dryly.

  Alice ignored her and wiped her tears, turning to Joan. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  Suspecting what she was going to ask her to do, Joan smiled. “Of course.”

  Alex stopped at the river before returning to the castle. Now instead of angry and slightly drunk, he was angry, mostly sober, and cold. Not a nice dulling, numb cold, mind you, but a shivering, freezing-to-the-bones cold.

  The quick dunk in the water hadn’t cleared his head or calmed any of the restless emotions teeming inside him. First he’d been called to Berwick for a meeting that he’d been excluded from at the last minute, and then he’d been forced to sit for two long hours while Despenser and Lady Joan made spectacles of themselves.

  All right, maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe all they’d done was share a trencher and smile and whisper a lot, but did they have to look so damned in
timate doing so? Why not just shout out that they were sharing a bed?

  Were they sharing a bed?

  It wasn’t any of his damned business, and he knew it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  He didn’t like it. He really didn’t like it, but what the hell could he do about it?

  Nothing.

  Which was precisely what he’d be doing to help end this war if he didn’t find that damned spy. He’d joined the men after the meal tonight for the meeting to discuss some “new information,” when Pembroke had stopped him and told him he wasn’t needed.

  Alex didn’t need to ask why. Not long after he’d arrived, Pembroke had remarked upon his “miraculous” progress on the practice yard. Besting Felton required “great skill and strength.”

  Alex had cursed Felton for being Felton, Lady Joan for watching him, and himself for wanting to impress her. Thanks to his little slip today courtesy of his smarting pride, he’d given Pembroke more cause to question his dedication and loyalty. Despenser’s questioning him with a smug smile about “his relationship” with Bella MacDuff hadn’t helped either. He didn’t have to guess where he’d learned that information.

  So instead of participating in an important meeting where he might have been able to do some good—or at least impart some reason—he’d gone to the nearest alehouse and tried to cool his anger in more than one mug of ale.

  He’d only been drunk a few times in his life (all before the age of twenty) and never intentionally.

  But the drinking didn’t work. If anything it only succeeded in making him angrier and edgier—which was the last thing he needed when he entered the Constable Tower and nearly ran right into Joan Comyn. He would have run into her, if she hadn’t seen him first and let out a gasp that stopped him in his tracks.

  Still, he instinctively reached out to grab her as if to steady her. Although maybe it was he who needed steadying. He felt the same way he felt every time he saw her—as if he’d slammed into a stone wall.

  A stone wall that smelled like spring flowers and looked so lovely and desirable she made his heart stop.

  Their eyes met and held in the flickering of the iron lamp that lit the tower entry. He didn’t understand the connection between them, but neither could he deny it.

  The snap and crack of the flame was the only sound until he broke the silence. “What are you doing here?” But even as the question left his mouth, knowledge pulsed through his already heated blood. His hands tightened on her arms for one moment before he let her go. “Sleepwalking again, my lady?” His eyes slid over the dark cloak that had parted enough for him to see the green velvet gown that she’d been wearing earlier. At least she was dressed this time. “Where is your night rail?”

  Her eyes flared as an angry flush flew up her cheeks. “I’m on an errand for my cousin—not that it’s any concern of yours.”

  “Is that what they call it now? An errand? Let me guess, your cousin had a message for Despenser? He has a room in this tower, does he not?”

  He didn’t need to wonder what she was thinking now. Her expression wasn’t closed and mysterious, it was open and fierce. He liked getting to her. He hated when she closed up—it was like she wasn’t even there. But she was all there right now. Her blue eyes were flashing dangerously, and that pretty red mouth was pursed into a thin line.

  Christ, she was even more beautiful when she was angry. Seeing all that fire—all that passion—light her face was almost irresistible. Especially when that same fire and passion was racing through his own veins. Together they would be incredible. He knew it. Felt it. Wanted it. And it taunted him.

  “As do most of the high-ranking lords and barons,” she answered. “Including you, I might point out.” Her mouth curved in a dangerous, catlike smile. “How do you know my errand did not involve you, my lord?”

  She might as well have batted her eyes and sidled up to him; the sultry siren call was just the same. She was prodding him again, provoking him, but this time he was too wound up, too stripped to the ugly core from the drink, anger, and jealousy, to find the strength to resist.

  Nor, if he were honest, did he want to.

  The urge to take her in his arms and cover her mouth with his was both primal and undeniable. He didn’t care that they were standing in an entryway, that anyone might come upon them, that she was the daughter of a friend, or that she might have just come from the chamber of another man. And he sure as hell wasn’t thinking about the knightly code. All he could think about was that if he didn’t put his mouth on hers—if he didn’t finally taste her—he was going to lose his mind.

  He wanted to stop the taunting, stop the torture, stop the crazed twisting of emotions wreaking havoc inside him. He wanted to feel her grow soft and weak with desire. He wanted her response. He wanted to know he wasn’t alone in this madness.

  He wanted it to stop.

  Somehow through the haze he found control enough not to back her up against the wall and wrap her leg around his waist the way that he wanted. She might make him feel like a barbarian, but he wouldn’t act like one. Instead, he slowly slid his hand around her waist and pulled her toward him, holding her gaze the entire time. The connection was like a powerful magnet drawing them together.

  There was a poignant moment right before contact when anticipation made everything in his chest jump and his senses heighten. A pause where he wasn’t sure it would happen but wanted it with every fiber of his being. He gave her about a second to pull away before his mouth found hers.

  Finally. He groaned at the contact, and something slammed into his chest. It took him a moment to realize it was his heart, as he was too busy dealing with the explosion. Sutherland might have lit off one of his pouches of black powder right before his eyes, for that was the shattering effect that hit him when their lips touched for the first time.

  He saw stars—literally. It felt as if a tight lid had been pulled off all the emotions, all the anger, and all the restraint that had been bottled inside him—releasing feelings he hadn’t even known were there. He felt wild . . . unharnessed . . . unchained.

  For the first time in his life, Alex wasn’t holding anything back. Yet despite the almost frenzied urge to ravish—and the lust pulsing through every inch of his body (in some places more forcefully than others)—an overwhelming sense of peace settled over him. A sense of rightness. A sense of home. It was as if this was the exact place he was meant to be. That this was where he belonged. With her. Holding her in his arms. Kissing her. Cherishing her.

  Aye, that was the feeling that surprised him the most. The intensity of emotion that swelled from somewhere deep inside him and made him tread gently where he would have raced wildly, and maybe a little roughly—hell, probably right up against the wall.

  Instead he was filled with a surprising wave of tenderness. She loomed so large in his mind—and riled his temper so easily—it was easy to forget how young she was. She was so slight in his arms that he felt an overpowering desire to protect her and keep her safe.

  He’d never felt anything like this before and he wanted her to know it. This was—she was—special.

  He’d thought about kissing her from almost the first moment he’d seen her. But even in his darkest most erotic fantasies, Alex had never imagined how incredible it would feel. How her body would press against his in all the right places. How she seemed to melt right into him. How he would never want to let her go.

  How good she would taste.

  So good that he couldn’t seem to get enough. He kissed her again and again, moving his mouth over hers in a gentle, tender wooing. He wanted to linger over every press, every sweep, every little taste.

  But her lips were so soft and sweet that the gentle wooing soon gave way to something deeper and more insistent.

  He slid his mouth over hers entreatingly, showing her what he wanted, urging her lips to part.

  When they did, he growled, feeling a surge of masculine satisfaction that made him pull her a little clo
ser as his tongue delved into her mouth.

  Christ. Pleasure tugged low and hot, fierce in its intensity. But it was nothing compared to the feeling of sheer happiness that zipped through him when he felt the tentative stroke of her tongue against his.

  It made him dizzy.

  He groaned again, sliding his hands through the warm silk of her hair to grip the back of her head to hold on to as he kissed her deeper and harder. As their tongues circled and pulled them closer and closer. As he started to spin into a whirlpool of pleasure so intense that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself out.

  Joan wanted to be angry. She wanted to push him away or bite down on the tongue that slid so deftly into her mouth. She wanted him to taste like herring.

  She wanted to hate his kiss.

  She wanted to hate him.

  Alex Seton had done it again, jumping to conclusions about her presence in the tower—whether he may have had cause for those conclusions or not—and judged her guilty.

  She was furious at herself for even trying to explain. She had been on an errand for her cousin, blast him.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been sent to check on Sir Henry and make sure he was where he was supposed to be. He was, but the fool’s errand—in this case a message for Sir Henry about a change in his wife’s plans for the morrow—had enabled her to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be an important missive from the king. The wax Great Seal of the knight on horseback that dangled from the parchment from silk threads woven through slits in the parchment was easy to identify even from across the room.

  The fact that the missive had been on the table before Despenser hadn’t escaped her notice either. It changed everything. That she might not be able to rid herself of Sir Hugh as quickly as she wanted to was weighing on her, which was probably why she hadn’t noticed the man walking toward her until too late.

  She wouldn’t have ducked into the shadows, would she? She’d been doing nothing wrong; she had nothing to feel guilty about. No matter what he thought.