The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (14 page)

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.”

Joan remembered now: Margaret had been promised to one of the Earl of Ross’s younger sons. John, she thought.

“Is there no one who has caught your eye?”

Margaret gave her a sidelong look. “I suspect my brother by marriage has just as much interest in finding you a husband as he does me.”

Joan suspected she was right. De Beaumont wouldn’t want any husbands to interfere with his claims to Joan’s inheritance—even from a sister.

“And what of you, Joan. Has no one caught your eye?” She gestured with her head to Despenser. “And don’t say him. I don’t think Sir Hugh interests you any more than he does me—although he is a charming rogue. Shameless and extravagant, but charming.”

Joan hoped she hid her alarm. Margaret had always been perceptive—far more than Alice—but Joan didn’t want her asking questions.

She was still trying to think of a way to respond when a loud roar rang out behind them from the group of men training nearby. Following the direction of the sound, she turned and something caught her gaze—or rather,
someone
caught her gaze.

She gasped, her body going utterly still. Her eyes were riveted. She couldn’t have turned away if she wanted to. And really, if she were honest with herself, she didn’t want to.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, but then following Joan’s gaze her eyes widened. “Or maybe I should say
who
is it? My word, he’s . . .”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. What could she say that would suffice? He was magnificent? Incredible? Male perfection? Knee-weakening, belly tightening, and jaw-dropping? Aye, he was all those things and so much more. He drew the eye like a twinkling star, like gold shimmering in the sunlight, like the flame of a beacon in a moonless sky.

Joan found her voice, although it was lacking quite a bit of air. “Sir Alex Seton. He’s part of Pembroke’s retinue.”

“Seton?” Her cousin frowned. “He’s the Scot who switched sides a couple years ago, isn’t he?” Joan nodded. “Interesting. Sir Robert certainly doesn’t seem to like him much.”

For the first time Joan’s gaze turned to the other man whom she’d only been vaguely aware of. She recognized de Percy’s champion Sir Robert Felton. The vaunted knight was also tall, well muscled, light haired, handsome, and bare to the waist, but for some reason she hadn’t noticed him. Her focus had been entirely on the other knight.

Although admittedly, Alex Seton didn’t look like much of a knight right now. She didn’t realize he was so . . . overpowering. Good Lord! Stripped to all his primitive glory, he looked every inch the ruthless brigand. Her gaze absorbed every ripple, every rock-hard edge, every bulge and line of the powerful muscles on his chest and arms. She might have to rethink her golden knight fantasy. There was something to be said for brutal, fierce, and dangerous.

But he wasn’t her fantasy, she reminded herself. He was a judgmental, self-righteous traitor who didn’t know how to mind his own business. Lachlan used to refer to him as Sir Galahad—the idealized perfect knight who always spoke of doing what was right. Joan understood what he meant now. Obviously, Sir Alex had a moral compass that didn’t flicker to gray.

She was still furious about the way he’d spoken to her, and everything about his attitude had rubbed her the wrong way. Which made her reaction that day all the more inexplicable. Could she really have wanted—even for a minute—for him to kiss her? She must have been out of her mind. She didn’t feel desire for men. Not anymore. Not since she was fifteen.

She was glad he’d heeded her request to stay away from her. She hadn’t thought about him more than one or twice in the four days since their confrontation on the street. Certainly not more than a handful of times. A dozen at most. Nor had she looked at the door every time a group of knights entered the Hall or held her breath every time she saw a golden-blond head across the crowd.

“Come,” Margaret said, dragging her forward. “I can’t see from back here.”

For once no one seemed to be paying attention to them as the two women moved a short distance away from the tree, stepping carefully through the still muddy field to the circle of men on the makeshift practice yard. Everyone was captivated by the two men doing battle. The two cousins wedged their way between a couple of young soldiers to watch.

Margaret was right. The view was certainly much better up here. There were no heads or arms or shoulders to get in the way of the head, arms, and shoulders—not to mention the naked chest—that she shouldn’t be so shamelessly ogling. Admiring.
Devouring
. But look at that stomach! She could count the bands, and his arms were much bigger than she realized, especially when they were flexed.

Alex turned slightly to deflect a blow and Joan gasped.

Margaret must have noticed the same thing. “Good gracious, I wonder what happened to his arm? It must have been a horrible injury.”

Her cousin was right. The scar covered the entire upper portion of his right arm. It was a horrible, tangled briar patch of cuts and gashes that had healed some time ago, but still seemed to be troubling him. He was struggling against the other man, and the weakened arm seemed to be the cause.

Strange, it had seemed quite strong when he’d carried her—she hadn’t sensed any pain or trouble then.

She wondered what could have caused such a horrible injury.

A sick feeling swam in her stomach as suspicion took root. Of course . . . the tattoo. The scar covered the exact place where the mark of the Highland Guard would have been on his arm. The mark that was now obliterated.

But the scar was a badge of his guilt, and a reminder that she would not forget.

Alex didn’t notice the commotion right away. After being goaded into a contest with Felton that he regretted a moment after accepting (Sutherland truly did deserve some kind of award for not killing him), Alex was doing his best to not defend himself too ably, while at the same time to not get killed.

It wasn’t easy. Felton was good—really good—and it was bloody difficult to fend off his blows and not give him the fight he so obviously needed. Alex was fairly certain he could have bested him two years ago, but he had barely picked up a sword since then, and even going full out, he wasn’t sure he could do so now.

The realization infuriated him and made it even harder to take the trouncing Felton was giving him.

Like most Scots, Alex’s pride had always been a weakness, and he felt it stirring now with a dangerous sting. But he knew he couldn’t make his arm—the arm that he’d been claiming was too weak to use—appear fully healed. Pembroke was suspicious enough.

It was Alex’s own fault. He should have known better than to let the deception continue. Subterfuge had never been in his nature.

Although the injury had been real enough when he’d first arrived in London. He’d done more harm than he intended while trying to remove the mark that would identify him as a member of the Highland Guard. Being attacked and thrown into the pit prison of Berwick Castle after he’d surrendered hadn’t helped it any.

But even after the arm had healed, he’d continued the pretense. It provided him an excuse, a means of evading the truth that he didn’t want to face: that by switching sides, he couldn’t just wage his war in the corridors of some royal palace with words. There was every possibility—every likelihood with King Edward marching and his men mustering—that Alex was going to have to lift his sword against his former friends, brethren, and king. Men toward whom he inexplicably, even after all that had happened, still felt loyalty.

He couldn’t avoid the truth and hide behind an old injury any longer. He’d given his loyalty to the English. If war came, he was going to have to fight—and not, unfortunately, against Felton.

God only knew how he would stomach it. But if it put an end to the war, stopped the atrocities and suffering, he would do it, damn it. Besides, what choice did he have? He’d made his bed.

A blow to his shoulder with the back of Felton’s sword brought him harshly back to reality. The bastard was clearly enjoying himself and playing to the crowd, showing off his “superior” skill by toying with Alex. Felton knew full well that Alex’s weak arm would hamper his ability to retaliate.

Felton swung his sword high, bringing it down full force on Alex’s weak side. Alex blocked it, but Felton didn’t let up, pressing down, lowering Alex inch by inch to the ground. He wanted to humiliate him.

The bastard was strong. Maybe not as strong as Boyd, but even if Alex wasn’t feigning weakness, he may have had difficulty fending him off. As it was his arms were shaking from the effort to prevent the blade from descending onto his head or neck.

This was supposed to be practice, damn it. They weren’t even wearing armor.

Yield
. He should just yield. But even as sweat poured off his body and pain burned in every vein and muscle, he couldn’t make himself say it. So he shook and burned, knowing that in a moment, when Felton succeeded in forcing him to the ground, he wouldn’t have a damned choice.

Felton was smiling and preening as if he were on a tournament yard. His eyes kept flickering behind Alex. Soon he realized why.

“What say you, ladies?” Felton said. “Has he had enough?”

There were ladies in the crowd. Moreover, they were noteworthy enough for Felton to be showing off to. Alex wanted to turn around, but he dared not lose concentration even for an instant. Felton was close enough to taking off his head as it was. He was almost on his knees.

“It appears so, my lord,” one of the women answered.

Alex didn’t need to turn. He recognized that soft, husky voice easily enough, and the realization that the woman watching him suffer—watching him lose, damn it—was Joan Comyn reverberated through him like thunder and made his nerve endings flare as if he’d just been shot from head to toe with a bolt of lightning.

Her voice changed everything. His muscles no longer shook, they hardened with steel. He burned no longer with pain but with strength. It flowed through him—swelled through him—like a raging inferno.

He didn’t stop to think. Instinct took over. Boyd had had him in this position too many times before—Alex knew what to do. Ignoring the blade pressing down inches from his head, he let his muscles go lax for a dangerous instant, using Felton’s momentum—and the edge of Alex’s blade—against him. The loss of resistance caused Felton to startle. When Alex angled his blade, Felton’s skidded. The slipping of his sword was enough to enable Alex to twist away—with a hard jab of his elbow in Felton’s ribs.

The other man let out a surprised “oof” and nearly fell to the ground himself.

It was a gutsy move that with any less precision could have resulted in a serious injury to Alex. Instead, he’d turned the tables, making Felton look like the fool.

And if the look on the other man’s face was any indication, he intended to pay Alex back with death.

Practice, apparently, was over.

Let him come, damn it
. Alex was done pretending.

Felton was already coming toward him with his sword raised when a small cloaked figure darted between them.

All that strength, all that steel, vanished in an instant as every drop of blood drained from Alex’s body. For one horrible moment, he thought Felton wouldn’t be able to stop the downward motion of his sword before he saw her.

Alex lunged forward, bloody well knowing it was useless. There was nothing he could do—no way to pull her to safety before . . .