The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (8 page)

“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 of 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.”

He grinned. “Smart lass.”

He was a moment away from dropping a kiss on her soft red mouth before he caught himself.

Christ, where had that come from? It was as if kissing her were the most natural thing in the world.

Perhaps guessing his thoughts, she sobered and took a cautious step back. “Thank you, Sir Alex,” she said again before slipping into her chamber.

Alex stood staring at the closed door for a long moment before retracing his steps and returning to his own chamber. But the strange interlude with Joan Comyn stayed with him long into the night.

A
LEX THOUGHT THE
meeting would never end. De Beaumont—as keeper of the castle—and Pembroke—as an earl and the man of highest rank—had been measuring their cocks all morning, and frankly, neither had anything worth bragging about.

Two of King Edward’s most important barons seemed more interested in the sound of their own voices than in planning this damned war. Posturing, positioning, vying for attention . . . that was all Edward’s commanders seemed interested in, and Alex was bloody tired of it. At least when he was with the Highland Guard they’d always had a common purpose, even if they didn’t always agree on how to get there. But these two were more worried about who would ride in what order and lead which part of the army than they were about tactics and strategy. After Alex’s suggestion to request a parley with Bruce to see if they might come to terms before marching was swiftly (and decisively) dismissed, he had been only half-listening anyway.

Alex tried not to let the frustration get to him, but he was running out of time. The inroads he’d thought he’d made in London two years ago were harder to remember the farther they marched north. At first the king had seemed willing to listen to Alex’s pleas for the people in the Borders and his warnings that Bruce was stronger than his numbers appeared. Edward had said he would consider Alex’s suggestion of a parley.

He hadn’t considered it for long. Thanks to the problems with his barons, Scotland had become Edward’s rallying cry. His distraction. His way of proving to his people that he was his father’s son, and a king they could believe in. Alex knew it was going to be next to impossible to dissuade Edward from his course. Which didn’t mean Alex wouldn’t try. But it was becoming increasingly clear that no one was willing to listen to reason—certainly not the cock-measuring de Beaumont and Pembroke.

His thoughts turned to something far more pleasant. He wondered how Lady Joan’s ankle was this morning. Perhaps he would seek her out after the meeting to check on her.

He found himself oddly curious about Bella’s daughter. He knew that after she’d been falsely declared illegitimate, and her claim to the Buchan earldom given to her cousins, Lady Joan now served as a companion to one of those cousins—Alice—who was married to de Beaumont. He doubted anyone truly believed the lie that Joan was not Buchan’s daughter (instead the product of an illicit affair between Bella and Bruce), but no one wanted to see the daughter of a notorious traitor rewarded with an earldom. He recalled some other contrivance about consanguinity—related godparents?—had been used as well.

They were a convenient pretense, that was all. Edward ensured the support of de Beaumont in his fight against the Scots—as de Beaumont would be fighting for his own lands—and no one cared about the daughter of a dead earl and a rebel “whore.”

He wondered what Joan thought about it. Did she regret not returning to Scotland when she’d had the chance all those years ago? Ironically, Alex had been part of the team who had rescued MacRuairi and Bella from Berwick Castle when they’d been captured not long after Bella’s return to Scotland. MacRuairi had given the then fourteen-year-old Joan an opportunity to go with them, but she’d declined, saying that her life was in England with her Comyn uncle and cousins. It had broken Bella’s heart.

Given what had happened in the interim, Alex wondered whether she would make the same decision today. The lass had hardly been rewarded for her loyalty to the English cause.

It was close to the midday meal by the time the meeting finally broke up. Alex was going to go in search of her when he caught part of the conversation taking place in the group of young soldiers walking ahead of him.

“Long night, Fitzgerald? I thought you were going to fall asleep there for a while when de Beaumont was talking about whose men would sleep in the barracks at Wark and whose would have to set up tents outside the gates.”

Alex had been about to doze off himself. He hadn’t slept much last night. He’d been too busy thinking.

“I feel like I just swam from here to Ireland,” another man answered. “I’ve never been so . . .
satisfied
.”

From the way he said it—like a cat that had just lapped up a big bowl of cream—Alex understood what kind of satisfied he meant. Obviously the young redheaded knight had spent the night with a lass.

Alex recognized him now. He was one of Ulster’s young sea captains. Sir Richard Fitzgerald was a promising young soldier from a powerful family and said to be one of the best seafarers in Ireland. Perhaps he’d give MacSorley a challenge one day.

Not that it would be any day soon. Alex knew there was no one who could come close to the West Highland chieftain. Hawk—MacSorley—was the best seafarer not just in Scotland but likely in Christendom. He was also the best swimmer, as Alex could personally attest. Years ago during training, MacSorley had saved his life in the stormy seas near the Isle of Skye.

Why the hell was he thinking of that now?

“Ah, the lady finally succumbed, did she?” one of the men said. “And I use the term ‘lady’ very loosely. From what I hear the quiet, mysterious lady is a she-cat in bed. I wouldn’t mind her sinking her claws into me. When you’re done with her, of course,” he said to Fitzgerald.

Alex stiffened at the crude talk. No man should talk about a woman that way—any woman—and it was worse, as these men were knights. They should know better, damn it.

Alex was about to remind them of that fact, when Fitzgerald spoke. “You should see her breasts,” the young captain said with an exaggerated groan. “Hell, if she wasn’t Buchan’s bastard, I might be tempted to marry her just to bury my face in them every—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Alex had him slammed up against the castle wall with his hand around his throat. The reaction was pure instinct, and if the black rage that was pounding in Alex’s ears was any indication, the lad was lucky Alex hadn’t killed him outright.

Fitzgerald’s hands had gone directly to his neck and were trying to pull Alex’s away from his throat, but the younger man might as well have been trying to pry steel. Alex’s muscles were as rigid and fixed as an iron bar.

“I’ve heard enough of your vile lies,” Alex said in a voice he didn’t recognize. Hell, it had the low, deadly edge of MacRuairi’s. “How dare you speak of a lady that way.”