The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (11 page)

“I imagine not, my lord. I’ve never seen so many knights and men-at-arms in my life here at Berwick.”

“You should see Wark,” Sir Hugh said. “There are thousands more there.”

Joan leaned closer and gave him a look that was unmistakable in its invitation. “I should like that very much. Perhaps we might ride out together one day, and you can show me. It is so constricting at Berwick, don’t you think?”

She knew the English commanders who had gathered at Berwick so far: Pembroke, Lord Robert Clifford, and Lord Henry de Percy, as well as some of the Scots in Edward’s allegiance—Robert de Umfraville, Earl of Angus, Ingrim de Umfraville, Alexander Abernathy, and Adam Gordon—but she wanted to see the others who had answered King Edward’s call, as well as the numbers of men they had brought with them. A visit to the other camp would be perfect. Although she suspected Sir Hugh wasn’t going to be as easy to put off as Sir Richard.

When his hand slid under the table to rest on her knee, she knew she was right. With a playful, chastising gaze she removed it.

Fortunately, Margaret asked him a question and gave Joan a moment to recover. She thought that it was Sir Hugh’s touch that had made her skin prickle and the hair at the back of her neck stand up, but when she glanced to the back of the Hall she saw a group of men standing there, and one of them was staring at her with an intensity that seemed to burn right through her.

She sucked in her breath, startled by both the ferocity of the look and the connection. Alex Seton, it seemed, had not forgotten her.

“Is something wrong, Seton?”

Alex drew his gaze from the dais to the distinguished knight at his side. Sir Adam Gordon had been a great Scot patriot in the early years of the war, but his fealty had always belonged to the deposed Scottish King John Balliol. Honor would not permit him to fight for Bruce, even though Alex suspected he hated having to ally with the English against his countrymen. With Balliol living in exile in France with little chance of ever regaining his throne—even as an English puppet—Alex wondered whether Sir Adam had been tempted to switch allegiance.

Alex admired Sir Adam greatly. The older knight was one of the bright spots since Alex had gone over to the English. Like Alex’s lands, Sir Adam’s holdings were in the lawless Borders where their people had taken the brunt of the war from both sides. Sir Adam, too, wanted to see the war and the suffering of their people ended.

Not only did they share the same goal, but Sir Adam was also the uncle of one of Alex’s fallen comrades. William “Templar” Gordon had died over three years ago in an explosion while on a mission for the Highland Guard. Gordon was one of the best men Alex had ever known, and although Sir Adam could not know of the connection, Alex felt it.

He shook his head, ignoring the couple on the dais and forcing his body to relax—all his muscles were tight. “Nay, nothing is wrong.”

Sir Adam looked at him with amusement. “So there is no reason why you are staring at Despenser like you want to sink a dagger between his pretty ribs?” His gaze slid to the woman beside King Edward’s new favorite. “Who is the woman?”

Alex must have given away more than he realized. The lass must have gotten under his skin for him to betray his thoughts so easily. Why the hell should he care whom she bedded? “Joan Comyn.”

Sir Adam’s brow shot up. “Buchan’s daughter?”

Alex nodded. “Aye, although some might argue that point.”

The older knight’s frown showed his distaste. “The way they have treated the lass is shameful. She has the stamp of Buchan all over her.” His mouth quirked with a half-smile. “Although she is much more beautiful.”

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.”

P
EMBROKE 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.