The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (33 page)

It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him. “Why should MacRuairi care? He barely knows her.”

An odd look crossed her face. “That won’t matter. She’s family, and he won’t have her—” She stopped, embarrassed.

“Married to a traitor?” Alex said tightly.

Roslin nodded apologetically.

“Aye, well, we can’t always pick our relatives. I’m sure Boyd has expressed similar opinions.”

She laughed at that. “Maybe once or twice.”

“Let’s go find your brother. I wager he’s going to have something to say about this as well.”

Alex was right. Initially Clifford was just as happy to see her as Alex had been, but when he realized what she’d done, he’d been even more furious.

Alex left her with her brother with a promise to return in the morning and went in search of Joan.

But for the first time, he wasn’t looking forward to it. He hoped Rosalin had been wrong that Joan had seen them. He didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he risk anyone knowing about Rosalin’s presence in the castle.

After fleeing the courtyard, Joan had returned to her room and was helping Alice remove the pins from her hair when Bess arrived with the message that Alex was waiting downstairs and had requested to see her.

Alice waved Joan off. “Go, do not let your duties to me interfere. Besides, you have been as glum as a child staring in the window of a closed confectioner shop all evening. I hope it isn’t a lovers’ spat already?”

Actually, it sounded as if she hoped exactly the opposite.

“I’m tired,” Joan said. “That is all. But I should see what he wants.”

“Don’t hurry back on my account,” Alice said, sounding very sorry for herself. “One of us should have some fun tonight. Henry is in another one of his meetings.”

That was the kind of information Joan should be focusing on—not why Alex had his arms around Robbie Boyd’s wife.

But she couldn’t get the image out of her mind. They’d looked so perfect together. The handsome, gallant knight and the beautiful “fair” maiden. With her blond hair, delicate complexion, and princess-perfect features, she looked to be in the first blush of womanhood and as innocent as an angel. It couldn’t have been more brutally—or cruelly—brought home to Joan that
this
was the kind of woman Alex was meant to wed. The perfect English rose. The Fair Rosalin.

Once the initial stab of pain had relented, it hadn’t taken Joan long to recognize the woman reputed to be one of the most beautiful in England. They had crossed paths from a distance a few times in the past at court in London when Joan had still been living with the Despensers. Joan had been as surprised as everyone else to hear that Rosalin Clifford had been taken hostage by one of the most notorious and hated Scotsmen in England, the Devil’s Enforcer, Robbie Boyd. But unlike everyone else, Joan knew the truth that Rosalin hadn’t been forced to wed Boyd, she’d wanted to.

So why was Rosalin here? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Alex?

Joan didn’t need to be one of the best spies in England to know that Rosalin meant something to Alex—it had been as clear as day on his face.

What had surprised her was how much that meant to her. She’d been jealous and scared. Scared that she would lose him, scared that he would hold her up against this other woman and wonder what he’d been thinking, scared that she’d allowed herself to get too close, and most of all scared that it might be too late to do anything about it.

She had to try to pull away, while she still could.
Focus
.

He was waiting for her in the entry hall. The boyish smile that curved his lips when he turned and saw her cut like a knife through her heart. It seemed a taunt of everything she wanted that wasn’t hers even if it seemed to be. It was all pretend. A glass house of illusions that could be shattered at any moment.

She forced herself not to show her hurt. To keep her expression cool and serene. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

He frowned a little at her polite tone. “Aye, I’m afraid I have something I must attend to at my lands in East Lothian. That is the reason Pembroke wished to see me. I should only be gone for a few days, but I must leave first thing tomorrow.”

“I hope it is nothing too serious, my lord.”

“As do I,” he said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

She could not hide all her emotions, it seemed, as her voice came out worried and entreating. “You will be careful?”

He smiled. “I will endeavor to return to you exactly as I have left you.”

She returned his smile, appreciating the attempt at humor even if the idea of him being hurt made all those emotions she was trying to hide stir like a tempest. “Then I will wish you a safe journey, my lord, and see you upon your return.”

She gave a short nod and would have turned away had he not caught her. The feel of his hand on her arm made every nerve ending jump with awareness. She could feel his heat, smell the now-familiar scent of sandalwood soap, and the sensations raced through her blood in a hot rush, weakening her knees—and her resolve.

“I thought I saw you earlier,” he said.

She gave no indication that the words had made her heart start to bang. “You did?”

“Aye, by the Constable Tower. Were you looking for me?”

“I may have been on my way to the chapel at the time.”

He studied her face. Looking for some kind of sign of deception, perhaps? “I ran into an old friend.”

“You did?”

Maybe she wasn’t as good at hiding her feelings as she thought, because he nodded as if he knew she was lying and was trying to apologize. “A woman who is like a sister to me.”

“You need not explain.”

“I just didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”

“There isn’t.”

“It’s just that it’s . . . complicated.”

He said it with a smile, but the easy humor of before seemed forced. Lies, deceptions, and half-truths had a way of doing that—she should know.

She could have let it go at that. But something provoked her to push—to test. Did he trust her enough to tell her the truth? “Who is she? Perhaps I will cross paths with her when you are gone.”

Had she not been looking for the hesitation, she would have missed it. But if he considered telling her the truth, he decided against it. “No one you would know. But I’m afraid she was only here briefly and has already gone.”

Joan looked him right in the eye and saw no signs of deception. For someone who despised lying, he did it well. “How disappointing.”

It was. Now she wasn’t the only liar between them.

W
ITH
A
LEX GONE,
Joan turned to her duties with renewed determination and focus. The date set by Edward Bruce and the commander at Stirling Castle for the English to relieve the garrison was less than two weeks away. King Edward would have to leave in the next week if he was going to make it in time. It would take at least a week of marching—maybe more—for the army to reach Stirling from Berwick.

So instead of wondering what Alex was doing, prevaricating over every word of their conversation, and thinking about what else he would do for Rosalin Boyd if he cared about her enough to lie for her, Joan concentrated on her cousin. Or more accurately, on her cousin and her husband. But Alice and Sir Henry proved surprisingly unhelpful and unusually closemouthed.

She didn’t think they suspected anything, but she couldn’t be sure. More likely it was merely a result of the increased effort by the king to find the spy and the tightening of information as the war drew near. But she couldn’t shake the sense of disquiet.

Disquiet that only increased when she went to town to send a message to Lachlan that she needed to speak to him (not only to warn him about the betrothal but to start building the bridge that might allow Alex to return) and had the distinct feeling of someone following her. When she returned to the castle and saw a few of Despenser’s men pass through the gate a short while after, she felt the first chill of fear.

She cursed herself again for the mistake she’d made with Sir Hugh. She never should have targeted him in the first place, but to make him feel a fool by appearing to discard him for Alex . . . that had not been smart.

He was a dangerous enemy out for blood, as she’d seen in his expression when he’d congratulated her on her engagement on the day of the hawking excursion. She’d dismissed the chill that had raced through her then, but now seeing his men . . . it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

She knew she had to be careful—
very
careful.

There was one piece of good news. Upon returning to her chamber, Joan learned from Alice that Sir Hugh the elder had arrived with some additional men from Wales. Her former guardian had always been kind to her and had even tried to stand up for her with the king when Sir Henry first raised doubts as to her paternity. She would never forget the show of loyalty, and it was with true fondness that she returned his big hug at the midday meal under the watchful glare of his son beside him.

Before letting her go, the older man insisted that she come to his rooms later that evening (once he’d seen to his duties to the king) where she could tell him everything that she’d been doing since he’d seen her last, “including more about this knight who has won your hand.”

She ignored the younger Sir Hugh’s comment that from what he’d heard, she’d been “
doing
quite a lot,” and promised the older knight to see him later.

With the queen’s arrival, she and her bevy of ladies-in-waiting had taken over the higher tables, so Joan retreated to a trestle table farther away from the dais to join her cousin Margaret among some of Sir Henry’s household knights.

She was only a few feet away when she stopped midstep and gasped. The color leeched from her face as every ounce of blood in her body crashed to the floor. She had to grab hold of the edge of one of the tables to prevent her legs from collapsing.

Oh God, it couldn’t be.

“Is something wrong, my lady? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

One of Sir Henry’s men—Sir Bertram, she thought his name—must have seen her sway and had come to her rescue, offering her a steady arm to hold on to. She took it, not only for the solidity but also to block the person she’d seen from her view.

Only then did the shock dissipate enough for her to respond. Nay, not a ghost (irony, that), though she wished he were—there was no one in the world she would like to see dead more than him. “I felt a little light-headed for a moment,” she said with a wobbly smile to the young knight. “But I’m fine now.”

“Are you sure?” Sir Bertram asked with obvious concern. “You are shaking and your hand is as cold as ice.”

Realizing that people were beginning to stare, she forced a calm, serene mask to her face that she did not feel. “Perhaps a glass of wine would help.”

Sir Bertram immediately jumped to do her bidding, leading her to the table and ordering one of the serving girls to bring the lady some wine.

Somehow Joan made it through the meal. She evaded her cousin’s questioning glances and laughed and jested with the rest of the table as if nothing were amiss. But the cold sweat on her forehead and chill in her bones told differently. She was painfully aware of the powerful knight in Despenser arms seated not twenty feet away.
Let me go . . .
She could still feel his weight on her pinning her down as she struggled.

Though Sir Phillip Gifford had merely been a squire the last time she’d seen him, she would never forget the man who’d raped her.

When he’d been sent to Sir Hugh’s lands in Wales four years ago, and she’d gone to live with Alice and Sir Henry, she’d thought to never see him again. But with the war and her being in such close proximity to the English leadership, she should have realized this could happen. She should have known. She should have been prepared.

But in truth, she feared nothing could have prepared her for seeing him again.

Alex
. She felt his absence acutely. It wasn’t that she needed his strength; it was as if his inherent goodness might somehow blot out the evil.