The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (12 page)

Joan was already having second thoughts. She’d been right to be wary of Sir Hugh. He was nothing like the young pups she’d targeted before. Keeping him at arm’s length was going to be a challenge.

Good gracious, he’d had her in that alcove before she’d even realized what was happening. Only the fact that she said her cousin was waiting for her had enabled her to leave with the “one kiss” he’d demanded as forfeit for letting her go.

Fortunately, he didn’t taste like herring, but even the swift press of his mouth had alerted her to the danger. Sir Hugh Despenser knew what he was doing; he was obviously practiced at seduction. It was a good thing she was immune.

The “until tomorrow” that he’d whispered as she left had the distinct feel of a promise, and she was half-tempted to plead illness for their ride. But she couldn’t waste the opportunity to gather information about the troops at Wark. It would be worth any difficulty, she told herself. Still, the cat was suddenly feeling very much like the mouse.

Instead of returning to the tower, she decided to take advantage of the lengthening day—it wouldn’t be dark for at least a few more hours—to leave a message with her contact. Bruce would want to know about the additional Welsh call to muster and the discord between the English leaders as soon as possible.

Fortunately, she’d brought a plain, dark hooded cloak for just this purpose. It covered the gown she wore underneath—which would hardly go unnoticed—and enabled her to blend in with the villagers going back and forth between the burgh and the castle.

Another benefit of her loss of status was the additional freedom of movement it afforded her. No one cared about the comings and goings of a bastard. She could largely move about as she liked without comment or notice, and unlike her cousins, she was not expected to take an escort or guard.

She was, however, careful and prudent about when she ventured into town by herself. Though she could defend herself if necessary, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by being forced to do so.

A quick trip into town in the late afternoon should be safe enough. The soldiers would be attending to their afternoon duties and the alehouses would not be crowded yet (in other words, she wouldn’t need to dodge overamorous drunks).

Indeed, the high street was still bustling with merchants and shoppers as she made her way down the cobbled path to the mercery, where she would meet her contact for the first time. Though she knew Bruce and the bishop would have chosen the person with the utmost care, Joan admitted a bit of apprehension. The passing of information was when she felt her most vulnerable.

She missed her “Italian nun,” but her former contact, Janet of Mar, had been forced to retire from Bruce’s service a few years back when her identity had been uncovered. Since then Joan had had a series of contacts—mostly clergy—but this time it was the wife of the cloth merchant. Joan didn’t know who she was or why she was trustworthy; all she’d been given was a name.

Joan was standing outside the shop, looking through the window to see if the woman was inside, when she caught the reflection of movement behind her that made her heart race.

It took a moment for her thoughts to catch up with her pulse. She couldn’t believe it. The shock that someone was following her, and more significantly, that she hadn’t noticed, quickly turned to anger. How could she have missed him? Perhaps it was her frazzled nerves after being cornered so easily by Despenser. That was the only explanation she could come up with for how easily he’d escaped her notice.

Sweet Jerusalem! She’d been seconds away from making contact and attempting to pass a message.

But who would be following her and why?

The answer came an instant later. Now that every one of her senses was flaring, it took everything she had not to tense as she felt the large presence move up behind her.

“Aren’t you going in?”

The deep voice made her spine straighten and skin tighten. The reaction was anger and annoyance. She was sure of it. Mostly.

Very slowly, she turned to meet the penetrating gaze of Alex Seton.

If she needed proof of the danger and threat he posed, she had it. She’d been trained to evade, but he’d been trained to track—probably by the same person.

She
should
be thinking of how to rid herself of him as quickly and definitively as possible. Instead she was struck by the crystal-clear blue of his eyes—the color seemed almost unreal—and by the weariness of his expression.

He looked as if he’d barely slept in weeks. As if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d even missed a spot shaving this morning. The thin line along the left underside of his jaw seemed a testament to his exhaustion, and something about that made her chest clench. She felt the strangest urge to reach out and smooth a comforting hand over that stubbled jaw.

But why should she care if he was tired? Why should she want to comfort him? He’d followed her, she reminded herself. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

She lifted her chin, eyeing him angrily. “Not that it is any business of yours, but not today.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider,” he said.

She frowned at his dark tone, at the same time noticing the tiny white lines around his hard-set mouth. He was acting angry, which didn’t make sense. If anyone had a right to be angry it was she.

She crossed her arms. Putting a little more of a barricade between them seemed prudent; she sensed he very much wanted to put his hands on her. “Why would I wish to do that?”

“If that gown you are wearing is any indication, you need some new ones. Preferably with a bit more fabric.”

She gasped—a few times—in both shock and outrage while staring at him incredulously.
Of all the . . .
“How dare you! What I wear is no business of yours. The last time I looked you are not my father or my husband. I have a guardian—I do not need another.”

“You do if he lets you walk around in gowns like that.” He paused, giving her a hard look. “Men might get the wrong impression.”

She was holding on to her temper by the last wispy threads, yet her voice was deceptively calm. “And what impression is that?”

If she expected him to back down, she was to be disappointed. Looking her square in the eye, he said baldly, “That you wish to bed them. Despenser clearly had that idea.”

She might have admired his audacity if she wasn’t practically sputtering with outrage. “And you can tell all this from a dress? What a unique talent you possess. What are my slippers telling you?” She gave him a sugary smile. “Let me give you a hint: it starts with go and ends with Hades.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate her sarcasm. “It isn’t just the dress; your behavior has made you the subject of unpleasant rumors. How do you think it looks when you and Despenser come tumbling out of an alcove in the middle of the day?”

He’d seen her? Joan flushed, although she had no cause to, blast it! She hadn’t done anything of which to be ashamed. She was using the tools she had in her power—turning what had once made her vulnerable into a strength—to find out important information that would help win this war. Her reputation was a small price to pay, but that didn’t give him a right to judge her.

“I don’t even want to think what your mother would say,” he added.

She bristled. That there was more truth to his observation than she wanted to admit only made Joan more defensive.

But remembering her role, and her supposed alienation from her mother, she said, “My mother is a rebel and traitor to the king who left me when I was twelve. What she may or may not have to say is irrelevant.” She gave him a hard stare. “You did not tell me you knew her—makes me wonder if there is a reason why. Perhaps you do not wish to remind people that not so long ago you fought for the enemy?”

The tinge of heat that flooded his face told her that her arrow had found its mark. He was a traitor—a man who had switched sides and betrayed his compatriots and king—and he thought to lecture her about appearances and behavior?

Was this judgmental, sanctimonious prig really the kind and gallant knight who’d carried her to her room last month? Perhaps she should thank him for curing her of all her illusions.

“This isn’t about me,” he said stiffly.

“How convenient,” she replied dryly. “I don’t recall making it about me either. Why should I not give my unsolicited opinion about your ‘behavior’? I wonder what my mother would say about your switching sides. I think I’d rather be thought a harlot than a traitor.”

The sudden darkness of his expression almost made her regret her words. The transformation was rather . . .
extreme
. She wouldn’t have thought it possible for the golden knight to look so scary. It wasn’t as difficult to imagine him as a nasal-helmed “Phantom” now.

Belatedly, she thought to take a step back, but his hand had whipped out to stop her. She’d never felt anything like it—or been so brutally aware of a man’s touch. His grip was like iron, and she could feel the press of every finger like a vise wrapped around her skin.

Mother Mary, he was strong! And those hands . . .

She might have shuddered.

She’d almost forgotten that they were standing before the mercery in the middle of the high street until he dragged her a few steps around the side of the building. He’d obviously realized that they’d been attracting attention.

“I am not a traitor,” he said roughly. “I had my reasons.”

She was sure he did—just as she had hers. Ignoring the fierce race of her heart, she lifted a challenging brow. “And I am not a harlot.”

The words seemed to take him aback. He frowned. “I never said you were.”

“Didn’t you?” She reached up with the arm that wasn’t clamped in his grip to pull aside her cloak. “But look at my gown.”

He looked down, and just like that everything changed. The anger firing in the air between them turned to something else entirely. Something hot and charged and even more dangerous.

The weight of his gaze on her chest was as warm and heavy as the palm of a hand. Heat flooded her breasts with even more heaviness, and her nipples grew tight and hard under his steady perusal.

His jaw tightened.

Her belly clenched . . . low.

The tic below his jaw began to pulse and those tiny white lines reappeared around his mouth.

He wanted her, but he didn’t look happy about it, and something about that stung. It stung quite a lot, and brought out a streak of heretofore unknown wickedness in her. Wickedness that made her want him to eat his words. Every last one of them.

If he thought her a whore, so be it. He was just like all the rest.
People always let you down.
Why would she have expected more?

She leaned into his hold, pressing her body against his. “And what of you, Sir Alex?” She blinked up at him coyly. “Although I’m sure a chivalrous knight like yourself is too principled for tumbling out of alcoves.”

Senses Alex didn’t even know he had exploded at contact. It had been hard enough holding back his desire when those incredible breasts had been displayed only inches away for him to admire every mouthwatering ripe curve, every delectable point, and every tantalizingly deep crevice.

Christ, she was practically bursting out of the gown. The fabric seemed to stretch to the breaking point to contain all that straining flesh. All he had to do was reach down, slide his finger along the edge of her bodice, and he’d see the pink of her nipple. What shade would they be? A delicate light pink or succulent, berry red like her mouth?

Aye, looking was difficult, but having them crushed against his chest, that was torture unlike any he’d ever felt before. He ached to touch them, to feel the full weight in his hand, to rub his finger over the silky skin and pebbled tips, to squeeze and lift them to his mouth and tongue. Just thinking about it made him crazed with lust. His body was as hard as a damned spike.

Those siren eyes didn’t help any. They dragged him in and made him think of pleasure. Of hot, twisted limbs in bedsheets, of sweaty, naked flesh, of sin and passion and lust.

She was temptation and base desire, and a damned fantasy come to life. It took everything he had not to pull her into his arms and cover that taunting, but achingly soft red mouth with his. He knew how good she would taste, how good she would smell. Like warm honey and flowers in the spring . . .

The fierce intensity of his reaction infuriated him. He knew what she was doing, damn it. She was only trying to provoke him. He should be repulsed by the obvious ploy. But his body sure as hell didn’t understand. It throbbed, ached, and tightened to the point of pain.

Ploy or not, he was good and provoked. He was going to take what she offered, damn it, and teach her a lesson about prodding hungry lions with a stick—or in this case, two very firm and barely covered breasts that he’d be picturing for too many nights to come.

He slid his arm around her waist to pull her even closer, groaning at how good she felt. She seemed to melt right into him. She gasped at the movement, and his mouth was about two seconds away from smothering the next one, when he suddenly swore and pulled back.