The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (15 page)

Felton jerked to an abrupt stop, looking as pale as Alex probably did.

Apparently oblivious to the danger she’d narrowly avoided, Joan was clapping delightedly. She shot him a glance before turning her full attention on Felton.

Maybe not so oblivious, he realized. The look she’d given him had been filled with concern. She was worried about him; that was why she’d put herself at risk.

“Bravo, bravo! That was magnificent, Sir Robert.” She gave the other man a dazzling smile. “That was quite a show. My cousin told me that you were one of the best knights in Christendom, and now I see she did not exaggerate.”

As Felton was momentarily confused, it took him a moment to respond. He puffed up like a rooster, obviously more than happy to go along with her pretense that he’d gotten the best of Alex.

Bloody hell, did she think him in need of rescue? And why did the very thought make his teeth grind together and Alex want to reach for his sword to prove her wrong?

Joan’s cousin had come up behind her. “Oh yes, it was wonderful,” Lady Margaret said. “But I hope we did not disturb your practice.”

While Felton gallantly assured her that they had not, and the two women continued to fawn, Alex stewed.

What the hell were they doing here anyway?

He had his answer when the farcical party on the practice yard grew even larger with the arrival of Sir Hugh Despenser and his retinue.

“There you are,” the young knight boomed, striding forward with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal prince. He even dressed like a prince in heavy velvets embroidered with gold, decorated with jewels, and (oblivious to the heat) lined with furs. Set around his mantle was a thick gold chain with a garishly large emerald pendant in the middle that Alex suspected had been a gift from the king. “I hope the ladies did not disrupt your training, Sir Robert,” Despenser said to Felton.

Felton gave the other man a polite nod of greeting, but Alex suspected that Felton didn’t like the arrogant young peacock any more than he himself did.

Despenser personified everything Alex despised about the English: he was haughty, condescending, and solely concerned with his own advancement.

What the hell did she see in him?

Besides the obvious. As much as Alex disliked the other man, he couldn’t deny that he was fair of face. If you liked men who were pretty as a lass.

“I was just assuring the ladies that we were done. Isn’t that right, Seton?”

Felton’s gaze was as hard as ice, almost daring Alex to disagree. Alex’s jaw was locked so hard it was as if he had to pry the word out. “Aye.”

For the first time, he felt Joan’s eyes linger on him. They were fixed on the line of red dripping down his stomach from a cut he’d taken earlier in the fight, and despite his anger, despite the fact that she was with another man, the feel of her gaze on his naked body made him swell.

“You’re hurt,” she said accusingly, stepping toward him as if she might—Christ almighty!—put a hand on him. If she touched his stomach that close to something else, everyone here would know exactly what he was thinking.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Despenser stopped her. “It’s just a scratch,” the other man assured her.

Even though Alex had been about to say the same thing, he didn’t like hearing it from Despenser. He liked the possessive way he tucked Joan into his body even less.

The hand gripping the hilt of his sword gripped a little harder. Gripped until his knuckles turned white.

Despenser hadn’t missed the movement. His eyes narrowed with warning that might have been amusing in different circumstances. Despite the young knight’s exalted new position as royal favorite, he was no match for Alex with a sword—“hurt” arm or not. If anyone should be worried, it was Despenser.

But proving his too-good opinion of himself, Despenser didn’t recognize the danger. Instead, he seemed to be laying down a gauntlet, daring Alex to accept the challenge.

He wanted to. Damn how he wanted to. He didn’t understand what it was about Joan Comyn that made him react with such intensity. Such possessiveness. Such anger.

She was undeniably beautiful in a sultry, wanton, “take me to the bedchamber” sort of fashion. But he’d known many beautiful women. Hell, the wives of his former brethren were undoubtedly some of the most beautiful in Scotland.

But he’d never been so attracted to someone before—even Rosalin—and to be attracted to the
wrong
someone was disconcerting. She was nothing like the sweet, innocent maid he’d pictured marrying after the war.

Rosalin Clifford now Boyd was just the sort of woman he’d imagined marrying one day. He might have contemplated making that day sooner, but it had been very clear she’d been in love with Boyd—whether he deserved her or not.

Marriage?
Christ, why the hell was he thinking about that? He could never marry a woman who’d lain with another man—probably more than one—not when he’d held himself to a much higher standard.

Nay, it wasn’t marriage he wanted from her, and as what he did want wasn’t an option, he wasn’t going to pick up Despenser’s challenge—no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Aye, it’s just a scratch, my lady, though I thank you for your concern.”

Despenser’s look of satisfaction—of thinking he’d made Alex back down—was almost too much to take.

As Alex’s pride had withstood about as much thrashing as it could, he excused himself and moved away.

Joan Comyn wasn’t for him, but leaving her to Despenser didn’t sit well at all.

T
HE EXCHANGE BETWEEN
Sir Hugh and Alex had not gone unnoticed by Joan. She understood that a challenge was being made, and that it had been rejected. Or rather,
she
had been rejected.

As she didn’t want anything to do with Alex Seton, she didn’t know why she felt a sharp pinch in her chest.

Maybe it was because she suspected his reasons. The always-do-what-is-right “Sir Galahad” as MacRuairi called him (it wasn’t a compliment) wouldn’t want a woman like her. Well, he might
want
her, but not in an honorable intentions kind of way—the only way she knew he would consider. To him, she was impure, unchaste, and thus, unworthy.

The fact that it was true made that pinch even sharper.

As little as she liked being a bone between two men, she liked Sir Hugh’s possessiveness and his questioning of her “relationship” with Alex even less.

She masked her annoyance, however, and assured him—honestly—that she barely knew the man. He didn’t seem convinced, and she was forced to explain that Alex’s “protectiveness” stemmed from a previous family connection.

“Your father?” Sir Hugh asked.

She shook her head. Knowing it was dangerous but unavoidable, she admitted, “Nay, my mother.”

She’d spent years distancing herself from the “rebel” Isabella MacDuff, severing any connection between them, and she hated reminding anyone of it.

His eyes sharpened with something that made her wariness seem warranted. “Seton knew your mother? How? When?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

He stroked his short, pointed beard thoughtfully. “I may just do that.”

She didn’t like the speculative edge to his voice and was glad when he let the subject drop. But she couldn’t help but feel that she’d made a mistake. She didn’t want Alex Seton’s scrutiny, but she did not want to make trouble for him either.

And Sir Hugh Despenser was trouble. She had no doubt about that.

More trouble than he was worth.

Joan had escaped detection for so long because she knew when to back away, and every instinct was clamoring for her to do that now.

She always listened to her instincts.

But as she didn’t look forward to telling Sir Hugh that she had indeed reconsidered, she was glad when they arrived back at Berwick to be told that her cousin “needed her immediately,” and that she was to “find her the instant she arrived.”

Thank goodness for her cousin’s “emergencies.” Joan wondered which hem had come undone or which stain “the stupid laundress” had not gotten out. For someone so concerned with her appearance, her cousin was not a neat eater or drinker. She had dribbles of wine and greasy fingermarks on her gowns after each meal. Stains that, of course, it was the laundry maid’s responsibility to get out—not Alice’s to keep clean.

But before Joan could answer her cousin’s summons, Sir Hugh caught her by the wrist. She tried not to flinch. There was nothing offensive or repulsive about his touch, yet there was no denying that something about it felt that way.

“I will expect to see you tonight.” His voice left no room for argument.

She pretended to misunderstand. “I will be at the evening meal if my cousin does not need me.”

“See that she doesn’t,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “And I wasn’t talking about the evening meal.”

The surprise that widened her eyes did not need to be feigned. He certainly didn’t waste any time.

She was tempted to tell him of her decision right then, but wanting at that moment only to get away, she merely nodded.

He released her, and she went to join Margaret, who had waited for her. “What was that about?”

Joan shook her head. “Nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.” Realizing Joan wasn’t going to say anything, Margaret added, “Be careful with him, cousin. Sir Hugh is spoiled, and not used to being told no.”

Once again realizing how astute—maybe
too
astute—her cousin was, Joan nodded.

A few minutes later they entered a maelstrom. Every item of clothing that her cousin possessed seemed to be strewn across all available surfaces of the bedchamber. A young maid—Bess—was standing before the fireplace twisting her hands and near tears. She’d never looked so relieved to see anyone.

Joan immediately took control. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Finally!” Alice said, turning from where she was buried under a stack of velvet, wool, and silk. “If I’d known you were going to be gone so long, I would never have agreed to let you go. I needed you.”

Joan ignored the dramatics and didn’t point out that she’d been gone only a half-day—less time than she’d told her.

Margaret rolled her eyes. Whereas Joan thought it easier to humor Alice, her sister did not. “Stop being so ridiculous, Alice. You knew exactly how long Joan would be gone. She is your companion, not your villein. She doesn’t need your permission to enjoy a morning ride. Now, what dire emergency is it this time?”

Alice gave her sister a blistering glare, but did not argue with her. Though Alice was the elder by two years, sometimes it seemed the opposite.

“I can’t find my new bracelet. One of the maids must have stolen it.”

No wonder the girl looked close to crying. She probably thought she was about to be tossed into some prison cell or put in the stocks. Joan’s mouth pursed in anger. Her cousin’s dramatics were one thing, but her inclination to accuse the servants of everything was inexcusable and ugly. She hated when those in power took advantage of those who were not.

“I’m sure you just misplaced it,” Margaret said. “Why don’t you wear another one?”

“I can’t wear another one! Henry gave me this one.” She looked close to tears. “He loves when I wear his gifts.”

Joan began to suspect that there was more than a bracelet at work here. “The gold and ruby bracelet?”

Alice nodded.

Margaret walked over to the maid and told her what she wanted her to do. Relief swept her face, and she nodded enthusiastically before rushing out the door.

“Wait! Where is she going?” Alice demanded.

“To fetch your bracelet,” Joan said calmly. “The clasp came loose on our journey from Carlisle. You asked me to take it to the goldsmith as soon as we arrived. Bess has gone to fetch it.”

“Oh,” Alice said, oblivious to the terror she’d inflicted on the maid. “I must have forgotten.”

Margaret gave her a look and shook her head. “I guess so. Much to poor Bess’s misfortune. And look at this mess!”

Joan pushed a few gowns out of the way to clear some space and motioned for her cousin to sit. “Now,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about.”

To which Alice responded by bursting into tears—real ones, which was unusual for her cousin. Through the chokes and sobs Joan surmised that Alice suspected Sir Henry of having—or at least planning—another affair.

Alice’s eyes hardened to a glittering and very icy blue. “He was talking with that shameless flirt Lady Eleanor. I know she’s had her eye on him for some time.” Joan very much doubted that. Lady Eleanor seemed to be fiercely in love with her dashing young husband, Lord Henry de Percy.

Joan had actually been surprised to see the Percys at Berwick. Having recently been freed from prison after his part in the execution of the king’s favorite Galveston, de Percy did not seem likely to fight for the king who’d imprisoned him. He’d reportedly refused his summons. But he was close to Clifford, which she suspected explained his presence now.

Alice was still sobbing. “Now he claims that he has an important meeting tonight, which may go very late. He told me not to wait up for him.”