The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (31 page)

“You are certain of that?” Joan said.

“I am,” Alex said. It was the one thing he was sure about.

Why was she asking him all these questions? Christ, this was the last thing Alex wanted to talk about. Not only did it border on treason, but what good would it do to tear himself up all over again? He’d known when he’d ridden away two years ago that there would be no going back—and seeing his former Highland Guard brethren again had solidified it. But he sounded defensive and knew it. How could he make her understand when he wasn’t sure he understood himself anymore?

Her eyes were big, wide, and impossibly blue as she stared up at him. “And if the end of the war means Bruce’s defeat? That doesn’t matter to you? Did your differences with how the war was being fought make you lose your faith in Bruce as king?”

He eyed her sharply. It was a strange thing to ask coming from someone loyal to the English. And it was the one question he didn’t want to—couldn’t—answer. It did matter to him. More than he wanted to admit. He’d never stop believing in Bruce as a man or as king. But the cost had seemed too high. The way Bruce was fighting the war could go on forever—and that he couldn’t accept.

“I lost faith that Bruce would ever take the field to lose or win, and the alternative was famine, burned-out villages, stolen cattle and grain, misery for the people who count on me to protect them, and little girls playing with kittens in a barn who get caught in the flames.” He stood up and held out his hand. “We should go.”

She looked over to where the queen and the rest of the entourage were readying to leave, as surprised as he that the hunt had finished already. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” he said, cutting her off. “It serves no purpose and could be misunderstood if overheard.” He gave her a long look. “Why are you so interested? I thought you were content in England.”

“I am,” she said quickly. A light pink flush filled her cheeks. “I am curious, that’s all. I want to know more about you. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” But he was—more than he wanted to admit. Her questions had struck old wounds that were more raw than he realized. He suspected they might never fully heal. “It’s just . . .” How could he explain?

“Complicated?” she finished for him.

He smiled. “Aye, complicated.”

They joined the others and the opportunity for more private conversation was lost. He was surprised by how easy it was to talk to her—maybe too easy. The only time he’d talked about his reasons for leaving—very briefly—was with Rosalin as he escorted her back to her brother two years ago and submitted to the English. But still, something troubled him. He didn’t know whether it was the subject of Joan’s questions—rousing things he would rather not think about—or the fact that she was asking them.

After they enjoyed a light meal of wine, cheese, dried meats, and bread, the horses were readied for the ride back to the castle. The weather had cooled with the appearance of a few clouds, and the light breeze had turned sharper and more persistent. A few of the ladies donned heavier cloaks, including Joan and her cousins.

He hadn’t realized how tall Joan was compared to her kinswomen. Both Alice and Margaret were probably not much above five feet, and Joan must be six inches taller—though they probably weighed the same. Joan was slender and her cousins were rounder—especially Margaret.

Short and round
. Bloody hell. All of a sudden he noticed the color of Lady Margaret’s cloak. It was a dark red, “the color of claret,” trimmed with white—probably ermine—fur. The lady who’d left a missive for the monk had worn something similar.

It could be a coincidence. And he hoped to hell it was. But a claret cloak with very expensive ermine fur wasn’t exactly common—and neither were ladies in a position to know key information. Margaret Comyn could well be the spy they sought.

He had no idea why she would agree to do something so risky for the man who’d killed her kinsman (Bruce’s stabbing of John “The Red” Comyn before the altar at Greyfriars had only made the blood feud between the families worse). But the far more pressing question was, what the hell was he going to do about it?

A
LEX DIDN
’
T HAVE
long to decide. Pembroke’s newest squire found him and gave him a message that the earl wanted to see him just as Alex was helping the ladies down from their horses.

“Is something wrong?” Joan asked, watching as the lad hurried away. “You seemed a bit subdued on the ride back.”

He probably should be surprised how easily she already seemed to read his moods, but he wasn’t. With at least part of the wall that she’d erected between them knocked down, their natural connection was being felt. “Perhaps a bit. There is a lot to be done in the next few weeks.” He gave her a smile. “As much as I would like to focus on the betrothal, I’m afraid Edward and Pembroke will have different ideas.”

She bit her lip in a way that could easily distract him, despite what he’d just said. “I hope it was nothing I said.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t. But I’m afraid I will not be able to join you for the evening meal as I hoped. Pembroke has ordered me to attend him.”

“Is there a problem?”

There wouldn’t be if Alex didn’t suspect her cousin was the spy.

He didn’t want to lie to her so instead he just said, “I suspect he is wondering about my progress in uncovering the person who has been passing important information to Bruce.”

“And are you any closer?”

The question was asked with polite interest—nothing more. But something about that bothered him. Perhaps it was the contrast with the impassioned discussion they’d had a short while ago. This almost sounded careful.

Did she suspect her cousin as well? Did she know something?

He hoped to hell not.

His gaze fixed on hers as if he could force her to reveal her thoughts. But she stared at him blankly, and he prayed, guilelessly.

“I’m not sure,” he answered.

“That sounds promising.”

Again, polite interest.
Careful
polite interest.

“Not as promising as I’d hoped,” he said ambiguously if truthfully. He sure as hell had never expected a woman—let alone her cousin—to be involved in this when he’d offered his help to defray suspicion from himself.

It put him in an awkward position. As was made clear when he faced Pembroke a short while later in his private solar.

“You left on your ‘errand’ before you filled me in on the leads you were following,” the vaunted English commander said, not hiding his continued annoyance at Alex’s leaving the castle to find the king.

As Alex had already offered his apologies and explanation, he ignored the thinly veiled reprimand.

“What did you find out?” Pembroke finished.

Alex cursed. His duty was clear. He should tell Pembroke what he’d learned about the spy being a woman. But if he did that there was every chance the earl would suspect Joan—as Alex had. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him his suspicions that it was Margaret. As much as he despised subterfuge, even if Alex was certain it was her, he wouldn’t condemn Joan’s cousin to prison—or worse—especially when he wasn’t sure of Joan’s involvement.

Lies, subterfuge, treachery, and dishonor . . . these were exactly the things he’d sought to avoid, damn it. Yet here he was wallowing in them again.

Honor and loyalty demanded an answer Alex wasn’t going to give. His line in the sand was moving. “Unfortunately, the leads I was following were less promising than I thought.”

He could tell himself that it was not technically a lie, but no matter how carefully constructed the words he knew they were still calculated to deceive and wrong.

Pembroke frowned. “I was told you met with the monk very late the night before you left. Why? Did he tell you something?”

“I thought to catch him unaware in the hope that he might admit something useful. But after questioning him for a while, I am convinced that he never met the person who left the message. The young monk was indeed only a courier.”

Another carefully constructed “truth.” Alex hid his self-disgust beneath Pembroke’s scrutiny. His commander gave him a hard look. “So you have learned nothing new?”

Alex shook his head. “Nothing helpful. I suspect the monk’s capture has forced the spy to go underground for a while.”

He hoped to hell
that
was the truth.

Pembroke considered him for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. But in any event, protective measures have been taken. The king is convinced that Bruce has somehow become privy to our shipping routes, as attacks have occurred with too much precision to be coincidence. He is furious and wants to ensure nothing else finds its way into enemy hands.”

Alex knew the inability to get provisions to the English garrisons in Scotland for the large army that Edward intended to send north could be a severe blow, affecting their battle plan. They would be forced to take all the supplies with them, which would slow them down and make the large army even more unwieldy. How had Margaret managed to get that kind of information? Could de Beaumont have been that careless to share such detailed information?

But it was what else Pembroke had said that he was focused on. “What kind of protective measures?” Alex asked.

The other man waved him off. “It isn’t your concern.”

Alex held his temper—barely. “How can it not be when it is my job to uncover the spy?”

“A job that you have failed,” Pembroke pointed out. “But you need not concern yourself with finding the spy any longer, I have another task for you.”

Alex’s teeth were grinding at the slight that was unfortunately warranted, but he managed to say, “My lord?”

“There is trouble brewing in East Lothian. The garrison commander at Hailes Castle is having some trouble with the local farmers, some of whom I believe are your tenants in Haddington.”

Alex was immediately on alert. “What kind of trouble?”

“The captain believes they are conspiring with the enemy to provide them food and other necessities.”

Alex bit back the curse that was about to follow, instead saying, “That is ridiculous. Bruce’s men raided that area not long ago in retribution for their supplying the garrison with grain. The same garrison that should have been protecting them,” he added pointedly.

“I do not care about the details,” Pembroke said. “I simply wish for you to do whatever is necessary to put the trouble to rest and bring any traitors to justice. I do not need to tell you how important the garrisons are as we make our way north.”

Hailes was on the main road to Edinburgh.

“And if I find that it is the garrison commander that is the problem?” Alex asked.

“I am sure you will find a solution,” Pembroke said.

In other words, justice didn’t matter. The plight of the people in the Borders didn’t matter. Just appease the damned captain.

By now Alex’s teeth felt as if they’d been ground flat. He managed to nod, acknowledging the order.

“Good,” Pembroke said. “You will leave at dawn. Take as many men as you need. I don’t expect it should take you more than a few days.”

Dismissed, Alex left the tower to find his men. He was so frustrated and seething with anger that he didn’t look up until he heard a sharp gasp.

“Alex?” The soft, feminine voice was instantly familiar.

He didn’t need to see the face hidden in the hood of the cloak to recognize the woman who came hurling into his arms a moment later.

Joan worried that she’d pushed Alex too hard and made him suspicious. But she’d been carried away by the prospect of a future beyond heartbreak, and the possibility that she could somehow convince him to return to his former compatriots.

He had clearly struggled with the decision to leave and didn’t seem reconciled to it even now.
At the time . . .

With what he’d said—and what she knew of him—she had a deeper understanding of what had motivated him to switch sides. It didn’t seem as much of a betrayal now.

He’d been worn down, frustrated, and pushed to the breaking point by the brutality of war. Part Scot, part English, part knight, part brigand, Alex was torn between two worlds—two ideals—and unable to reconcile the fight for justice and chivalry. Eventually he’d snapped.