The Ghost (Highland Guard 12) (38 page)

Alice’s mouth hardened. She dropped her hand. There was something on her face . . .

“It’s very pretty,” Alice said.

“I’m glad you approve, Lady Alice,” a deep voice said with wry amusement. “I intend to see that Joan gets everything she deserves.”

Joan turned, surprised to see that Alex had come up behind them. He was so blasted quiet! Maybe she should call
him
Ghost.

She gave him a sharp look—not for sneaking up on her, but for what he’d said to Alice. It could be an innocent comment, but despite her plea to him last night, Joan didn’t think it was. She hoped Alice hadn’t taken anything by it. Joan could not afford to have any kind of wedge between her and her cousin—not if she wanted to be kept within the circle of information. A circle that had definitely been tightening.

For once Joan couldn’t tell her cousin’s thoughts from her expression.

“What a pretty sentiment,” Alice said. “My cousin is fortunate to have found you.”

Ever the stalwart knight, Alex had come up by her side. He took her hand, put it in the crook of his arm, looked deep into her eyes, and said in a voice that no one could doubt, “Nay, it is I who am fortunate.”

She felt her heart swell and her cheeks grow warm as she basked under the glow of his love for her.

The warmth and contentment lasted throughout the day, although unfortunately Alex was called away by Pembroke after breaking his fast, presumably to report on his journey to East Lothian.

He sent a message later that he had to ride out to Wark, and she was disappointed when he had yet to return by the evening meal.

Their handful of days had been whittled down by one. But what did she expect? There was a war coming.

To that end, she took the message about the earls’ refusal to answer King Edward’s call to her contact in the village under the pretense of purchasing some new fabric for a bridal gown. Avoiding blue—the traditional color of purity for a bride—she found a beautiful ivory brocade with an intricate scroll design in silk gold thread.

It was silly to buy it. It had cost a small fortune and a good portion of her meager savings. There was every chance she would never wear it. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist. One of Margaret’s attendants was a masterful seamstress, and Joan knew she could make her something beautiful at a fraction of the cost of a dressmaker in the village.

She’d stayed in the Hall to discuss it with her after the evening meal and had gotten so caught up in the excitement of all the details, hours had passed before she realized it was getting late.

No doubt Alice would be furious that she hadn’t been there to help her ready for bed—again—but Joan was too happy to care. Nay, not just happy, she was giddy.

Good Lord, she was acting like a besotted young bride-to-be with no other care than a wedding to plan, not a highly valued spy in the enemy camp with the biggest battle in Bruce’s eight-year war just around the corner. But there was no reason she couldn’t do her duty
and
carve out a few moments of happiness for herself—while she could. Even a wedding that could well be pretend was still fun to think about for a woman who’d never expected to have one at all.

She’d just entered the corridor when the bell rang for compline. She
had
lingered a long time. It must be half past nine or so. Outside the last vestiges of daylight were fading streaks of gray beneath the cloudy night sky, but inside where light had a hard time penetrating thick stone walls, it had been as dark as night for hours.

The bell from the chapel tower was still reverberating in her ear when she sensed a movement behind her and turned just as someone grabbed her.

“Hello, sweeting,” he said, pulling her against him from behind and breathing down her neck. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Joan froze.
Licorice and brandy
. Even as her stomach rolled, the sound of Sir Phillip’s voice conjured up the darkest memories of her worst nightmare—one that had been real—and filled her with an icy, mind-numbing terror.

Taking advantage of her shock, he pulled her into the storage room where he must have been waiting for her to pass by.

In one move, he closed the door, spun her around, and pinned her to it with his body.

“That’s better,” he said, wedging himself between her legs. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

The crude mockery in his drink-laden voice was enough to rouse her from her momentary terror-ridden trance. Fire replaced ice, and anger replaced fear. Instinct and training returned as well, causing her knee to lift forcefully against the offending bulge between his legs and come down just as forcefully on his instep.

He cursed in pain, bending over as if she’d folded him in two. “How does that feel,
Sir
Phillip? That is what
new
times feels like. I’m not a helpless young girl anymore who you can pin down and rape and who won’t fight back. Touch me again, and I’ll kill you.”

She meant it, too. She was shaking with the force of her hatred. It would be so easy to slip her blade from its scabbard . . .

Too easy.

She had to go. She turned to open the door, and that’s when Phillip made his move. “
Never turn your back . . . not even for a minute.
” Too late, Lachlan’s warning came back to her.

“You fucking slut! You’ll pay for this.” He barreled his head into her like a charging bull, slamming her into the door. Her head took the brunt of it, snapping back with the force and filling with disorienting stars.

She’d been right to assume that Phillip wouldn’t be able to recover enough to stand and stop her, but she’d underestimated his skill—or been overconfident in her own. She’d practiced many times, but this was the first time she’d ever had to fight back with force. It was different. Faster. Scarier. And Sir Phillip wasn’t a young squire anymore, he was a full-fledged knight. A hardened warrior who’d trained for years, fought in countless battles, and knew how to fight dirty.

She wobbled, feeling for the door or wall to steady herself.

He took advantage of her dizziness with a sweep of his ankle behind her leg, causing her to fall back on the ground.

In her normal state she might have been able to roll away and fight back, but dazed and disorientated like this she was helpless.

Helpless
. Oh God, no . . .

If she thought he’d been rough before, she was wrong. He backhanded her with a blow to the side of her face that made her cry out in fresh pain, kicked her in the ribs, and then knelt down on top of her to hold her in place. He was so heavy she couldn’t breathe.

Writhing in pain from the blows, she was only half- conscious of his efforts to lift his long surcoat and untie the breeches he had on beneath.

“Maybe I’ll make you suck it to make it feel better,” he said, grabbing himself. “Would you like that, you fucking whore?” He reached down and squeezed her breast hard, pinching her nipple until she gave another cry of pain. He laughed. “Shall we see what my cock looks like with that pretty mouth wrapped around it?”

Revulsion surged up the back of her throat. She’d heard mention of such intimacies before, but it still shocked—and repulsed—her.
He
repulsed her. Her head throbbed with pain, but she managed, “You will sooner feel the bite of my teeth.”

Her threat only amused him. “I see you have more spirit than you used to. I’ve always liked a lass with a little spirit, makes breaking them more exciting.”

Joan’s head felt like it was splitting apart. She could barely think beyond the pain, but she knew she had to do something. She shifted to try to roll him off her, but her movements were awkward and slow, and he had no problem stopping her.

She was rewarded for her efforts with another blow to the side of the head that made the lights start to flash again.

She tried to scream, but her crushed lungs couldn’t find the air, and he only laughed at her efforts.

She could barely hear his taunts now; his voice sounded so far away with the ringing in her head. “I doubt you’d be much good with your mouth the way you are right now. Nay, this time, I’ll have to settle for that tight glove between your legs.” He laughed. “Although maybe it’s not so tight anymore? Shame that I didn’t get a chance to break you in a little more before I left.”

Joan was going to be sick.
Do something
, a voice cried. But the voice was small and weak.

She felt air on her legs, and then a rough, callused hand tried to spread her legs.

“No!” she cried. A moment of clarity permeated the haze of confusion.

He was too occupied with trying to shove himself between her legs to hit her again.

Her head cleared a little more as the realization of what was happening caused her primitive instincts to flare.

Fight! You have to fight back. You have to try. Think . . .

But instinct was stronger than thought. He loosened his hold on her hands pinned above her head to try to fit himself between her legs, giving her an opening, and she reacted.

Her hand found the hilt of the eating knife at her side and a moment later the blade plunged up into the exposed skin of his groin. His eyes widened with shock. He said something, but the sounds in her head were blaring too loud to make it out.

It was as if time were passing at half-speed as her head fought to clear. He swayed for a long moment, and then toppled over.

She was sobbing as she struggled to get up, as near hysterical as she ever wanted to be. She looked at him, but the image was a jagged montage with the pieces scattered: pool of blood . . . his pants half-down . . . her knife lying next to him.

She’d killed him. Oh my God, she’d killed him.

What am I going to do? I have to get out of here.

She opened the door and ran to the only person she could think of who could help.

Alex had dismissed his squire after the lad had finished removing his weapons and armor. It had been another long and frustrating day. Pembroke and the king’s reaction to the plight of Alex’s tenants had been exactly as he’d feared—unsympathetic—and something was still troubling him from the night before. He’d taken the unusual step of ordering a hot bath to be brought up, rather than just relying on the river, in the hopes that it would help him sort his thoughts. He’d wanted to be alone so he would dry and dress himself as need be.

The lad didn’t argue. Though after the ride to Wark and back, and the long day of ensuring that the soldiers were ready to march, the boy should be as exhausted as Alex; apparently some of the other squires were heading into the village to one of the alehouses, and he was going to join them.

Alex was just thirty, but there was nothing like a seventeen-year-old to make him feel very old and weary.

A few minutes after the lad left, Alex heard a knock on the door. Two men entered carrying the tub, and then for the next ten minutes or so they returned with buckets of hot water until it was full enough, and he sent them away.

He was just about to remove his shirt when he heard another knock. Assuming it was more water, he opened the door to repeat that he had enough, but the words died in his mouth.

“Joan?” He took one look at her and felt his insides twist in a coil of fear, horror, panic, and rage. The latter fueled by the nasty-looking bruise forming on the side of her pale, tear-stained cheek. Her face was bloodless, her hair half escaped from its pins, and her eyes glassy. He’d seen enough men in shock after a battle to recognize the signs.

When their eyes met, something inside her seemed to break. She sobbed and collapsed against his chest in tears. He’d never seen her so vulnerable; it was so disorienting that he didn’t know what to do. He caught her and held her tight, soothing her as best he could, but from what he didn’t know.

Easing her into his room, he closed the door behind her, and then held her back to look at her again.

“God, what happened? Who did this to you, sweetheart?”

She mumbled something unintelligible between sobs. It was then that he looked down.

It was his turn to pale. It felt as if every drop of blood suddenly rushed out of his body. Her gown was covered in blood.

“My God, you’re bleeding!”

He immediately reached for her, searching for signs of trauma, but she shook him off. “N-not mine.”

He relaxed—infinitesimally. Leading her to the edge of his bed, he forced her to sit and went to the sideboard to pour her a drink of whisky to calm her. A memory jarred in his head, but he pushed it aside for later.

“Here,” he said, holding the cup out to her.

She accepted it without argument and took a big gulp before putting it aside with the choking cough of someone not accustomed to the harsh drink.

The next few minutes while he waited patiently for her to tell him what had happened were some of the hardest of his life. And when the story did emerge, in choked sobs and heaving sighs, he felt a rage unlike anything he’d ever known take hold.

That bastard had tried to hurt her. If Phillip Gifford wasn’t dead already, he was about to be.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said finally.