The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) (21 page)

“What was
right
?” her father exploded, jumping to his feet with enough force to cause the bench he’d been seated on to fall back with a resounding crash. Circling around the table, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “How dare you try to defend her!”

Maybe she was a coward after all, because she was scared now. “I w-wasn’t—”

But he was deaf to her pleas. “I will show you what is ‘right’ lest you be tempted to follow in your whore of a mother’s treasonous footsteps. I wanted to spare you from this, but now I see that my coddling has only served to confuse you about where your loyalty lies. A daughter of Buchan—a Comyn—will never see anything
right
about a Bruce on a throne.”

He dragged her across the Hall. One look at his face was enough to turn even the most curious of gazes in the other direction. She tried to calm him down, tried to apologize, but he was too angry to listen.

The cold blast of autumn air penetrated through the wool of her gown as he pushed open the door and pulled her down the stairs. He called for horses, which were quickly brought forward.

She realized what he meant to do. “No, Father, please. Don’t take me there. I don’t want to see—”

“Not another word,” he bit out angrily. “You will do my bidding or I will see you punished with the lash. Would that I’d taken it to your mother and flogged the defiance out of her. We might have avoided this dishonor and blight upon our family.”

Joan’s eyes widened in disbelief. A lash? Her father had never raised a hand to her. But whatever regard he had for her had been forgotten by her defense of her mother. Not doubting that he meant what he said, she stopped protesting as he tossed her up onto a horse and they rode through the Northumbrian countryside the five miles to Berwick Castle.

By time they passed through the gate, Joan had never been in such a state of misery in her life. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left. Her father seemed a stranger—a dark, angry tyrant like the English king he defended.

It was dusk, and since she’d been forced from the manor house without a hooded cloak or gloves, her hands and ears were frozen.

What must it be like atop the tower in a cage?

She shivered or shuddered—maybe both.

Oh God, she couldn’t do this! To see her mother suffering so horribly . . .

But any thought she had of pleading with him one more time fled as he plucked her off of her horse. Their eyes met, and she knew he was beyond reason.

She kept her head down as long as she could. But eventually, amid the crowd of gaping onlookers, her father ordered her to look.

She forgot her fear long enough to beg. “Please, Father, don’t make me—”

“Look, God damn you!” He grabbed her chin and forced her gaze up to the ramparts. “See what happens to traitors and whores who betray their family to support false kings.”

For a moment her mind refused to let her see the horror and barbarity of the sight before her. But the self-protective blindness could only last so long. Like the specters of a nightmare, the shapes began to materialize through the hazy mist of nightfall.

The wood latticed bars . . . the iron frame . . . the tiny square of a prison that was barely enough space to stand and open to the elements and the scorn of onlookers.

No! An involuntary cry escaped her lips as she saw a movement inside the cage. “Mother!” she sobbed, lunging toward the tower as if she would free her. Every instinct in her body screamed to go to her. To
do
something. To put an end to this travesty. How could they do this to anyone? How could her mother possibly survive?
Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry!

But she’d barely taken a few steps before her father caught her and pulled her away. She started to scream and kick, but he quieted her with a warning. “You are only making it worse. Do you want her to hear you? Do you think she wants you to see her like this?”

She knew her father was only trying to prevent a scene—he didn’t care about her mother’s feelings—but it worked. Somehow she knew that it would kill her mother to know her daughter had been forced to stand witness to her suffering.

But she couldn’t give up. She had to do something. Her mother needed her.

Past the point of caring about her father’s anger, she tried again. “Please, Father, I’m begging you. Please do something to help her. You can’t leave her like this.”

But he could. And that’s exactly what he did, dragging her sobbing and pleading from the castle.

Joan had never felt so helpless in her life. She’d failed. Her knees collapsed, and she would have slid to the ground had her father not been holding her up.

The pain and devastation on her face had finally penetrated the black haze of his anger.

Too late he seemed to realize that he might have gone too far. He held her up against him as if she were one of the pretty poppets he used to buy her as a child. “I’m sorry you had to see that, daughter. But it was for your own good.”

She looked at him as if he were mad. How could that possibly be for her own good? She would never forget it. Just as she would never forget his cruelty in bringing her here.

What he saw in her expression must have alarmed him. He looked truly uneasy as he wiped some of the hair back from her face. Feeling the chill on her skin, he jerked off his plaid to wrap around her. “Your mother is dead to us both. We will not speak of her again.”

He was right in that. They didn’t speak of her again. But it wasn’t her mother who died, it was her father, who didn’t rise from his bed after a fever struck him down two years later.

She didn’t mourn him. He’d been dead to her since the day he’d taken her to see her mother hanging in a cage. Her father had taught her a lesson that day, although not the one he intended. The image of her mother treated so brutally and Joan’s inability to do anything to stop it would stay with her forever, as would her hatred toward the king who’d put her there and the man who had refused to lift a finger to help her. She never saw her father in the same way again.

She would never see many things the same way again. No longer was she a spectator in the war between Scotland and England. From that day forward, seeing Edward of England defeated and Robert Bruce on the throne became all that mattered. She’d failed to free her mother from the cage, but she would do everything she could to ensure that her mother’s suffering had not been in vain.

She should have taken the lashing. At least those scars might have had a chance to heal.

CHAPTER ONE

Carlisle Castle, Cumbria, England, April 16, 1314

“You are driving me wild,” the young knight said as he frantically pressed his hot mouth all over her neck. “God, you smell so good.”

Joan wished she could say the same, but as Sir Richard Fitzgerald—the second-in-command of the Earl of Ulster’s Irish naval forces—had cornered her after the midday meal, he smelled distinctly of smoked herring, which needless to say was not her favorite.

When he tried to press his mouth on hers again, not even the prospect of learning the movements of the entire English fleet could have stopped her from turning her head. “We can’t,” she said softly. The slight breathiness in her voice was not from passion, but from the effort of fending off a determined would-be lover tired of hearing no. “Someone might discover us.”

Which was why she’d chosen this as a place to meet. It was private but not
too
private. She never left herself without a means of escape.

Deftly twisting out of his tentacle-like embrace with the ease of someone who’d had practice escaping men with hands like a hydra many times before, she looked around anxiously as if to prove her point.

They stood in a quiet section of the garden in the castle’s outer ward, where she’d announced that she was going to take a stroll after the long meal. As she’d intended, Sir Richard had followed her there and had pulled her behind one of the rose trellises.

The young captain scowled, his face flushed with frustrated desire. With his light eyes, blondish-red hair, ruddy, wind-burned complexion, and sturdy build, he bore the marked stamp of his Irish forebears. He was not unattractive. Not that it mattered. She’d lost her weakness for handsome young knights a long time ago.

“No one would discover us if you would agree to come to my room. My squire can sleep in the barracks for the night.”

“I couldn’t,” she said, as if the suggestion shocked her, though it was hardly the first time she’d heard it.

His smile might have been charming to someone with less experience in the ways of men. “Nothing untoward will happen,” he assured her with a gentle brush of his finger on her cheek.

Right
. Every time she heard false promises like that, it became more difficult to feign wide-eyed innocence. With some effort, she managed. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, his voice turning husky. “We can just spend a little time alone together. I thought you wanted that.”

She gnawed anxiously on her bottom lip, as if contemplating the illicit offer. His gaze heated as he obviously contemplated equally illicit things about her mouth.

“Of course I do,” she said. “But it’s too risky, and there is plenty of time—”

“No there isn’t,” he snapped, losing patience with the two-week-long seduction that he no doubt thought would have progressed much further than a very few stolen kisses by now. She was supposed to be easy prey. “I received orders yesterday. I’m to leave in three days.”

Finally, the information for which she’d been waiting! Joan had begun to despair of ever hearing anything of import from him. Young knights were usually so eager to boast and brag—which is why she targeted them (that and they weren’t married)—but Sir Richard had been frustratingly closemouthed.

Until now.

She hid her excitement and relief behind a mask of concern. “Orders? You are leaving? But I thought you had until June to muster at Berwick.”

“I’m not going to Berwick.” He sounded distracted. His eyes had dropped to her chest again—a frequent occurrence. “God, you are so beautiful. There isn’t another woman like you.”

As he looked like he might try to kiss her again, she shuffled “nervously” and spoke quickly. “You’re not? Has the war been called off then?”

He glanced up from his lustful study of her breasts. She hoped he thought her as stupid as she sounded. If his amused but slightly patronizing smile was any indication, he did.

“No, the war hasn’t been called off. But my duties are on the sea in advance of the army.”

Which is why she was here with him. It was rumored that the Earl of Ulster—Sir Richard’s commander who was currently in York meeting with King Edward—would be in charge of supplying the castles in advance of the English invasion. King Robert the Bruce would love to know of their plans. Though Ulster was Bruce’s father-in-law, he was Edward of England’s man.

She acted as if the news of his leaving was devastating. “But where are you going? When will you be back? Will it be dangerous?”

Whether he would have answered her questions, she would not find out. The sound of approaching voices put a quick end to the conversation. Leaning over, he pressed a quick kiss on her lips that she could not avoid.
Herring
.

“Meet me later,” he whispered before slipping away.

Not a chance in Satan’s garden
, she thought with a shudder. At least until she had a means of escape.

Cursing, knowing she might not have another opportunity like this again, she walked out from behind the trellis to greet the ill-timed interruption as the group of ladies came around the corner of a large hedge that surrounded some of the raised flower beds.

Joan had been so close. But her contingency plan had worked too well. She hadn’t wanted to risk being alone with him too long. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep putting him off. It was a dangerous game she played, and she knew only too well what a fine line she walked.

This was not the first time she’d encouraged a man to get information. She’d been spying for Robert the Bruce for almost six years now.

Shortly after her father’s death, the Bishop of St. Andrews, William Lamberton, a loyal supporter of Bruce’s who was being held in England at the time, had approached Joan to see if she would be willing to serve as an intermediary between Bruce and his imprisoned wife. Queen Elizabeth had been captured along with Joan’s mother, but she’d been spared a cage for confinement under the supervision of Sir Hugh Despenser the elder—Joan’s newly named guardian.

The bishop’s offer was exactly the opportunity Joan had been waiting for to do
something
, and she’d agreed immediately. Although admittedly, at the time, she had no idea what she was getting into. Over the years her role had grown increasingly more important—and more dangerous—shifting from messenger to spy after she’d falsely been declared illegitimate, dispossessed of her inheritance, and sent to live with her cousin Alice Comyn, who had married Sir Henry de Beaumont, one of King Edward’s most important barons in the north. Joan’s position in de Beaumont’s household had given her unexpected access to important information—and important men.

With her “tainted” blood, infamous mother, and no one to defend her, Joan had been easy prey. Men had targeted her for their unwelcome attention since she was fifteen. She’d been too young to protect herself then, but eventually, she’d turned it to her advantage.

Although some men—like Sir Richard—had a hard time hearing no, over the years she has learned to handle even the most determined of pursuers. Thanks in large part to the man who’d served as her personal sentinel since he’d first learned of her work for Bruce.

Lachlan MacRuairi, who’d freed and then later married her mother, had taught Joan how to move around without being seen, how to extract herself from unwanted situations, and, if necessary, how to defend herself. It was because of him that she’d been made a secret member of the elite Highland Guard, Bruce’s highly skilled team of warriors who had been recruited for the most dangerous missions. Only Lachlan knew her identity; the other members of the Guard simply called her the Ghost.