As if it had ever begun.

He almost told the girl to take the jug away—that he’d changed his mind—but she was already halfway out of the room so he just let her go. His squire had helped him remove his mail before being dismissed, and Alex caught sight of it now, folded neatly on a bench along with his surcoat, gambeson, chausses, weapons, and sporran. He was about to pull off his shirt and toss it on the pile along with the rest, when the corner of a piece of parchment caught his eye.

He hadn’t forgotten about the missive, but after the confrontation with Joan he’d had other things on his mind. Removing it from the leather purse, he read over it again, examining every line, every letter . . .

Letter. That’s when it hit him. He knew what had been bothering him, but what he hadn’t been able to put his finger on. The lettering was too pretty, too soft, too flourished. It didn’t look as if it had been written with the quick, harsh, masculine lines of a soldier or knight—it looked distinctly feminine . . . as if it had been written by a lady.

A woman. Christ. Alex’s mind reeled. He’d never considered that a woman might be the spy. None of them had. It wasn’t just the danger involved, it was the quality of the information. Information that could have only come from someone high up in Edward’s command—a man. At least that’s what they’d all assumed, but Alex realized that it could also have come from a trusted wife, mistress, daughter, or servant of that man.

An educated servant like a lady’s companion.

His bones turned to ice. There was no reason for his mind to go straight to Joan, but it did.

It could be anyone, he told himself. Hell, he wasn’t even certain it was a woman, but now that the possibility had been broached, he could not dismiss it.

He tried to approach it analytically, going through all the ladies at court—both wives and mistresses—of which more than a handful were Scots.

But none of the other ladies were the daughter of Bella MacDuff, and that fact more than anything made him curse. He pulled on a pair of loose breeches, and not bothering with his surcoat, tossed a plaid around his shoulders before leaving his room.