He cursed silently. Fitzgerald was second-in-command of the Irish fleet for the Earl of Ulster. He would know the shipping plans. Just like the shipping plans that had made their way to Bruce. But Margaret was the spy . . . wasn’t she? He’d wondered how she’d gotten that kind of information. What if she hadn’t? What if she’d been helping someone else when she took that note to the monk?

“Alex, is something wrong?”

Her question shook him from his reverie. She looked so sweet and innocent, so heartbreakingly vulnerable, he told himself he had to be wrong. She couldn’t have deceived him like that.

He took her in his arms again. “Aye. I want to make it better, but I don’t know how.”

She sighed against him, snuggling in closer. “Just hold me,” she said.

He did as she asked—gladly. Wherever his thoughts led, whatever his suspicions, this was not the time. She needed him, and he would be here for her.

But things had begun to fall into place, and no matter how much he wanted to tell himself it wasn’t true, he knew he had to find out for sure.

Joan wanted nothing more than to stay with Alex all night, but she knew she had to return to her room before Alice sent someone out looking for her. Her cousin might suspect where she was, but Joan didn’t want her to be worried. Alice was self-centered and spoiled, but she wasn’t without some cousinly concern.

Alex escorted her to the door of Alice’s chamber, and asked her again if she was all right. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Although I’d be better if you decided to climb another tower tonight.”

His mouth crooked in a half-grin and he shook his head. “I think my tower-climbing days are over—at least until you get a bigger window.”

She laughed, and he bid her good night with a tender kiss that was over far too soon.

“Get some rest,” he said, pulling away.

He turned to go, but she called him back. “Alex?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. For a moment, she thought she saw something pained in his gaze. “Aye?”

“Thank you.”

He appeared perplexed. “For what?”

“For understanding. For believing me. For not questioning my version of events even with what you thought of my past. It . . .” She paused, emotion tightening her throat. “It means a lot to me.”

“There is nothing you can’t tell me, Joan—nothing. Do you understand? This only works if we tell each other the truth.”