“Aye,” she said. “I noticed it on my last trip to town. They seem to have a large display of silks.”

Alice perked up at the magic word. “We should go in.”

Joan’s smile betrayed none of her inward alarm. “It’s getting late. We need to get back to the castle if you are to have time to dress for the midday meal. We can come back next week after the fair when the crowds are gone.” She turned to Alex and finally she allowed their eyes to meet. If the shudder running through her was any indication, it had been a mistake. “I think we’ve taken enough of Sir Alex’s time today.”

Alex knew she was anxious to get rid of him, and forgetting for a moment that he’d been just as anxious to avoid her, it grated.

He smiled, knowing how much he was about to annoy her. “I have all the time in the world, my lady. I am at your command.”

Her mouth pressed in a tight line, and he had to force himself not to laugh even if what he’d said wasn’t exactly true. He’d been pursuing a lead when he’d noticed the ladies—or rather one lady in particular—in the crowd. He might have let her go had he not noticed their lack of escort.

Letting her go is what he’d been trying to do for the past week. As he would be at Berwick for the foreseeable future—or at least until he uncovered the spy—he knew he wouldn’t be able to completely avoid her, but he’d been doing his damnedest to try. Too often, however, he’d found his gaze straying in her direction.

He couldn’t look at her without thinking about what he’d done, and that aroused very conflicting feelings in him. He was ashamed of his actions—he’d never treated a lady so dishonorably—but neither could he forget how incredible it had felt. Holding her . . . kissing her . . . it had felt so damned right. Which didn’t make any sense as it was so wrong in every way.

Thus stymied, he’d focused his attention instead on identifying the spy, methodically going through what he knew about the information that had leaked and trying to match it with the most likely suspects. As much as he hated to admit it—and he really hated to admit it—Pembroke was probably right in that it was likely a Scot.

It made the most sense. The one English suspect, Ralph de Monthermer, Robert Bruce’s former friend who most of the Guard assumed had been the source, had been away from England for much of the past few years patrolling the Irish Sea. Given the kind of information that had been passed, it was much more likely to have come from someone in the Borders.