Seduced by Destiny (12 page)

“Save this for me, lass, and remember,” he said under his breath, “this was
your
idea.”

“Aye, fine,” she muttered, “but listen. I expect ye to lose.”

“Do ye now?” She had so little faith in his talents.

While Mary and her cohorts moved away from the beer wagon to negotiate with Metz for the use of his clubs, Jossy leaned in
close.

“There’s somethin’ ye should know,” she confided, briefly scanning the area for witnesses. “That’s not a man.”

He looked at her.

At his lack of response, she repeated, “That’s not a man.”

“I know.”

“Ye do?”

He smiled, amused. “Aye. Even a sheep-swivin’ Highlander can tell the difference between a—”

“Shh.” She spoke even more softly. “Ye’ve got to let her win.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because she’s… she’s…”

“Because she’s a woman?” He shook his head. ’Twas the harsh lesson he’d learned from his father’s suicide. “Nae,” he murmured.
“The lass knows full well what she’s gettin’ into. If she’s got the ballocks to enter the field o’ battle, then she’d better
have the ballocks to face the fact she may lose.”

J
osselin watched the Highlander walk away, surprised into silence by his words, which were hauntingly familiar to her ears.

’Twas exactly what she’d always said of her mother and the battle at Ancrum—that Lilliard hadn’t been naïve, as everyone claimed,
that she’d known very well what she risked.

But Josselin couldn’t afford to dwell on the past now. The Highlander was already on his way to the tee, about to best the
queen at golf. She couldn’t let that happen. Mary needed allies now, not challengers. God knew she already had enough enemies
in Scotland.

Josselin’s beer wagon driver had gone off to watch the game, and she knew she shouldn’t abandon her cart. ’Twas full of beer,
after all, and there was nothing more tempting to a Scot than the prospect of a free pint. But something had to be done. The
honor of the queen was at stake.

Fortunately, nobody was interested in drinking at the moment. The crowd had rushed back to the green to watch and wager on
the new contest.

So Josselin stowed away her earnings, took off her apron, and left the beer wagon, hurrying across the field to catch Drew
before he could make a terrible mistake.

At least Drew had had the courtesy to allow Mary to make the first drive. When Josselin arrived at the tee, the queen was
settling into a comfortable stance, surrounded by shouting spectators. Josselin tugged surreptitiously at the Highlander’s
sleeve.

He frowned, surprised at the interruption.

She pulled him close to whisper into his ear. “Ye can’t win.”

He shrugged, murmuring back, “If that’s what ye believe, then bet against me.”

“Nae. I mean ye
mustn’t
win.”

A smile touched the corner of his lip. “And ye mustn’t tell me what to do, darlin’.”

She only had a limited time to make him understand. “Damn it, Highlander,” she bit out, “I’m serious.”

“And so am I, lass,” he whispered back. “I’ve never thrown a game in my life. I’ll not start now.”

Anger and urgency made her reckless. She hissed, “Even if ye’re playin’ against … against the Queen o’ Scotland?”

He sighed and lifted a brow. “Ye don’t think I know that?”

She gave a tiny gasp.

“MacAdam!” the Queen interjected. “Are ye goin’ to tee up, or do ye intend to dally with the beer wagon wench all day?”

Josselin’s face flushed with heat as laughter circled around her. But when she tried to protest, Drew intervened to make matters
worse.

He gave the queen a wide grin. “Ye must admit she’s a toothsome lass and a sore temptation.”

As if that weren’t bad enough, he crooked his elbow around Josselin’s neck, drew her close, and planted a brazen kiss on her
mouth.

Despite her outrage and against her will, Josselin’s heart leaped into her throat. Drew’s lips were hot and commanding, calling
to some primitive yearning within her. She felt his damp chest through the thin layer of his shirt and breathed his male scent,
instantly intoxicated by his earthy essence. And God help her, her head grew dizzy and her knees weak.

When he released her, ’twas all she could do to stand upright.

But the hooting crowd soon sobered her, and rage flared in her like dry tinder put to flame. She heaved an angry breath, ready
to rake the Highlander over the coals for his insolence.

Then she caught a glimpse of Mary, who was watching her with a knowing smile, and Josselin realized she must carry out this
pretense, no matter how distasteful. A royal spy dared not create a spectacle.

So she summoned up a sugary smile and fluttered her lashes at Drew.

“Go on then, love,” she managed to purr between clenched teeth. “Play your match. I’ll be waitin’ at the beer wagon when ye’re
done.”

She didn’t wait for his reaction. She didn’t dare. She’d already drawn enough attention to herself.

Picking up her skirts, she skipped back across the green, thanking the Saints that Philipe hadn’t seen the Highlander kissing
her.

But as she came within sight of the beer wagon, her breath caught, and she stumbled to a halt. Standing beside the cart, a
scowl of condemnation creasing his brow, was the queen’s secretary.

He cursed her in French, upbraided her for deserting her post, and threatened to relieve her of her position, all of which
she listened to with silent forbearance. At least he hadn’t witnessed that kiss. But when he accused her of endangering Mary,
she took offense.

“I would never do anything to endanger the queen,” she proclaimed, straightening proudly. “In fact,” she said pointedly, crafting
an outright lie that she’d have to seek absolution for later, “I only left to take a pint to the tall, dark, handsome lad
in the black doublet and the feathered cap. He looked terribly thirsty.”

Josselin prayed that Philipe would be satisfied, both that Josselin had seen through Mary’s disguise and that she’d catered
to the queen’s needs without prompting. Hopefully, he wouldn’t bother to confirm her story. As she’d discovered with Kate
Campbell, sometimes ’twas easier to lie than try to explain an uncomfortable truth.

Philipe seemed to believe her and was suitably impressed. After a spate of requisite grousing and muttering, he finally agreed
to entrust her with the information he’d learned earlier from the nobleman.

Apparently, at the first news of Mary’s return to her throne, Queen Elizabeth’s man, Lord Walsingham, had sent spies to Scotland.
An uneasy truce existed between the two queens, since no one was quite certain who would rightly inherit the English throne
should Elizabeth die without issue. Walsingham posed an enormous threat to Mary. As master of Elizabeth’s spy network, he’d
devised
cunning tactics that were difficult to discern, as well as brilliant encryptions that were nearly impossible to decipher.

Worse, there were those in Scotland, among them John Knox and his followers, who would be glad to ally with the English to
overthrow Mary.

Philipe had therefore increased the ranks of Mary’s agents over the last several days in order to root out enemy spies. Josselin’s
services would be even more vital now. Since messages would come to her in greater numbers, she was to report to the links
at Musselburgh on a daily basis.

Most thrilling was Philipe’s warning that Josselin might be called upon to do more than just deliver messages. She would also
be charged with keeping her eyes and ears open for suspicious persons who could be counterspies. They might come in the form
of trusted individuals—priests or midwives or sweet-faced maids. But she was to trust no one who didn’t bring her a triple-notched
tankard.

Josselin gave Philipe her solemn promise to uphold his orders. She even managed to wait until he was gone before allowing
a glimmer of excitement to enter her eyes. This was what she’d trained for—to serve the Scots queen, to fight against the
English, and to get revenge on the brutes who’d murdered her mother.

Leaning dreamily back against a cask of beer, she imagined rooting out a counterspy and engaging him in mortal combat. He’d
underestimate her abilities, and she’d surprise him with a few painful slashes of her sword. He’d thrust. She’d parry. He’d
advance. She’d retreat. They’d battle back and forth for several moments. She’d
let him think he was winning. Then, just as he was about to deal the killing blow…

“MacAdam! MacAdam!” came a rhythmic chant from across the field. “MacAdam! MacAdam!”

Ballocks!

She pushed away from the cask with a frown.

The insufferable cad had done it. He’d knowingly bested the queen.

’Twas bad enough that John Knox had verbally attacked Mary only a few weeks after her arrival, challenging her faith and,
rumor had it, reducing her to tears. Now the Highlander had made a fool of her on the golf course in front of everyone.

But when the mob came trooping across the green, Josselin was astonished to see Mary marching at the fore beside Drew, a huge
grin wreathing her face. And when she came up to the beer wagon for refreshment, the queen saluted the Highlander with her
tankard.

“Well done, sir, well done,” she said. “Thank ye for your indulgence. ’Tis a long time since I wooed such a fine Scots course.
I can see I’m goin’ to have to learn to court the lady properly.”

“Patience and persistence,” Drew advised. “A lady too easily won is not worth the winnin’,” he said, giving Josselin a knowing
wink.

Josselin clenched her teeth. It took every ounce of her restraint not to pour his beer over his head.

D
rew didn’t think he could have gotten himself into a bigger mess if he’d tried. God’s wounds, an Englishman playing golf with
the Queen of Scotland? His uncles would never believe it. Even
he
was having trouble believing it, and he was standing beside the young royal.

He was using as much Highland charm as he could muster to keep up appearances, but ’twasn’t easy under the hostile watch of
the Selkirk lass.

Jossy had no cause to be vexed with him. He’d done as she wished. Against his better judgment, he’d accepted the queen’s challenge.

He may have refused to let Mary win, but that was a matter of honor. No golfer worth his clubs would intentionally throw a
match.

And if he’d been forced to take certain liberties with Jossy, ’twas only in the interest of maintaining a believable pretense.
’Twas only a kiss. ’Twasn’t his fault if her heart may have quickened or her breath caught or a strong wave of desire washed
over her, and the world seemed to disappear around them.

Not that it had affected
him
. He was accustomed to
ignoring distractions. Aye, his pulse raced, but surely not because of that kiss. His pulse raced because he was in the presence
of his most powerful foe. He might as well have placed his English neck on the executioner’s block.

’Twas still a mystery to him, what role Jossy had been asked to play for the royals. If she was merely the beer-wagon wench,
then why the need for such secrecy? There was something suspect about this arrangement.

Jossy’s fierce glare told him ’twas no concern of his. But he still felt responsible for the Selkirk lass, who was completely
out of her element in Edinburgh. Drew had seen what had happened to those close to King Henry. Royals might be dangerous enemies,
but they could be even more dangerous allies. And if Drew had to play Jossy’s lover to find out what was going on, he was
more than willing to make that sacrifice.

She’d certainly need instruction, however, if they were to carry out the ruse. At the moment, the lass looked nothing like
an adoring mistress. She looked ready to carve him up like a Sunday roast.

The queen finished off her beer and secured her empty tankard to her belt, then dug in her coin pouch and pulled out a penny.

“Here’s what I owe ye, sir.” She flipped the coin up, and Drew caught it. “Ye can buy that pretty wench o’ yours a trinket.”

Drew reached across the counter and snagged Jossy by the waist, pulling her near. “What do ye fancy, darlin’? A ribbon for
your hair? A bit o’ gingerbread? A kerchief?”

Jossy’s body went as rigid as a golf club, and the smile
she gave him could have cracked glass. But she managed to answer him sweetly for the queen’s sake.

“Ach, I’d dearly love a new thimble,” she said, “so I can guard against pricks.”

He pretended not to notice her choice of words. “ ’Tis yours, love,” he promised, leaning in to give her a hearty smack on
the lips.

The queen bid them farewell then, joining the crowd headed for Edinburgh. The taverns would be filled with Drew’s supporters
tonight, who’d spend their winnings on drink and spin tales about the great match between Metz and the Highlander.

Jossy’s smile stayed fixed to her face until Mary was out of sight. Then she wrenched out of his grasp, giving him a great
shove and a glare that would pierce armor.

“Why did ye do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Kiss me.”

He laughed. “What would ye have me do? Ye’re the one who came skippin’ out to the green after me like some lovesick calf.”

Her jaw dropped. “Lovesick…” Then, at a loss for proper words, she growled and tore off her apron.

“If ye’re goin’ to make a habit o’ deceivin’ the queen, darlin’, ye’d best learn to do a better job of it.”

“I’m not… deceivin’ the queen,” she told him, though she wouldn’t look him in the eye to say the words.

“She thinks ye’re just the beer-wagon wench,” he said. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

Her blush was confirmation, even if she denied his claim. “Ye don’t know what ye’re jabberin’ about.”

“What contract did ye make with that secretary?” he pressed. “Has he indentured ye? Blackmailed ye? Made ye sign away your
life?”

She threw her apron down on the counter. “ ’Tis no bloody business o’ yours.”