Seduced by Destiny (14 page)

A shoving match broke out then between Barrie’s cocky supporters and Drew’s disappointed ones. By the time they reached the
seventh hole, the violence had escalated into a full-scale brawl, Barrie was winning by five strokes, and Drew was no closer
to identifying the elusive Duncan.

J
osselin’s hands were still shaking as she surreptitiously retrieved the note from her bosom. She never read the missives.
The less she knew, the safer she was.

But the Highlander had taken a good, long look at this one. If he’d been able to decipher anything…

“My dearest Josselin,” it began. She quickly skimmed the contents. ’Twas the sort of sugary prose a lover might write to his
mistress, and ’twas signed, “your worshipful Duncan,” which was, of course, a fictitious name.

Josselin knew there was some type of code encrypted into the letter. She didn’t know what ’twas. She didn’t want to know.
But she certainly didn’t want anyone else to find out. ’Twas her responsibility to make sure the missive didn’t fall into
the wrong hands.

She studied the note a moment more. Then, satisfied ’twas a convincing love letter, no more, she put it away.

If only she could put away her thoughts so easily.

They kept straying to Drew MacAdam, and the more she thought about him, the more uneasy she became.

This time, ’twas more than his sky blue eyes and sly
grin that worried her, more than his startling embraces and troubling kisses that set her heart to pounding.

This time, she began to think deeply about her relationship with the Highlander.

Was it mere coincidence that they kept showing up at the same places? Or could it be he was following her?

He’d seemed very concerned about the document she’d signed with Philipe. Was it possible he wasn’t interested in her welfare
so much as her activities?

He’d intercepted two of her missives now and had ample time to look them over. He insisted he couldn’t read, but what if he
was lying? What if he’d known exactly what he was looking at?

It suddenly seemed very plausible that the Highlander might be a spy for Walsingham.

The thought sent a sobering shiver up her spine. The man had stood within a blade’s reach of the queen yesterday, knowing
full well who she was. He could have assassinated her.

Worse, Josselin herself had led him to her. She’d insisted he play against the queen, practically shoving him onto the green.
And when he’d used Josselin for cover, she’d gone along with his ruse, pretending she was his mistress. Bloody hell, she’d
kissed
the traitor.

She brought trembling fingers to her lips. How could she have allowed him, allowed an enemy
spy
, to get so close to her?

Philipe had warned her that agents were usually those who aroused the least suspicion—tavern wenches, stable lads, even monks.
She supposed a golfer from the Highlands was as unlikely a spy as there could be.

She wiped sweaty palms on her apron. What should she do now?

Josselin was accustomed to fighting duels, where one faced one’s enemy openly with a sword. Subterfuge was not in her nature.
Perhaps she should stay out of this particular fight. Perhaps she should alert Philipe to the peril and let him do what he
thought best.

Then she smiled ruefully. Walk away from a fight? ’Twas unthinkable.

Josselin was her mother’s daughter. She’d no more refuse a challenge than she’d refuse a thirsty patron with a purse full
of silver.

Besides, going to Philipe and admitting her error in judgment would be unwise. How would she explain that she’d let Drew see
those two missives? How would she assure Philipe that she was a competent agent when she’d been seen consorting with the enemy?
And did she even have enough solid evidence to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Drew MacAdam was a spy?

Nae, she couldn’t say anything to Philipe, not until she had more proof.

As distasteful as the prospect was, if she wanted to unmask him, Josselin had to get closer to the Highlander, persuade him
to trust her, compel him to expose his secrets.

’Twas the same cat-and-mouse game her Da Angus had taught her in swordfighting. By drawing the enemy in and feigning helplessness,
she’d lull him into complacency. Then, when he least expected it, she’d strike at his heart.

Her own heart quivered at the thought. ’Twas a dangerous game. If she became impatient and lost her self-control, she might
strike too soon. If she misjudged the
distance and drew too close, she’d leave herself vulnerable to attack. Worst of all, she might finally strike at him with
all her might, only to discover that she was the unwitting victim in
his
game of cat-and-mouse.

She shivered, then mentally scolded herself for such nonsense. She wasn’t talking about a swordfight, after all, though she
was sure she could best the golfer in a duel with one hand bound behind her back. ’Twas only a harmless flirtation she planned,
nothing that might leave a scar.

Still, when she thought about intentionally ingratiating herself to the Highlander, courting his affections, encouraging his
intimacy…

Marry, her belly didn’t flutter half as much when she was preparing to do battle with a blade.

Josselin took a determined breath and tossed her apron down on the counter. She was no coward. She was fully prepared in mind
and body to put herself in harm’s way for her country, for her queen, for the memory of her mother. If only her racing heart
would believe that…

Drew was disgusted with himself. He’d let emotion get in the way of his game. As a consequence, he’d lost. Badly. ’Twas a
good thing he’d been battling with a golf club and not a sword, for such inattention might have cost him an arm or a leg instead
of only his pride.

Long after the victorious Barrie had left the field on the shoulders of his cheering companions, Drew was still sulking at
the last hole, sitting on the sod with his chin in his fist, staring pensively out toward the shifting sea.

“Hey! Highlander!”

He turned to see Jossy heading toward him, carrying two tankards in her hand. The sunlight burnished her hair
to a gleaming gold, and the soft breeze ruffled the linen across her breasts, reminding him of what would never belong to
him, of what belonged to the insidious Duncan.

“Here’s the pint I owe ye,” she said, offering him one of the tankards, then plopping artlessly down onto the grass beside
him with the other.

He shook his head, amused. The lass was certainly unpredictable. He raised his tankard in thanks, and she clanked her cup
to his. They both took a sip, then resumed gazing silently at the sea.

“I lost,” he finally admitted, taking another consoling swig.

“I’d say ’twas more like slaughter.”

He nearly choked on his beer. “Well, don’t be waterin’ it down, lass. Give it to me straight.”

“ ’Tis true,” she said with a shrug. “At least ’tis what they were sayin’ at the beer wagon.”

He clucked his tongue. “And ye came all the way o’er here to tell me so?”

She acted hurt. “O’ course not.”

“Then why
did
ye come?”

“I told ye, I owed ye a beer.”

“A beer,” he said doubtfully. “And that’s it?”

She frowned guiltily into her cup. “And perhaps an apology.”

“An apology. For what?”

“For snappin’ at ye, after ye helped me and all. My da says I’ve got a temper as short as a lamb’s tail.”

He smiled. He rather liked her temper. ’Twas so easy to ruffle her feathers, to set her off balance, and once she was off
balance…

His smile faded. He dared not go down that road. “ ’Tis
perfectly understandable. Ye didn’t want me perusin’ your private note.”

“Aye, but ye
did
say ye couldn’t read.”

“I did,” he said carefully.

“So I suppose there was no harm done. Indeed, I owe ye thanks for its return.”

His smile was forced this time. He wondered if the mawkish note was still tucked between her lovely breasts.

Then he furrowed his brow. Where was her elusive suitor anyway? Everyone had left the links. Where had he gone? Surely Jossy
wouldn’t dally on the course with Drew when “your worshipful Duncan” was waiting.

“Well, ye’ve thanked me,” he assured her. “There’s no need to tarry.”

“Are ye sendin’ me away?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps.” Then he cocked his head at her. “I’m guessin’ that letter might be another invitation from your French
friend?”

“Philipe? Oh, nae. The letter? ’Twas nothin’, really, just a wee note from an admirer.”

He was surprised she was telling him the truth. “An admirer?”

“Aye,” she said shyly.

Drew cast his glance around the course. “And won’t this admirer be displeased to see ye sittin’ here with me?”

“What?” She froze for an instant, like a startled deer, then licked her lips and said, “Oh, nae. ’Tisn’t the way of it at
all.”

“Indeed?” He took a long pull of his beer, contemplating her cagey manner. The lass might be telling the truth, but she was
definitely hiding part of it. “Well, I’d be jealous if ye were
my
lover.”

“Lover? Oh, nae, he’s not my lover,” she said in a rush. “Nae, nae, not at all. He’s only… He’s…” She paused to collect herself.
“Duncan…”

“Duncan?” Faith, she really
was
telling him the truth. He was impressed.

“Duncan is more of a… a devotee than a suitor.”

“Hm.”

Drew took another long drink to conceal his pleasure at hearing this news. Perhaps he’d delay his departure from Edinburgh
after all.

J
osselin suddenly realized it was going to be hard to woo Drew’s affections while she was constantly receiving love letters
from Duncan. She supposed she should have thought things out more carefully.

She feigned a casual shrug. “He’s really nobody,” she said, which was oddly the truth.

For once Drew didn’t reply, but sat quietly, sipping his beer and watching a flock of gulls circling over the distant waves.

’Twas obvious she’d have to take stronger measures if she wanted to loosen the Highlander’s tongue.

“Do ye know The Sheep Heid Inn?” she asked.

“ ’Tis where I’m stayin’.”

“Indeed?” She supposed ’twas no surprise. The Sheep Heid was the nearest inn to the Musselburgh course. But that bit of information
might be useful. “Well, I’ve got an hour or so before the next golfers arrive, and the wagon will be safe enough with Davey,
the driver. Come sup with me. I owe ye supper.”

He looked over at her, one eye squinting against the sun. “I can’t have ye payin’ for my supper, lass.”

“Why not? I’m earnin’ wages now, and ’tis the least I can do to thank ye. If ’tweren’t for ye, I’d have no work at all.”

“But ’tis only a tavern wench’s wages,” he pointed out.

“Hmph!” she scoffed. “I wager I earned more silver today than ye did.”

He winced. “True.” He shook his head. “Ach, ye drive the dagger deep, lass.”

She scrambled to her feet and waited while he gathered his clubs and balls and slung the bag over his shoulder. Then she walked
with him to the inn.

Entering under the sign of the ram’s head, they were welcomed by the smells of mutton stew bubbling over the fire and free-flowing
ale. Unfortunately, half a dozen of the Musselburgh regulars had commandeered the largest table, and they recognized Drew,
so their progress was delayed by greetings and condolences on his game. But Josselin managed to secure a small spot in a dark
corner where they could converse in private. She ordered two trenchers of stew and two pints of the tavern’s best ale. A couple
of the strong brews and she was sure to have the spy singing like a sparrow.

Drew pushed back his empty trencher and gazed in amusement at the adorable lass across the table. She was breathtaking. She
was relentless. And she was drunk off her arse.

Of course, she wasn’t aware of that. Nor was he about to enlighten her to the fact. He continued to chat with her as if nothing
was awry, patiently answering her slurred interrogation, satisfying his appetite, and enjoying the view.

“Where’d ye say ye’re from?” she asked him for the second time.

“Tintclachan.”

“Tint. Clach. An.” She said it slowly, as if to memorize it. “An’ how long’ve ye been travelin’ the Lowlands?”

“Three years or so.”

“Three years.” She paused to take another incautious swig of her third ale. “An’ ye’re stayin’ here at this inn?”

“At the moment,” he told her, adding in a whisper, “up the stairs, third door on the right.”

She nodded as if digesting all this. Then she raised a skeptical brow. “Are ye certain all ye do t’earn your keep’s golfin’?”

He laughed. “I assure ye I usually play better than I did today.” He studied her face, lingering on her enchanting eyes and
her enticing lips. “My attention wasn’t on the game.”

“Huh.” She leaned forward, like a barrister gravely questioning a convict. “An’ what
was
your attention on then?”

Drew flashed her a lazy grin. He might be able to hold his ale better than the lass, but there was still a pleasant buzzing
in his head that made him speak impulsively. “I had my eye on a short-tempered blond lass.”

She frowned.

He added, “One with fiery green eyes?”

She continued to frown.

“And a honey-sweet mouth?” he suggested.

She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she gasped. “ ’S’me.”

He saluted her with his tankard.

“But I’m nobody,” she argued. “ ’M jus’ a lass from
Selk—, Selkirk. Why would ye want to spy—” She stopped suddenly, biting her lip as if she’d said too much.

His gaze was drawn to those succulent lips. He might be feeling the effects of the ale, but ’twasn’t the ale that made him
want to taste her again. Nor was it intoxication that awakened the beast slumbering below his belt.

“Oh,” she breathed, finally understanding. Then a glint of interest flashed in her eyes, and she leaned forward to rest her
chin in the cup of her hand. “Ohhh.”