Seduced by Destiny (4 page)

Drew recoiled, not from the youth’s bold boast, but from a startling revelation, a revelation that the men surrounding him
had not yet had.

All at once, the crowd began cheering wildly, and the debate was forgotten as everyone turned toward the road. The procession
had arrived at last. People clapped and shouted and waved their arms. Some chanted—whether in welcome or mockery, Drew couldn’t
tell.

Nor did he much care. He was far more interested in his new discovery. He stepped back a pace and let his gaze course down
the back of the youth beside him. ’Twas hard to tell with the ill-fitting shirt and the oversized hat, but Drew would have
wagered his putting cleek that the brazen half-pint standing beside him, making bold threats and swearing like a sailor, was
a lass.

J
osselin was so caught up in the excitement of Mary’s arrival that she forgot all about her quarrel with the drunken redbeard.
She stood on her toes to try to get a better view as a loud fanfare sounded to announce the procession through Lawnmarket.

This was what she’d come for—to see the Queen, to lay eyes on the ambitious lass who, though not much older than Josselin,
had already forged for herself a powerful legacy.

As Alasdair had explained to her, Mary, the descendant of both King Henry VII of England and King James II of Scotland, had
not only been wife to the Dauphin of France, but would also now be Queen of Scotland, and might well inherit the English crown
from Elizabeth.

Josselin admired Mary’s spirit and ambition, for she knew what ’twas like to be a woman, fighting for a significant place
in the world of men. This new queen was going to change things. She was sure of it. And Josselin wanted to be a part of that
change.

As she peered over the shoulders of the people in front of her, she spied the first wave of the procession. Dozens of
yellow-robed Scotsmen disguised as Moors—their limbs blackened and their heads covered with black hats and masks—cleared the
way through the flowers the townsfolk had strewn in the wide street. Behind them came the Edinburgh officials, who carried
aloft a purple canopy embroidered in gold with French lilies and Scots unicorns.

French soldiers and Scots lairds made up the bulk of the impressive entourage. Behind them, four lasses of Josselin’s age
rode shoulder to shoulder, and she knew they must be the Four Maries. Seeing their lavish velvet gowns and rich jewels made
Josselin curse her guardian all over again for forcing her to disguise herself in his drooping trews and baggy shirt.

Then, beneath the canopy, riding upon a white palfrey, came Queen Mary herself, more magnificent and beautiful than Josselin
had imagined. Though Mary had recently lost both her mother and her husband, today she’d discarded her white mourning shroud
in favor of a more festive gown of purple velvet with gold embroidery. Jewels twinkled from her neck, waist, and wrists, but
they couldn’t outshine the charming sparkle in Mary’s eyes. As Josselin looked on in awe, the queen nodded regally to the
crowd, her face lit up by a serene smile.

A huge, brightly painted triumphal arch had been erected across the road at Lawnmarket, and from the gallery above, a choir
of children began to sing. Riding forward, Mary waved to them in greeting.

As she passed beneath the arch, a mechanical globe painted like a cloud slowly opened to reveal a child dressed as an angel.
Josselin watched in amazement as the angel was lowered on a rope to hand the queen the keys of the gates.

Then the child began to recite an eloquent welcome to Mary in verse. But as the words became clear, the Catholic queen’s smile
faltered. Buried in the prose was a thinly veiled reference to the Reformation.

Some in the crowd gasped, and some, including the men Josselin had been arguing with, sent up bellows of approval.

Josselin’s blood simmered. Who dared insult the new queen with such obvious blasphemy? She rounded on the redbearded oaf who’d
earlier called Mary a tart and shoved him.

Someone gripped her elbow. “Not now, lass,” a man murmured into her ear.

It didn’t occur to her that he’d called her “lass” at that moment. Her hackles were up, and she was itching for a fight. She
wrenched her arm free and shot him a scathing glare over her shoulder.

Then she cast her gaze back to the spectacle before her. The child angel was handing the queen two purple velvet tomes now,
a Bible and a Psalter, and Josselin knew without a doubt that they were Reformer books.

“A fittin’ gift,” the redbeard muttered to his friend, “for the Whore o’ Babylon.”

“Aye,” another added. “’Twill show her she’d best leave the Pope in France.”

“Shut your mouths, ye jackanapes!” Josselin fired back, her blood now seething.

Once more, the man behind her seized her arm, this time more forcefully, hissing in a strong Highland accent, “ ’Tisn’t worth
it, lass.”

Again, she twisted away.

John Knox must be behind this travesty, she decided.
’Twas rumored the Reformer meant to meet with the queen personally very soon in order to challenge her faith. That might be,
but by God, Josselin didn’t intend to let anyone humiliate Mary today.

“Refuse the books, Your Majesty!” she shouted in encouragement over the crowd. “Go on! Toss them away!”

The Highlander made a choking sound. “Cease, lass. Are ye daft? Don’t draw attention—”

The redbeard yelled up at the child suspended from the arch. “ ’Tis no use tryin’ to court Mary, wee angel! She’s already
wed to Rome!”

The men nearby howled with laughter.

Josselin had had enough. ’Twas bad enough that the new queen had to hold her own against the bloody English without having
to deal with detractors among her own countrymen. With a roar, she unsheathed her dagger and faced the redbearded dastard.
“Defend your slander with a blade!”

Behind her, the Highlander swore in exasperation.

But the redbeard took one look at her dagger, threw down his cup of ale, and went for his weapon.

“Aye, that’s it,” Josselin goaded, beckoning him with the fingers of her free hand. “Come on!”

The Highlander stepped suddenly between them to address the drunk. “Ach, man, ye don’t want to be doin’ that.”

“Out o’ my way!” the redbeard bellowed.

“Aye,” Josselin agreed. “Out o’ the way, Highlander, unless ye want to get skewered.”

The Highlander turned to her then, filling her vision and sternly commanding her gaze, and for one stunned instant, she couldn’t
breathe. She hadn’t paid much heed
to him before, but now she saw he had the face of a dark angel—strong yet sweet. His eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever
seen, like the sky on a warm spring day.

His heavy brows lowered as he said pointedly, “Ye can settle this … later.”

The redbeard shoved him aside. “Stay out of it, man. ’Tis between the lad and me.”

Rattled, Josselin nonetheless managed to raise her knife and face her opponent, eager to resume the duel. “No one insults
my queen, ye traitor. Ye’ll answer to me for your offense.”

“Oh, I’ll answer ye,” the redbeard assured her. “I’ll carve a cross into your flesh to remind ye o’ your misbegotten faith.”

“Ye won’t get the chance,” she promised.

“Put your blades away, both o’ ye,” she heard the Highlander mutter. Nobody paid him heed.

They faced off, and the crowd gave them room.

“Sheathe.
Now
,” the Highlander insisted.

She ignored him, waving her dagger at the redbeard like a taunt. But before she could get off a good swipe, the Highlander
stepped toward her.

“Fine,” he said.

She half-wheeled in his direction, thinking he meant to attack her as well. Instead, he snatched the hat from her head. She
gasped as her curls spilled over her shoulders like honey from a crushed comb.

The redbeard’s eyes widened, and he retreated, dropping his knife.

Josselin tossed her head, angry that her secret was out. But she wasn’t about to call off the fight. Her heart was pounding
now, and she was primed for battle.

“What, ye sheep-swiver?” she sneered at the redbeard. “Are ye afraid to fight a woman?” She twirled the dagger once in her
fingers. “Pick it up, coward! Pick up your knife.”

The crowd had suddenly grown quiet.

“What’s wrong with ye?” she challenged. “Is there not a single champion among ye poltroons?” No one moved. “And ye call yourselves
men!” she scoffed. “Who stole your tongues and cut off your cods?”

No one answered. There was nothing but tense misgiving and wide eyes in the faces around her.

She frowned in sudden confusion. Then she realized the entire street had grown silent. ’Twas more than a silence of surprise.
’Twas a silence of warning.

The back of her neck began to tingle with apprehension. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered her dagger and turned toward the procession.

Staring at Josselin from atop her noble white steed, a curious, inscrutable half-smile playing upon her royal lips, was Queen
Mary herself.

J
osselin gulped. As she stood there, breathless, the queen gave her a thorough inspection, perusing her from her tangled blond
hair to her dusty leather boots. After what seemed an eternity, Mary finally passed the Bible and Psalter to her captain,
then waved her fingers in a beckoning motion.

Josselin instinctively started to step forward, but the Highlander dug his fingers hard into her shoulders, holding her back.

Mary’s gesture hadn’t been meant for her, but for one of the royal officials. The distinguished-looking man approached the
queen, who bent to whisper something in his ear, nodding toward Josselin.

While Josselin watched with bated breath, Mary gave her a slight dismissive nod, then urged her mount onward down the road,
and the procession resumed.

Meanwhile, the official straightened his belt and strode directly toward Josselin. The crowd parted to make way for him.

He was French, tall and thin, perhaps a dozen years older than Josselin, and he looked mildly displeased. He
had perceptive brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long nose that he probably found useful for looking down on people.

With a curt nod, he introduced himself. “I am the queen’s secretary, Philipe de la Fontaine. The queen has commanded that
you make yourself known to me. You and I are to have a rendezvous today at The White Hart. You know the place?”

Josselin tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out. Faith, she’d received a command from the queen herself!

The Highlander answered. “I know the inn.”

“Very well,” the secretary said. He gave Josselin a belittling frown. “I expect to see you there this afternoon, Madame …?”

“Josselin,” she managed to croak.

“Zhos-a-lahn,” he repeated, using the French pronunciation. Then he gave her a brief, contemptuous inspection. “See if you
can stay alive long enough to make the appointment.”

The secretary hastened off to catch the royal entourage, and gradually the crowd resumed their chattering. But Josselin’s
pulse was still racing when the Highlander gently pried the dagger from her white knuckles.

“Ye aren’t from around here, are ye, lass?” he murmured.

“Nae,” she answered in a daze. “I’m from Selkirk. Holy saints, did ye see that? Did ye see how she—”

“Who brought ye to Edinburgh?”

She stared in wonder after the procession. “I came alone.”

“Alone?”

“My da said I could,” she said dreamily. The queen was well down the road now, but Josselin kept watching. “As long as I don’t
talk to strangers. Or go to taverns. Or lose my temper.” She smiled. “Ach! Wait till I tell Da that the queen herself—”

“A piece of advice, lass,” he confided. “Hie home to Selkirk straight away.” He scooped up her hat, dusted it off, and pressed
it into her hands. “Ye could be halfway there by afternoon.”

She snapped out of her stupor and frowned up at the man with the dark hair and the clear blue eyes, who really was quite handsome …
for a Highlander. “Home? Why would I want to go home?”

He looked at her as if she were barmy. “Ye aren’t thinkin’ o’ keepin’ the appointment?”

“O’ course I am. The queen herself commanded it.” The sound of that sent a shiver of excitement through her. “The
queen
.” She couldn’t wait to tell her guardians.

He arched a stern brow. “Look, lass, before ye get your trews in a twist, I don’t expect ye’re bein’ invited to supper.”

Supper! That idea hadn’t even occurred to her. Was it possible? She tucked the corner of her lip under her teeth, imagining
it. Then she recalled, “She smiled at me.”

“Royals always smile whilst they’re sharpenin’ their swords.”

She lowered her brows. The damned Highlander was ruining her good mood. “Ach! What would
ye
know?”

“I know ye brought the procession to a halt.” He shook his head. “I don’t imagine the queen’s too pleased about that.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. He had a point. Josselin
had made an impression on the queen. But what if ’twas the wrong impression?

“I did draw a blade,” she admitted.

“Aye.”

“And I
was
brawlin’ in the street.”

She looked at him uncertainly.

“I’ve heard in the French courts,” he said, eyeing her garments, “they even have strict laws about dress.”

She looked down at the overlong hem of her linen shirt, clutching a fistful of it. “Do ye think I offended her?”

He gave her a maddening shrug.

Her shoulders sank. “I didn’t mean to offend her.”

Then she narrowed her gaze at the Highlander.

“This is all
your
fault!” she decided, swatting his chest with her hat. “If ye hadn’t stolen my hat, none o’ this would have happened.”

His lips curled into a smirk that was half-smile, half-frown. “Oh aye, lass. Instead ye’d be wheezin’ at me through a knife
hole in your chest.”

She scowled at him, jamming the hat back over her head. “Ye’ve obviously never seen me fight with a blade.”