MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

  He justified his loitering, saying ’twas foolish to leave while he was on a winning streak.

  He even half convinced himself that simple curiosity compelled him to remain until the date mentioned in the mysterious missive from Queen Mary’s secretary, particularly since the rendezvous was set for a location he knew so well.

  Neither of these were the real reason he was still in Edinburgh. The real reason stood about twenty yards to his left at the edge of the Leith links, serving beer to thirsty Scotsmen.

  He wouldn’t have seriously wagered on seeing Jossy again. Edinburgh was a big city. Jossy was a wee lass. She’d left the inn she was staying in, and no one knew where she’d gone. Probably home like a sensible lass. Even if she hadn’t gone home, Drew imagined the queen’s secretary had more important things to do tomorrow than keep a vague appointment with a lowly tavern wench from Selkirk.

  But the improbable odds hadn’t kept him from loitering about till that date, watching for her on the streets of Edinburgh. And it hadn’t stopped his pulse from quickening at the sight of any wench with long blond tresses.

  Less than an hour ago, he’d decided ’twas an unhealthy obsession, some imagined attraction based on the distorted memory of a kiss that had only seemed to move the earth.

  He’d determined to leave Edinburgh tonight. Today he’d play and beat Leith’s champion, Campbell Muir. Then he’d return to the inn, pack his things, and head north.

  ’Twas for the best, he told himself. The lass had a curious effect on him, and he didn’t much like curious effects. They could interfere with his concentration and throw off his game.

  But to his chagrin, no sooner had he vowed to leave than the lass suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the midst of the Leith course, hawking beer from a wagon to the wagerers at the match. In that instant, all of Drew’s well-laid plans went awry.

  Faith, the lass looked even more beautiful in women’s clothing. She might be small-boned, less than voluptuous, and able to pass for a lad. But she wore no oversized man’s shirt today. Her snugly laced bodice accentuated the subtle curves she possessed. Muted green skirts flared over her gentle hips. And the soft puff of her white linen chemise floated atop her breasts. As he stole a glance, a breeze caught the edge of the sheer fabric, revealing a glimpse of tempting flesh that took his breath away.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she chatted with her customers. Her honey hair, peeking out from the linen coif perched on her head, gleamed in the morning sunlight. Her smile sparkled like a rippling stream. Her eyes shone with merriment and mischief. And his body responded with all the poise of a rutting deer.

  Clenching his teeth against a wave of disconcerting lust, he turned his back, waiting for Muir to start the match.

  The attraction he felt to her was inexplicable. Jossy wasn’t at all what he preferred in a woman. He could list several things that were wrong with her already, and he scarcely knew her.

  First of all, she was Scottish, therefore his enemy.

  Second, she was blond, and he generally favored brunettes.

  Third, she was scrawny, and he liked his women pleasantly plump.

  Fourth, she was headstrong, and everyone knew that headstrong lasses were trouble.

  Fifth…

  “MacAdam.”

  Fifth…

  “MacAdam!”

  “Aye?” he murmured.

  Muir had taken his swing. ’Twas Drew’s turn.

  With a sobering shake of his head, Drew selected his club and placed his ball. But try as he might, he couldn’t focus on his swing. It had nothing to do with the boisterous shouts of encouragement and discouragement fired his way, the aggressive goading and cajoling, the cacophonous praise and insults, or the inevitable shoving that occurred in any crowd of drunks. He was distracted by the comely lass he could glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

  Even his opponent’s secret weapon, the enormous hound Muir had trained to menace his opponents, was no match for Drew’s fixation. Though the dog snapped and barked and lunged at him in deadly threat, ’twasn’t the animal’s antics that interfered with Drew’s drive, but the fact that his gaze kept drifting to the beer wagon.

  He desired the lass. That was all. Surely there was nothing more to his fascination. She was like a beautiful, mysterious, challenging course he had yet to play, a course that, once conquered, would no longer hold appeal for him.

  ’Twas simple then. All he need do to curb his obsession was to give in to it. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, played upon her field and learned the hazards and sweet spots of her particular landscape, he’d doubtless be cured of his lovesickness.

  ’Twas decided then. He’d court the lass.

  He glanced over at the tempting maid, who was tying on her apron, preparing for the incoming onslaught of patrons. He wondered why she was still in Edinburgh, why she’d decided not to return to her sleepy village and her three fathers after all. Had she indeed indentured herself to the queen’s secretary? Was she working off a debt to the crown as a tavern wench?

  While Muir lined up his next shot—his dog presently by his side, as docile as an orphaned lamb—Drew was able to study Jossy further from the refuge of the crowd.

  The lass definitely knew her trade. Not only could she fill a tankard without spilling a drop, but she could take coin for one beer, tempt a man into buying a second, and dance out of a third’s grasp all at the same time.

  “MacAdam, stop droolin’ o’er your next beer,” Muir scolded, “and get your head in the game!”

  The crowd laughed, and at that very moment, Jossy spotted him.

  Chapter 12

  For an instant, time stood still as Josselin stared in disbelief. Then the tankard she was filling overflowed onto her hand.

  “Bloody…” she exclaimed, handing the patron his brimming cup and wiping her hand on her apron. When she ventured a second glance, the Highlander had turned away and was making his way to the next hole.

  Perhaps ’twas only her imagination. Perhaps the golfer had only borne an uncanny resemblance to that other man, she thought as she stared over the heads of the patrons clamoring for beer.

  Nae, she decided, studying the man’s backside as he strode down the green. That was definitely the Highlander’s cocky swagger.

  “Hurry up, wench,” a grizzled merchant grumbled. “They’re movin’ down the course.”

  Josselin bit back a retort, hastily filling the man’s cup and pocketing his coin.

  Tankards were shoved her way as the mob vied to get their cups filled before play resumed. She worked with the fluidity of habit, no sooner topping off one foamy cup before starting another and never dropping a penny as she collected payment.

  Meanwhile, her brain raced in mad circles as she tried to imagine what had happened to cause the Highlander to cross paths with her again.

  The crowd thinned as the onlookers, their cups replenished, scrambled off toward the action. Then a small, wiry man with swarthy skin and fierce, dark eyes came up and expectantly handed her his wooden tankard.

  “Four pence,” she told him, taking the cup and preparing to place it under the tap. But as she turned, her glance snagged on the rim of the cup, into which three curious notches were carved.

  He was her contact.

  Philipe’s instructions had been clear. She was never to acknowledge the contacts by word or deed. She would not learn their names. And she’d do her best to forget their faces. They had the most dangerous tasks of all, and ’twas up to Josselin to protect them.

  So without saying a word, while her back was turned, she reached under the hollowed bottom of the wooden cup. Just as she expected, a folded missive was lodged there, stuck fast to the cup with a blob of wax. She quickly popped the wax loose and tucked the note into the concealed pocket in the waist of her kirtle.

  The missive would be written in some sort of secret code, the encryption of which was a closely guarded secret. It might give times and locations of Reformation mee
tings, provide bits of news about the movements of Knox’s followers, or establish lists of those loyal and disloyal to the queen.

  But the note would appear to be a love letter, something sappy and innocuous that a tavern wench like Josselin might carry about, something that would arouse no suspicion should she be discovered with it.

  Filling his cup from the tap, Josselin returned it to the man and took his coin, but avoided looking at him. ’Twas easier to forget a man’s face if his face wasn’t too familiar.

  He walked away, and already she couldn’t recall the color of his eyes or what he’d been wearing.

  His wasn’t like the face of the Highlander, which seemed burned into her memory, much to her dismay.

  Damn! she thought, briskly swabbing the counter with her rag. She’d figured the Highlander was long gone, halfway to Aberdeen by now, and that she could forget about her lapse in judgment and slip of propriety and focus on her new work.

  But Drew’s mocking grin, laughing eyes, and stormy brow seemed to haunt her at every turn.

  She told herself ’twas because she’d been vulnerable when she’d met him—new to Edinburgh, fresh from her encounter with the queen, caught off-guard by his improper advances.

  But that didn’t explain why she felt the way she did now, why her heart fluttered and her breath stopped at the sight of him, why her blood warmed under his gaze.

  “Ah, ye couldn’t stay away from me, could ye, darlin’?”

  Startled, she stared blankly into the unforgettable grinning face of the Highlander, who had materialized at the beer wagon as if by magic. A golf club was slung across his shoulder, his brow was beaded with sweat, and he was out of breath.

  Hoping he couldn’t see the blush rising in her cheeks, she frowned, muttering, “What are ye doin’ here?”

  “At a beer wagon?” He raised an amused brow as if ’twas obvious. “Well, unless ye’re sellin’ somethin’ besides beer…”

  “Nae, I mean here, at the links?”

  “I’m a golfer. Remember?”

  Remember? Aye, she remembered. Her gaze caught on his lips, lips she remembered all too well, and she felt her blood warm dangerously at the memory. Lord, she had to get rid of the man before she made a wanton fool of herself.

  She held her hand out brusquely. “Your cup.”

  He unbuckled his tankard and placed it in her hand, but didn’t release it immediately, leaning forward to confide, “Ye know, Jossy, all dressed up like a lady, ye’re quite a distraction. Faith, ye’re ruinin’ my game.”

  “Is that so?” She ignored his flattery, snatching his tankard away and raising her chin. “Well, your game might go a wee bit better if ye stayed on the course,” she told him, nodding toward the crowd. “’Tis how ’tis played, I’m told.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as if gauging how much time he had left. “The truth is, darlin’, ye’re much more pleasin’ company.”

  “I’m not your darlin’,” she said, wheeling away to fill his tankard before he could see how his words had rattled her.

  In the distance, she heard cries of “MacAdam! MacAdam!”

  “I think someone’s callin’ ye, MacAdam,” she told him over her shoulder. “Maybe that hound o’ Muir’s wants a bite o’ your Highland arse.”

  “Ach, lass,” he teased, clapping a hand to his heart, “’tis flatterin’ to know ye’re lookin’ after my arse.”

  She bristled. How did he always manage to twist her words against her? She turned back to him, a scathing oath on her lips, but he was already loping away.

  “Your beer!” she yelled after him.

  “I ne’er drink durin’ a match!” he called back.

  She thumped the full tankard down on the counter, slopping foam over her hand. She might not have time for a biting retort, but her gaze nipped at his departing Highland arse all the way across the green.

  She threw down her rag like a challenge. Who did the Highlander think he was? And what was he doing on her course, interfering with her work? He may suppose he had some stake in the links because he could push a wee ball about with a stick, but Josselin was here by royal decree.

  Of course, she couldn’t tell him that. She was sworn to secrecy. Which made the situation unbearable.

  She picked up her rag again and narrowed her eyes at the wicked scoundrel across the course. Ruining his game, was she? He must be a terrible golfer if he was so easily distracted.

  She patted the pocket at her waist. She had the missive now. She could pack up the cart and return with the driver to The White Hart, deliver the missive, and have the casks refilled for her important assignment at Musselburgh tomorrow.

  But the stubborn streak in her, bred of her father’s determination and her mother’s indomitable will, made her decide to stay till the match was over. Drew MacAdam had upset her, thrown her off-balance, and left her feeling like a tongue-tied fool. She rather relished the thought of seeing him humiliated by the Leith champion.

  She picked up the brimming cup, saluted the irksome Highlander with a mock toast, then downed half the beer. Only when she wiped the foam from her mouth did she remember the tankard she’d put her lips all over was Drew’s.

  Chapter 13

  Now that he’d confronted the lass who’d been dogging his thoughts, now that the seeds of seduction had been planted, Drew could focus on his game. He was already behind by four strokes, and nervous gamblers who’d bet on him to win were starting to mutter about withdrawing their wagers. But if anyone could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, ’twas Drew MacAdam.

  First he made quick work of Campbell Muir’s hound. Before his next drive, Drew turned and growled at the dog with such menace that the beast whimpered, tucked his tail betwixt his legs, and lay silent for the rest of the game.

  As for his golfing, Muir might have grown up on the shores of Leith, but Drew knew the course like the back of his hand. Soon he was making up for lost strokes and hitting improbable drives that would be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns tonight.

  ’Twas only when they’d reversed their way through the course and climbed the shallow hill in its midst that Drew spied the beer wagon again. He’d half expected Jossy to be gone.

  Courting a lass who pretended to despise him was going to be a challenge. Still, she’d told him herself she wasn’t the kind of woman to flee in fear. Nor was Drew the kind of man to walk away from a difficult course.

  When he got close enough to detect the hostile cross of her arms, the smug tilt of her chin, and the haughty arch of her brow, he decided ’twas time to show the lass what he was made of, to reveal his talents and earn a place, both in her heart and in the important match tomorrow.

  He shaded his eyes, pretending to study the distant hole. “Ach! I’ve spit farther than that!” he announced, loud enough for Jossy to hear. “That hardly warrants a longnose. I could make the distance in three strokes of a fairway club and sink it in four,” he bragged, setting off a flurry of fresh single-hole wagering.

  “And would ye be backin’ that boast with coin o’ your own, MacAdam?” Muir challenged.

  “Let’s make it a gentleman’s wager. If ye win, Muir, I’ll buy ye a beer.”

  All parties seemed satisfied, and Drew crouched to dribble sand into a pile for his tee.

  What Drew neglected to reveal was that he planned to lose the wager. And when he did, Muir would collect his brimming tankard of beer, gulp it down like any manly, self-respecting Scot, and move on to the next hole, where Drew would again overestimate his abilities, wager Muir a tankard of beer, and intentionally lose.

  In three more holes, Muir would be as drunk as a mackerel, lucky to connect with the ball at all, and Drew, while losing his single-hole wagers, would make up the strokes on the last holes and win the match by a mile. Best of all, Josselin from Selkirk would see just who held court on the Leith links.

  Josselin smiled to herself. All the Highlander’s bluster would only make his trouncing that much sweeter. She wondered how
long his self-satisfied grin would last when he tasted bitter defeat.

  She didn’t know much about golf, just that grown men with nothing more productive to do chased wooden balls with sticks through fields, trying to force them into rabbit holes. It seemed a ludicrous preoccupation. But the fervid wagering that accompanied the pointless game was even more inane. And now that the Highlander had made that incredible boast, the stakes had been whipped up to a ridiculous frenzy.

  Drew’s club made a loud crack as it struck. The ball shot like a cannonball across the green. The crowd exclaimed in surprise.

  Josselin shook her head. She might have known the Highlander was too ham-fisted for his own good. He’d probably send the ball into the firth with his next drive.

  Muir clipped his ball, and it veered slightly to the left, quite short of the hole.

  As he made his second drive, Muir belched, setting off an animated argument about whether the stroke should count. It did.

  Drew’s second swing was less forceful than his first, and he managed to place his ball within a respectable distance of his target.

  Muir swung again, and his ball rolled to a spot near the rough. Two short drives got him within putting range.

  With careful control, in two more strokes, Drew also tapped his ball to within a few feet of the hole.

  Muir scored in two putts.

  Drew took two as well, which left him one point closer to Muir, but disappointed those who’d wagered on his single-hole boast, leaving them groaning.

  Josselin shook her head. ’Twould teach the braggart. Now he’d disappointed his supporters, and he owed Muir a beer. And when Drew came loping up to buy that beer, she couldn’t resist pointing out his mistake.

  “Ye were right,” she told him. “Highlanders can’t count for shite.”

  “Are ye sure, love?” he asked, giving her a wink. “Seems to me I’m catchin’ up.”