MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

The youth was one of the Four Maries. She was sure of it. In fact, after careful inspection, she spotted all four of the queen’s ladies in masculine garb, scattered among the men.

  Philipe had told her that the queen liked Josselin’s attire. Had Josselin inspired the women to disguise themselves?

  She smiled in wonder. Most of the group of golfers and gamblers had no idea that their ranks had been infiltrated by women, and none of them knew they stood among royalty.

  Then she noticed the tall, handsome, gangly youth in the scuffed black doublet, baggy brown trews, and feathered cap, and her smile grew even wider.

  Chapter 16

  Drew couldn’t stop grinning as he strode across the green. ’Twas mad, he knew, but matching wits with the wee blonde with the reckless temper, flashing eyes, and wicked tongue was almost as exciting as matching strokes with opponents in golf. The beautiful spitfire gave as good as she got, and ’twas a pleasure to tangle with a woman who was so bright and full of fire.

  He’d been right about the rendezvous at Musselburgh. Standing in the midst of the crowd, right on schedule, was Philipe de la Fontaine. But why was he meeting Jossy at the links? Certainly not for a tryst.

  Retrieving his ball and clubs, Drew made his way to the start of the course, where the contestants and spectators were gathering.

  Today Drew would face off against the champion of Carnoustie. The purse was sizeable, and there were sure to be scores of enthusiasts gambling on the outcome. Already the green teemed with a motley crowd—noblemen, servants, soldiers, apprentices, merchants, men young and old, rich and not so rich—all eager to increase their wealth.

  ’Twasn’t difficult to discern which man was his rival. Dressed in a dapper green doublet with slashed sleeves in the German style, his shock of white hair tucked under a black cap with a white feather, the man held court at the tee, regaling his slack-jawed admirers with legendary tales of his triumphs on the links. The man was a born storyteller, reenacting some of his swings with such enthusiasm that he nearly whacked several bystanders who wandered too close.

  Indeed, ’twas one of those near misses that alerted Drew to the scrawny youth who gave a peculiar squeak as he dodged out of the club’s way.

  Drew studied the young man as the fellow moved through the crowd, then stopped to talk to another youth. Something wasn’t quite right about him. In fact, neither of the lads looked right. Despite being full-grown, they had not a hint of a beard between them, and their faces were as pink and sweet as peaches. Their behavior was strange, too. Their glances were secretive and suspicious, as if they were up to mischief.

  The truth finally smacked him in the forehead. They weren’t lads. They were lasses disguised as lads.

  Marry, ’twas like a contagion!

  Was there a shortage of proper gowns in Scotland? Were females infiltrating the men’s ranks to spy on them? Or was this a backlash to John Knox’s fashionable denigration of women? Maybe ’twas true what Drew’s uncles claimed—that the Scots sent lasses into battle—because they didn’t realize they were lasses.

  Whatever the reason, Drew found it curious that no other men seemed to notice there were females among them.

  Drew waited politely until his opponent finished demonstrating his dramatic final putt from yesterday’s game to approach and offer his hand. “Drew MacAdam.”

  “Ronald Metz.”

  The man had a firm handshake, a wide smile, and a gleam in his eye that said, I’d be delighted to pummel you.

  Drew nodded in greeting, fairly confident he was not going to be pummeled today.

  He was right. Metz was good. He was obviously a seasoned golfer. But Drew was better. He had youth on his side—a smooth, powerful swing that allowed him to place the ball precisely where he wanted it.

  He also had a secret incentive. As childish as ’twas, Drew intended to make Jossy eat her words. She’d discounted him as a cheat. He’d prove otherwise. There was nothing like the prospect of gloating to inspire one’s performance. So he saved his most impressive shots for the green in front of the beer wagon, where Jossy would be sure to hear the gasps of disbelief and congratulatory cheers from the crowd.

  At the seventh hole, the contestants took a break, and servants were sent to fetch beer for the thirsty spectators.

  Meanwhile, Drew kept a watch on Philipe, who remained behind with the nobles. The secretary hadn’t yet openly acknowledged Jossy. Drew wondered what the man was up to, why he’d ordered this mysterious rendezvous if he was bent on ignoring the lass.

  By the last hole, the game was close enough to generate a continuous cacophony of threats, bets, and cursing from gamblers, detractors, supporters, and drunks. Drew didn’t care. He’d learned from his training with a sword to block outside distractions, to go in for the kill.

  When he gently nudged the ball into the hole with his putting cleek, half the crowd erupted in cheers, and half of them turned the air hot with their swearing.

  He grinned. He’d won by a stroke.

  And now Jossy owed him an apology.

  “Victory for the Highlander!” somebody crowed.

  “Brilliant, MacAdam!”

  “Fine game, lad.”

  Metz dispiritedly extended his hand. “Well played, MacAdam,” he grumbled.

  Drew shook his hand and beamed with Highland charm. “’Twas an honor to play ye, Metz. Your golfin’ exploits are legendary.” ’Twasn’t entirely true, but Drew had been listening to them all morn, and his praise seemed to take the edge off of Metz’s disappointment.

  “Sir, Ambrose Scott,” a tall lad in the crowd said by way of introduction, offering his hand to Drew. “I’d like to buy the champion a pint, if ye’ll allow me.”

  If Drew was rattled by the youth’s offer, he wasn’t about to show it. And he knew better than to turn it down. After all, one didn’t refuse beer from the Queen of Scotland.

  Chapter 17

  “Nae,” Josselin whispered in horror. Her heart thudded like a mallet on an empty beer cask as the crowd swarmed toward her. “Nae.”

  That was not the Highlander approaching with a smug, I-just-won-the-championship grin on his face. And that was not Queen Mary walking beside him.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Curse Drew MacAdam! He was going to ruin everything. She’d told Philipe that the Highlander meant nothing to her. If Drew started flapping his jaws about his acquaintance with Josselin, Philipe would think she’d violated his trust. And if the lout said anything unseemly to the queen…

  Ballocks. Drew probably didn’t even know she was the queen. Nobody seemed to recognize her. There was no telling what secrets he’d let slip.

  This was going to be disastrous.

  Wiping her palms anxiously on her apron, she searched for Philipe. Perhaps she should tell him the truth about her acquaintance with the Highlander and warn Philipe before Drew could do any harm.

  But the secretary was walking in the opposite direction, highly distracted, conversing with another nobleman.

  She was on her own.

  It took a great deal of her willpower not to address the queen as Your Majesty, not to reveal that she knew Mary’s secret, to treat her simply as one of the townfolk. It took the rest of her willpower not to wallop Drew MacAdam as he came smiling up to the beer wagon, clearly basking in his victory.

  Josselin did her best to ignore Drew, but ’twas nearly impossible, especially when the queen issued a startling request.

  In a throaty voice with a flawless Scots accent, Mary told her, “I’d like to buy a pint for the champion.” She held out a hand to Drew for his tankard.

  Josselin felt like all the air had been sucked from her lungs. The queen wished to buy Drew a beer?

  Appalled, she glanced at Drew, who grinned as he surrendered his cup.

  Josselin knew very well who that gloating grin was for, and she longed to smack it right off his face. But she didn’t dare deny the queen, who held out Drew’s tankard to be filled.

  “O’
course,” she said between clenched teeth, taking the cup.

  As she filled it, Josselin forced herself to take several calming breaths. ’Twould not do for the queen to see how upset she was. But she had to think of some way to get Drew away from her before he said something foolish.

  “So, Ambrose, are ye a golfer?” Drew asked Mary.

  Like that.

  Josselin stiffened. The queen, a golfer? ’Twas a stupid question, like asking King Henry VIII if he’d ever been married.

  “I’ve been known to toddle about a course now and then,” the queen said.

  ’Twas an understatement. Everyone knew Mary was an avid sportswoman. She played tennis, hunted, rode, golfed. Faith, she could probably best the Highlander in a caber toss.

  “Indeed?” Drew asked.

  Josselin didn’t like the speculative tone of his voice.

  “Aye,” Mary replied. “But I’ve never played such a marvelous course.”

  “Playin’ Musselburgh is like wooin’ a fair maid,” he confided. “It requires a firm hand, but a gentle touch.”

  “Wooin’ a maid? Then I should do quite well,” Mary asserted, which sent her disguised ladies into fits of suppressed giggling. “In fact, sir, I wager I could conquer just about any hole with my great club,” she boasted suggestively, “and in fewer strokes than ye.”

  Josselin nearly dropped Drew’s tankard as laughter erupted over Ambrose’s ribald remark.

  “Could ye now?” Drew replied with a chuckle.

  “Aye, and if ye’re willin’, I’d like the chance to prove it, here and now. Let’s play the Hollow Hole, ye and me.”

  “Now?” Drew asked in surprise. “But ’twould hardly be fair. Ye’ve never played here, and—”

  “No matter. We’ll make it a gentleman’s bet, a penny to the winner. What say ye?”

  The crowd was already chattering in excitement, placing their own wagers on the spontaneous match.

  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully, shaking his head. “I really can’t…”

  Josselin turned on him with wordless fury. Was he going to refuse? Refuse the queen? How dared he?

  She shoved his beer at his chest and shot him a glare as fierce, pointed, and powerful as lightning.

  Drew frowned, disconcerted. When he tried to take the tankard from Jossy, she wouldn’t let go. He watched her, trying to discern the ferocious message she was sending with her gaze.

  He deepened his frown until she finally gave him an infinitesimal nod. She obviously wanted him to agree to the challenge.

  “Can’t? Or won’t?” the queen asked slyly, setting off a deluge of taunts and dares from the spectators, who were already neck-deep in wagering.

  Drew looked quizzically at Jossy. Didn’t she realize the young man was Queen Mary? Surely she didn’t want an uncouth Highlander tangling with her beloved sovereign.

  But the determined glint in Jossy’s eyes told him ’twas exactly what she wanted.

  ’Twas mad, he knew, but he let Jossy win. He smirked in surrender, and she let him have the tankard.

  He raised his cup to the crowd. “I meant to say I really can’t,” he amended, “turn down such a temptin’ offer.”

  The crowd cheered, and Jossy sighed in relief.

  Drew shook his head and set his beer down on the counter.

  “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.”

  Chapter 18

  Josselin 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 watc
hing 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.