MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

  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.

  Chapter 19

  Drew 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.”

  He grabbed her hand, and she gasped. “’Tis, if ye come to harm because of it.”

  She tugged back in protest, but not hard enough, he noticed, to pull free.

  “Ye needn’t worry about me,” she said sulkily. “I can manage on my own.”

  “In Selkirk ye could manage on your own. But this is Edinburgh. Ye’re dealin’ with powerful, dangerous folk—folk who could have ye imprisoned for life or burned at the stake or torn, limb from limb, as a traitor.”

  Damn! His assertion made him shudder. He should heed his own warning. If a wee lass from Selkirk was in danger, how much more at risk was an Englishman?

  “I’m no traitor,” she assured him.

  Her misplaced confidence was frustrating. “’Tisn’t the point. Royals are always negotiatin’ loyalty on a whim and inventin’ treason where there is none.”

  “Not Mary.”

&
nbsp; “Mary isn’t a power unto herself. She’s beholden to lairds and clerics and kings in faraway lands. She’s likely not even privy to the details o’ your arrangement with Philipe.”

  Philipe might be working for the queen, but he probably wouldn’t hesitate to manipulate any negotiations to his own benefit.

  “We have no arrangement,” she insisted, pulling her hand free, “other than his offer of employment.”

  He didn’t believe her for a moment. Nobody coerced a tavern wench to sign a document for work.

  “Employment,” she continued, “I’m grateful to have. Not many can say they’ve served beer to a queen.”

  “Neither can ye,” he pointed out, “not without revealin’ her identity. Is that what ye signed? An oath o’ secrecy?”

  “’Tisn’t your affair what I signed,” she snapped, though she seemed more anxious than angry. “We have no further business, ye and me. I’m goin’ to keep hawkin’ beer, and ye can run along and do your golfin’ elsewhere.”

  Lord, she was a tyrant. “I’ll do my golfin’ where I please, darlin’,” he said with a laugh.

  “Well, ye’d better stay clear o’ my beer wagon.”

  He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Ye’re a bossy minx. And an ungrateful wench.”

  “And just what should I be grateful for, knave? That ye grabbed me and had your way with me?”

  “Had my way with ye?” He chuckled, which made her blush. “If I’d had my way with ye, love,” he murmured ruefully, pinning her with a smoky gaze, “ye’d be flat on your back beside that last hole.”

  Chapter 20

  Josselin never wanted to see Drew MacAdam again. Not after what he’d said to her yesterday. He was a nasty-mouthed, heavy-handed, swaggering cad, sticking his nose—and his lips—where they didn’t belong.

  She should have slapped him for his ribald remark, and she told herself if she hadn’t been so overwrought by the events of the day, she would have.

  But he’d bid her a swift, mocking farewell before she could gather her wits, and she’d only been able to stare after him in open-mouthed outrage.

  She kicked a wooden block under the wheel of the beer wagon, then whipped out a rag, angrily scrubbing the plank of her makeshift counter and shooing a fly that was buzzing around the tap.

  Then she forced herself to take a deep, settling breath. This morn she had to focus on the task at hand and forget about that wayward Highlander. With any luck, he’d moved on to Cockenzie or Leith or St. Andrews, miles from Musselburgh, and she’d be free of his brain-muddling distraction.

  Taking Philipe’s instructions to heart and keen to distinguish herself by identifying and capturing a spy for the queen, Josselin had arrived before the players this morn, and as the first group approached, she scoured their ranks for suspicious characters.

  ’Twas only an hour before she received a tankard with three notches along the lip. Without blinking an eye, she filled the cup and pried loose the note affixed underneath. But when she turned to hand the brimming cup back to its owner, her gaze drifted past his head to the man grinning behind him, and she almost spilled the beer.

  Collecting herself, she managed to successfully pass the tankard to her target. Then she faced the troublemaking Highlander, crossed her arms over her madly pounding heart, and gave him her fiercest scowl.

  They spoke simultaneously.

  “What the hell are ye doin’ here?” she demanded.

  “Are ye stalkin’ me, lass?” he asked.

  Her arms fell out of their fold. “Stalkin’ ye!” she spat, brusquely snatching away the next customer’s tankard. “Don’t be a swollen-headed arse.”

  “’Tis the thimble I promised ye, isn’t it?” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ye didn’t have to come after me for it, darlin’. I’d have found a way to—”

  “Please!” she scoffed, waving the tankard at him. “Do ye think I’d drive a beer wagon all the way from Edinburgh to Musselburgh for a paltry thimble?”

  “Well, if ye didn’t come for the thimble, then ye must have come to see me,” he concluded with a grin.

  The curious bystanders, who’d been watching their discourse with interest, murmured in agreement and turned to see her response.

  Giving the smug cad a long, withering glare, she silently counted to three.

  The man whose tankard she held broke the silence. “Pardon me, but could I have my—”

  “Look. Highlander,” she bit out, punctuating her words with jabs of the tankard. “I’m runnin’ a beer wagon. I didn’t come for the bloody thimble. And I certainly didn’t come for ye. Just because we shared a kiss or two—”

  “Three,” he corrected.

  “Fine. Three.”

  “Ye shared three kisses?” one of the crowd asked.

  She lowered the tankard. “It doesn’t matter how many kisses—”

  “In some parts o’ the Highlands,” another onlooker said, “a kiss is as good as a betrothal, and three kisses—”

  “Ach, for the love o’ Saint Peter!” she said, throwing up her hands and glaring at the crowd. “Can ye not mind your own affairs? This isn’t the Highlands, and I’m not his damned betrothed. Aye, I kissed him thrice. But I’ll bloody well ne’er do it again.”

  There was a long silence, and Josselin lifted her chin, satisfied her point had been made.

  Then someone from the back of the crowd said, “Five shillin’s says he gets a fourth kiss,” and the air was suddenly filled with counter wagers.

  Josselin’s jaw dropped in utter amazement. She’d never seen a mob so eager to gamble as the men who attended golf matches. And they seemed willing to wager on almost anything.

  A fourth kiss? Were they mad? Couldn’t they see how she despised Drew MacAdam? Marry, she found the man so despicable that she could hardly breathe properly in his presence.

  He caught her eye then, and to her surprise he gave her a sheepish smile, as if apologizing for the crowd’s behavior. Flustered, she turned away to fill the empty tankard.

  By the time she finished the task and gave the man his beer, most of the horde had become distracted by an arriving golfer and had wandered off, already wagering on the outcome of the game.

  But Drew was still standing at the counter. He was frowning down at an unfolded scrap of paper in his hands.

  Suddenly, Josselin’s heart slammed against her ribs. She slipped her thumb into the hidden pocket of her skirt. The spy’s missive wasn’t there. Hell, she’d never tucked it away. She hadn’t had a chance. She’d gotten distracted by…

  The Highlander looked up and caught her eye.

  She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she detected a grim cast to his normally mocking gaze.

  Panicked, she snatched the note from him.

  “What the devil do ye think ye’re doin’?” she demanded, so mortified that her hands were shaking as she folded the missive and tucked it into the top of her bodice.

  “Just returnin’ your note.”

  “Ye weren’t returnin’ it. Ye were readin’ it.”

  He snorted. “Ye know Highlanders can’t read.”

  “Then how did ye know ’twas mine?”

  He shrugged. “I saw ye drop it.”

  Flustered by her own carelessness, she blurted out, “Well, maybe ye shouldn’t be watchin’ my every move.”

  “And maybe ye should hold more tightly to your love letters.”

  She stiffened. If he couldn’t read, how did he know ’twas a love letter? She glanced up, meeting his eyes.

  In an instant, his grin returned. “’Tis the second one ye’ve dropped at my feet,” he teased.

  But Josselin was almost certain that in that split-second before he smiled, she’d seen something entirely different in his gaze.

  Something all too perceptive.

  Chapter 21

  Disappointment.

  That was what Drew felt as he turned his back on Jossy and walked across the green to meet his opponent.

  �
��Twas foolish. How could he be disappointed when he had no right to expect anything of the lass? She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t owe him anything. In fact, she didn’t particularly care for him. At least that was what her words said. Her lips, however…

  Curse the Fates, he thought, kicking at a loose chunk of sod. He was bewitched by the wee willful wench. And, according to the letter she’d just tucked into that lovely crevice betwixt her breasts, so was someone else.

  He’d only skimmed the thing. But it had begun with “My dearest Josselin” and ended with “Your worshipful Duncan.” Scattered between were words like “kisses,” “heaven,” “yearning,” and “quench.”

  ’Twas sickening, such flowery, sugar-sweet language. Indeed, it surprised him that a woman as forthright as Jossy would lap up such honey. But he’d seen her place the sappy declaration next to her heart.

  He told himself ’twas no matter. If the lass was so shallow she’d succumb to such empty flattery and overwrought promises, then perhaps the fawning Duncan deserved her.

  But that wasn’t how he felt. He felt disappointed.

  He’d never met anyone quite like Jossy.

  She seemed, in a word, genuine.

  She had a wild spirit and a startling frankness, an unwavering loyalty and audacious ambition. He liked her strength—the way she’d stood up to the drunk on The Royal Mile, scolded the gossips in the alley, and challenged him.

  Even her weaknesses were honest—blushing when he touched her, gasping when he said something to shock her, melting in his arms when he kissed her.

  Jossy’s every response—whether ’twas anger or pride, fear or satisfaction, shame or desire—was genuine.

  The fact that she had a secret lover was contrary to everything he’d believed about her.