MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

  ’Twas partially true. He was hungry. But he also wanted to check on Jossy. The other two hadn’t seen the way she’d looked at that golfer. Prying her out of the lad’s grasp might not be as easy as Angus and Alasdair imagined. If Will made an appearance at the inn tonight, Jossy would know her fathers were watching over her, and she’d be mentally prepared to leave with them in the morn.

  The instant he pushed through the door, however, and scanned the interior of the tavern from beneath his lowered cap, he realized that once again he’d arrived too late.

  The three older Englishmen sat around a table near the fire, frowning into their ale, but Josselin and the golfer were nowhere to be seen.

  The men glanced up briefly when Will walked in, then resumed their grumbling.

  The innkeeper finished poking at a log on the fire, then looked over. “I hope ’tisn’t lodging you want,” he said, clapping the ashes from his hands. “We’re full up.”

  “Just supper,” Will mumbled.

  He cast an uncomfortable glance up the stairs. ’Twas probably best he hadn’t brought his sword. He might have done something foolish, like charge up the steps, fling open the door, and murder the bloody English bastard who was up there with Jossy, doing God knew what.

  The moment Drew shut the chamber door behind them, Josselin whirled on him.

  “I’ll have ye know I’m not sorry for what I said,” she stiffly informed him, adding under her breath, “though I am sorry I said it so loudly.”

  He grinned as he unbuckled his swordbelt and leaned his sword against the wall. “’Twas worth every penny. You were brilliant.”

  “Well, they bloody well deserved it,” she decided, though she was cursing herself for losing her temper. If his uncles hadn’t intended to turn her in before, they certainly had cause to now.

  “Faith, their bark is worse than their bite,” Drew said, setting his satchel of clubs against the bed. “As fierce as they seem, they mean well. They always have. God’s truth, if ’tweren’t for them, I would’ve had no upbringing at all.”

  “Are ye defendin’ their cruelty?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Not their cruelty, but their intent.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and began pulling off his boots. “They may blame the Scots for what happened to my father, but they also believe he was weak, that that was why he…why he died. So they’ve always been stern with me, hoping to make me a stronger man than he was.”

  “Stern?” she said in outrage. “Is that what ye call it?” She frowned, pacing off her ire. “I think they’re vicious. And connivin’. And spiteful. My fathers would never have spoken to me about my mother like that.”

  “You’re a lass.”

  “Ach! My fathers paid no mind to that. They raised me like a son.” She shook her head in disgust. “But your uncles, they’ve treated ye worse than a hound.”

  He chuckled. “Take care, lass. You’re coming dangerously close to defending your enemy.”

  She stopped pacing.

  Hell, he was right. Why should she care how Drew’s uncles treated him? He was English. The whole lot of them were. Bloody ruthless English bastards.

  She sniffed. “I’m not defendin’ ye. If I were defendin’ ye, I would have run them through.”

  He smirked. “Then ’tis lucky for them we’re foes.”

  “And what about ye?” she challenged. “Ye lied for me.”

  “Aye.” He shrugged out of his doublet and hung it on the peg beside the bed.

  “Ye knew I could read. And now ye know I’m a…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “A spy.”

  He lifted a bemused brow.

  She repeated, “Yet ye lied for me.”

  He shrugged. “I swore I’d keep you safe.”

  “Ye made that vow,” she pointed out, “before ye knew what I was.”

  ”True.” He loosened the laces of his shirt.

  Josselin frowned, perplexed. “We’re enemies,” she reiterated.

  “Are we?” He smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

  Damn it all, when he looked at her like that, she couldn’t think straight. “That doesn’t matter. Ye can’t turn your back on your blood and your breedin’. Our forebears have been foes for far too long to…”

  He pulled his shirt over his head, and at the sight of his bare chest, all her thoughts flew straight out of her head.

  “Aye?” he asked.

  She blinked. Faith, he was half-naked. How had he come to such a state of undress?

  “What are ye doin’?” she demanded.

  He smirked and reached up to hang his shirt on top of his doublet. “I’m going to bed. What are you doing?”

  She felt the blood rise in her cheeks. “But ye can’t… I won’t… I can’t share a bed with ye.”

  “You did before,” he pointed out.

  “Aye, but that was before I knew ye were my sworn enemy.”

  He shrugged. “Fine.”

  ”Fine?”

  “Aye. Fine. Then you can sleep on the floor.”

  “What?”

  “Look, ‘wife,’” he said, “I’ve been traveling for three days and have yet to get a good night’s rest.” He grabbed the pillow, punched it a few times, then stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. “I’m not about to be robbed of sleep by your prejudices.” He closed his eyes.

  Her jaw dropped. “I’m not your wife. I don’t care what ye told the innkeeper. I’ll not share a bed with—”

  “Or your offended sensibilities.”

  Fuming, she scoured the chamber, looking for another place to sleep. There was none.

  Without opening his eyes, the cocky varlet patted the mattress beside him in invitation.

  With a glower that would melt iron and a string of curses that would have earned her a scolding from her fathers, she flounced onto the bed. Her only satisfaction was his grunt of displeasure when she yanked the pillow from beneath his head and appropriated it for herself.

  And even that was short-lived. A moment later, he shackled her to his wrist. She couldn’t blame him. At the moment, she’d like nothing better than to find her dagger and run him through.

  Chapter 38

  “Jossy!”

  Drew’s eyes flew open at the distant sound of someone shouting. In the dim light of dawn, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Then the naked leg draped possessively over his thigh brought a river of memories racing back, and he smiled.

  Jossy was still asleep. Her lashes lay softly on her cheek. Her hair rested like a golden halo upon the pillow. Her lips looked as sweet as berries. And she was snoring like a mastiff.

  He must have been dreaming. He thought he’d heard someone calling for…

  “Jossy!”

  That time Jossy stirred. “What?” she croaked, still half-asleep.

  Drew sat up. His heart pounded.

  ’Twas a man calling her, and ’twas coming from downstairs. Who could it be? Not his uncles. But who else knew her by name? Who else knew she was here? The innkeeper! Had he pocketed their generous coin and sent for the authorities anyway?

  “Jossy!” ’Twas insistent this time.

  She sat up abruptly, scrubbing at her eyes, and opened her mouth to answer.

  He clapped a hand over her mouth and pushed her back down to the pillow.

  She reacted as he expected, twisting and thrashing against him, her eyes wide with outrage.

  “Jossy!” the voice bellowed. “Come down!”

  “Who is that?” Drew whispered, more to himself than to Jossy.

  She answered him with a bite.

  He swore and yanked back his injured palm. But when she took a breath to yell, he stuffed the first thing he could find into her mouth, and she got a face full of coverlet.

  “Shh, Jossy!” he said. “It might be someone looking to hurt you.”

  She squirmed under his weight and, as much as she was able, shook her head as if to say nay.

&nb
sp; “Do you know who ’tis?”

  She nodded.

  “Jossy!” came the shout. This time ’twas several men’s voices.

  He cursed under his breath. God’s blood! Was the whole Scots army downstairs?

  Jossy began struggling in earnest.

  “You know them?” he asked again.

  She nodded furiously.

  He frowned at her, trying to deduce who could possibly know Jossy was here. Then he realized she was fighting him, not in fear, but in rage. She wasn’t afraid of whoever was downstairs.

  Nay, it couldn’t be, he thought, refusing the first thought that sprang to mind. ’Twas impossible. They couldn’t have followed her all the way from Selkirk. Nonetheless, he had to ask. “’Tisn’t your fathers, is it?”

  Her uncertain hesitation gave her away.

  “Ah, shite.”

  He wasn’t sure what was worse—one vexed innkeeper with a handful of local authorities or three angry fathers.

  Before he could decide, he heard heavy footfalls going past the door and charging down the steps. ’Twas his uncles, he was sure, awakened by the bellows of rage. And they’d probably like nothing better this morn than to spill Scots blood.

  Jossy chose that moment to drive her knee up into his belly, and he wheezed in pain. But he wasn’t about to let her go. The last thing she needed was to get herself trapped between a bunch of old fools’ blades.

  “I’m sorry, Jossy,” he rasped, “but ’tis for your own good. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt them. I swear.”

  Then, as much as he regretted having to do it, he unlocked his manacle and secured her to the bottom leg of the bed, then gagged her with torn bedsheets. ’Twas as challenging as wrestling a wildcat, and he had the scratches and bites to prove it.

  The sound of indistinct shouting floated up the stairs. Drew quickly shrugged into his shirt. He had no sword. He’d given it back to Simon. But a fairway club would do in a pinch. He selected his sturdiest from the satchel, tested it against his palm, and sent Jossy one last reassuring look.

  She gave him such a scorching glare that he felt the burn of it on his skin. When the ring of steel on steel began belowstairs, she rattled her shackles with unfettered rage and screamed in fury behind the gag.

  Drew gently closed the door on her.

  ’Twasn’t quite the bloodbath he was expecting. The six men appeared to be equally matched. And equally rusty. Meanwhile, the enraged innkeeper was hastily stashing his breakables under the counter.

  As soon as Drew appeared on the stairs, a burly, bearded Scotsman called him out.

  “That one’s mine!” the man shouted, heading up the steps.

  Drew met him on the stairs and easily deflected the man’s first wild slashes with his golf club.

  “What have ye done with her?” the man snarled. “What have ye done with my Jossy?”

  “She’s safe,” Drew told him.

  The old man jabbed forward, and Drew knocked his blade aside.

  “Then let her go,” he growled.

  “Nay, not now,” Drew said, dodging slashes and holding his place on the stairs. “I’m not about to open that door.” He glanced around the inn. “Not while…this…is going on.”

  The man hesitated in his attack and glanced toward the room where Jossy was. Drew was certain if Jossy’s da had followed her all the way from Selkirk, he must love her very much. And the man doubtless knew how reckless and impulsive Jossy could be.

  “I trust we understand each other?” Drew asked him.

  The man pursed angry lips, but gave him a curt nod. “But if ye’ve touched one hair on the lass’s head…”

  Drew didn’t know how to answer that. He’d touched far more than one hair. “I haven’t hurt her. I can promise you that.”

  The man didn’t look pleased, but at least the murderous intent was gone from his eyes.

  “Now if we’re agreed,” Drew said, “I think we should go downstairs before somebody draws blood. My poor lame uncle’s getting a fair walloping from your man there, and the innkeeper looks ready to dismember someone.”

  The man nodded, and they joined the melee, which for Drew was an exercise in strategy as he tried to make sure no one came to harm on either side.

  The old men fatigued rapidly, and Drew hoped ’twould not be much longer till they could end the fight and maybe even talk things out like reasonable gentlemen.

  Josselin narrowed her eyes to cold slits. If that son of an English doxy thought he’d leave her trussed up, helpless, while he did battle with her three fathers, he’d sadly underestimated her. He might have sworn not to harm them, but his bloodthirsty uncles had made no such promise. And she’d be damned if she’d sit back and wait for her fathers to be slaughtered.

  It took patience, persistence, and strength, but she managed to escape. She dropped to the floor and squeezed beneath the heavy oak bed frame, levering it up with her shoulder and lifting the leg of the bed just high enough off the floor to free the shackle.

  After that, ’twas quick work to untie her gag and reclaim her weapon from among Drew’s things. Wishing that she had a proper sword instead of a dagger, she nonetheless stormed out the door and rushed down the stairs, eager for battle.

  The tavern was a mess of overturned tables and broken chairs. Fists flew, blades whistled, and crockery smashed against the wall. The air was thick with grunts and groans, battle cries and vile oaths.

  Thankfully her fathers were alive and well. Angus was the first one to spot her, and when he saw she had no sword, he tossed his weapon to her.

  “Here, lass!” he shouted above the din. “Take my blade! Avenge your mother!”

  She tossed her dagger to her shackled hand and caught the sword in her right. All at once, ’twas as if Angus’s words had imbued the blade with otherworldly power, a power that seeped from the hilt into her veins, giving her the heart of her warrior mother and firing her blood with a thirst for vengeance.

  Pumped full of the rage she was born to, Josselin raised her blade high. “For my mother! For the Maid of Ancrum Moor!”

  She brought the sword down with a mighty sweep between Angus and Simon, intending to take over for Angus. But Simon instantly stopped fighting. He looked at her in horror and dropped his weapon to the ground.

  “Coward!” she spat, turning in disgust to take on Robert, who had been battling Will. But Robert, too, was only staring at her with his jaw slack, and he tossed away his sword as if ’twere a poisonous snake.

  “Come on!” she yelled. “Fight me!”

  She looked over at Thomas, who’d been dueling with Alasdair. He stood frozen, his blade lowered. At her glare, he blinked and let the weapon fall.

  “Have ye all lost your ballocks?” she cried.

  The room fell silent. The English stood with their mouths agape. Her fathers frowned in confusion. And Drew, who was gripping his golf club with white knuckles, was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.

  Chapter 39

  A hard lump lodged in the pit of Drew’s stomach, and he felt sick.

  Surely he’d heard wrong. Surely she hadn’t said Ancrum.

  But the pieces fit. She was the right age. She came from the right place. The history was undeniable.

  He longed to stop everything here and now, to silence them all forever, to keep the horrible truth from unraveling. He wanted to whisk Jossy out of the tavern and run away with her, away from his uncles, away from her fathers, away from the past.

  Instead, he could only watch helplessly, mutely, unable to move, as the inevitable chaos and betrayal unfolded around him.

  The bearded Scot scowled. “Bloody hell, what ails the lot o’ ye?”

  Simon, pale as parchment, answered. “We don’t fight…with women.”

  “Not since…” Robert said, breaking off to glance at Jossy.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes at the lass. “Did you say…Ancrum?”

  The bearded one pushed his way forward and set the point of his blade und
er Thomas’s chin. “What do ye know about Ancrum?”

  “You realize I’m unarmed,” Thomas pointed out.

  The man muttered into his beard and lowered his weapon. “Well?”

  “We fought there, the three of us,” Thomas said, “at Ancrum Moor, in ’45.”

  The Scots gasped.

  “Ye fought there?” the bearded man breathed. “Ye fought at the Battle of Ancrum Moor?”

  “Aye.”

  The bearded man stepped forward until he was nose to nose with Thomas. “So did we.”

  Simon sneered, “So you’re the cowardly bastards who sent women into battle.”

  The burly Scotsman gestured with his sword. “And ye’re the cowardly bastards who slew them.”

  “I see you’re still sending women to fight your battles,” Robert said, glaring at Jossy.

  “Nobody sent me,” Jossy said through her teeth, her eyes fierce, “and nobody sent my mother. But I fight to avenge her, because she was brutally murdered at Ancrum. And ye seem to have her blood on your hands.”

  “That may be,” Thomas said, “but you’ll find no combatants here. If you want us dead, you’ll have to kill us in cold blood.”

  “After Ancrum Moor,” Simon added, “we took an oath on our brother’s grave.”

  Robert snorted. “We don’t fight women.”

  Drew could see this was going to end badly. Jossy was primed for battle. She’d probably been raised on a thirst for vengeance. She’d probably been looking forward to this moment her entire life. She’d probably dreamed of the day she’d face those who’d left her an orphan.

  He knew exactly how she felt. His father may have killed her mother. But in a sense, her mother had killed his father.

  Jossy, however, was impetuous and passionate. She might well take Thomas’s suggestion and murder them all while they were unarmed.

  Blood would be spilled, and nothing would be solved.

  If she wanted a fight, he’d give it to her, but not at the risk of her soul and not with innocent men who would never have allowed her mother on a battlefield in the first place.