“Oh, aye.” He let his fingers drift down her throat and trace a path between her breasts. “’Tis a bloodless battle,” he said, “aside from the occasional brawl on the links.”
Josselin quivered beneath his touch. “And ’tis profitable,” she admitted.
He dragged his knuckles gently beneath her breast, awakening the flesh there. “More profitable to drain an enemy’s coffers than their blood.”
“No rules,” she mused, biting her lip. “I’ve heard the same thing said about love.” She gazed at him with languid eyes. “Do ye prefer golf to that as well?”
He brushed a thumb across her nipple, eliciting a gasp from her, and his irresistible blue eyes twinkled wickedly. “Why don’t you get a good grip on my fairway club, and we’ll see?”
’Twas late in the day when they fell back on the mattress for the third time, breathless and satiated. Their clothes—what few of them remained—were in a hopeless tangle, as were their limbs and—Josselin feared—their hearts.
“Ye know this is mad,” she murmured.
“Aye,” he breathed. “We should have chosen a chamber with a quieter bed.”
She smiled and halfheartedly punched his arm. “Ye know what I mean. Our queens are enemies.” She rested her forearm across her brow. “If this were a battlefield, we’d be at each other’s throats.”
He rolled lazily toward her. “Is that what you want, lass? You want me at your throat?” With mock ferocity, he lunged at her, playfully biting the side of her neck, making her shiver.
She reluctantly pushed him away, then sat up, pulling up the neck of her chemise in modesty. “I’m serious, Drew. Ye know I have to go back to Edinburgh.” She began repairing the damage to her attire and tried to lend some semblance of order to her hair. “If I don’t report to Philipe, if I don’t deliver the last missive…”
Drew rocked forward, pulling up his trews. “He’ll suspect you’ve either been compromised or you’ve betrayed the queen.”
“Exactly.”
He shrugged, as if the answer were simple. “So we’ll go back.” He ran a finger lightly down her cheek and spoke in his Highland brogue. “Unless ye find ye prefer English swordsmen to Highland golfers.”
She was still deciding when they finished dressing and prepared for the journey home.
Fortunately, his uncles had left a small purse of silver at their door, and Josselin’s fathers had paid for the damages to the inn. Their guardians might not have approved of their consorting with the enemy, but the old fools apparently hadn’t killed one another, and the innkeeper reported that they’d departed peacefully in opposite directions.
Chapter 42
Drew had made it sound easy. He and Josselin would return to Edinburgh together, claim to have had a week-long tryst in the woods of Musselburgh, then return to their respective inns to resume their usual activities. She’d return to her beer wagon. He’d return to his golfing. And no one would be the wiser.
Unfortunately, ’twasn’t so simple.
Though she’d studiously avoided peeking at the secret writing on that missive, claiming ’twas best she didn’t know what it contained, Drew had taken a good look at it, particularly once he noticed to his alarm that the name of “Drew MacAdam” figured prominently in the letter.
Josselin still didn’t realize he could read, or she would have taken greater pains to hide the thing. But he’d had time to memorize and decipher the message, and if it meant what he thought it meant, both of them were in great danger.
Of course, he wouldn’t tell Josselin that. There was no point in making her worry. Besides, she was a woman who believed trouble was best confronted face to face with a sword in her hand, and this was not the kind of threat that could be handled that way. ’Twas a matter requiring subterfuge, sleight of hand, and cunning.
If there was anything Drew excelled at, ’twas deception. It only troubled him that, in order to escape peril, he was going to have to deceive Jossy…again.
The trip back to Edinburgh was thankfully uneventful, and he was able to deliver Jossy safely to The White Hart on the evening of the second day. But the kiss he gave her at her chamber door was bittersweet, for in some ways, ’twas a kiss of farewell.
Josselin had only closed her chamber door a moment ago, and already she missed Drew. The mere touch of his lips upon her mouth eased her fears and awakened her desire. And the press of his body against hers filled her with such longing, everything else seemed irrelevant.
’Twould be an eternity till tomorrow, when she’d see him again at Musselburgh. But he was right. They weren’t out of harm’s way yet. She needed to get this missing missive delivered to Philipe before he began to suspect she was a rogue agent.
She sat at the desk and pulled out the note, then smoothed out the wrinkles with a trembling hand.
Halfway home, she’d realized that she couldn’t turn the missive over to Philipe with the secret writing exposed. He would know that she’d seen the encoded passages and could no longer be trusted to carry messages.
There was no way to make the letters invisible again, so she had to recreate the missive. Thank Alasdair, she knew how to read and write. But she’d never undertaken such a thorny task before—trying to deceive a royal secretary with her artless scrawl.
Still, she’d managed to purchase a few quills, ink, and parchment. And she’d procured a lemon at dear cost from the market, squeezing the precious juice into a small vial. She arranged everything carefully on the desk, taking care not to get the parchment too close to the candle.
Swallowing hard and steadying her hand, she began with the original love letter, taking care to copy each loop, line, and flourish meticulously. With each word, she held her breath, making certain she left no blob of ink. So focused was she on creating an exact replica that she paid no heed to the content of the text at all. She already knew ’twas nothing but sentimental drivel.
The candle had burned a quarter of the way down when she finally finished “Duncan”’s signature. Carefully replacing the pen, she slid back from the desk and stared at the note, praying ’twould dry before it had the chance to get smudged.
She cocked her head left, then right, stretching out her neck, which had tensed up while she worked.
She was still concerned about Philipe. He’d surely disapprove of her having been absent so long. Though Drew had reassured her that the French were notoriously romantic, that Philipe would accept her story of runaway passion, she wasn’t so sure. Mary’s secretary was, above all, a suspicious man. Not that that was a bad thing. After all, his suspicious nature was what kept the queen safe.
But as grim as it seemed, if Philipe suspected her cover had been compromised or that the missive had fallen into the wrong hands, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to have Josselin hunted down.
She dared not think about that possibility. ’Twas too horrifying to consider. She had to believe that Philipe would trust in her loyalty to Mary.
More than anything, Josselin didn’t want to give the queen cause to doubt her. But though Josselin’s intentions were noble, the fact that she was sitting alone in her room, meticulously forging a highly sensitive document that she wasn’t even supposed to have seen, made her feel like the worst sort of outlaw.
While the ink dried on the new missive, she picked up the original, looking over the lines of secret writing, which weren’t as neat as those done in ink. The lemon juice would be difficult to work with, and the lettering would have to be done quickly, for it went on as an almost clear liquid, and as soon as it dried, it became invisible.
Thus far, she’d studiously avoided looking at the message, for the same reason she always avoided looking at her contacts. The less she knew, the safer she was. Now, however, she couldn’t help but read it as she carefully reviewed what she’d have to duplicate.
Even then, she made every effort to read it only as a series of words, letting the meaning slip through her mind like water through a sieve. ’Twasn’t too difficult,
since some of it was written with cryptic abbreviations. But she’d skimmed only halfway down the page when her eye caught abruptly on two words that stood apart from the rest as vividly as blood on a white rose.
The breath froze in her lungs as she stared at them, unable to tear her gaze away. Surely there was some mistake. There was absolutely no reason for…
She closed her eyes. She was just tired. That was all. She’d focused so long over a quill that now she was imagining things.
Exhaling, she forced her eyes open again. The words were still there, stark and undeniable. Her heart began to pound like the beating of a war drum.
The missive trembled in her hand, as if ’twere alive, and she dropped it, backing away as it drifted to the floor. Still the words stared back at her.
Drew MacAdam.
’Twas unfathomable. Why should Drew’s name appear on a secret document meant for the eyes of the Scottish royals? As far as everyone else knew, Drew MacAdam was a Highland golfer. He had no ties to John Knox or the Reformation. Political intrigue was the furthest thing from his mind.
Wasn’t it?
Dread dropped like a lump of lead to the pit of her stomach. Drew had deceived her before. Was he doing so again?
She had to find out.
She picked up the missive and began to read.
To Philipe de la Fontaine:
Have observed W’ham’s spy following golfer Drew MacAdam at M’burgh-links for past 2 days. Spy and MacAdam making contact? MacAdam at Sheep Heid. Expect next missive on Friday.
—D.S.
She had to read it three times before she could understand it completely. D.S. was one of Philipe’s contacts. W’ham must stand for Walsingham, Elizabeth’s master spy, who would likely have men stationed around Edinburgh. One of them might have been watching Drew at Musselburgh. But why?
Friday was two days ago. If D.S. had been watching Drew, he must have been alarmed when Drew went missing. In fact, Drew’s sudden absence would likely confirm D.S.’s suspicions about him being a contact for Walsingham.
But why would Walsingham be interested in a Highland golfer who…
The answer came to her all at once. Drew’s Uncle Simon! Drew’s uncle had let it slip that he was an English spy, so he must work for Walsingham. It had to be Simon then whom D.S. had seen spying on Drew at Musselburgh.
D.S. had no idea that Drew and Simon were related. He assumed there was some political context for their connection. And he was passing on this information to Philipe.
Of course, it didn’t matter that ’twas a purely innocent relationship. Simon was an English spy, after all, even if he’d returned to England. And Drew was no Highlander. If Philipe learned Drew’s true lineage, and worse, if he found out about Josselin’s relationship with him, they could both be in serious danger. Bloody hell, they could be executed for treason.
She gulped and lowered the missive. What was she to do?
Drew packed his things as quickly as he could in the dark. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but he couldn’t be sure.
He slipped downstairs to settle up with the innkeeper of The Sheep Heid and to leave behind a few important bits of information for the man to remember later.
“So ye’re off, are ye?” the innkeeper asked with a yawn, totaling up his charges.
“Aye. Time to go. I’ve milked the locals dry.”
The innkeeper chuckled. “And made some o’ them rich—those clever enough to wager in your favor. Sorry to see ye go. Ye know, ye’ve come to be a hero o’ sorts.”
Drew arched a cynical brow. “The secret to bein’ a hero is leavin’ ere ye can muck it up.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Wise words.” He reversed the account book so Drew could review the charges. “Still, I thought ye might stick around for that wee filly o’ yours.”
“Nae. A man’s got to keep movin’,” Drew said with a wink. “Otherwise, a woman is apt to put him in a cage.”
“I know just what ye mean.” The innkeeper lowered his voice as his wife peered out momentarily from the back room. “That’s why ye’re leavin’ in the dead o’ night, eh?”
“No need for hurly-burly,” Drew agreed.
“So where are ye headed?”
“Tintclachan,” Drew said, counting out coins for the innkeeper, “where I’m from.”
“Long journey?”
“A good week.”
The innkeeper collected the coins and put them into his coffer. “Will ye be back?”
“Maybe in a year or so.”
“Ye do that,” the innkeeper promised, “and I’ll place a few wagers on ye myself.”
Drew bid the man goodbye and set off into the night, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder. If everything went according to plan, all of Edinburgh—including, unfortunately, Jossy—would believe the Highlander had returned home. Only Drew would know differently.
Josselin tapped the feather quill against her lip. What name should she write?
’Twas a travesty, what she was about to do, worse even than simply copying the words of the missive. Changing what was written was tantamount to treason.
But she had to do it. She couldn’t leave Drew’s name on the note. With any luck, D.S. would never lay eyes on the letter. Hopefully he’d give up his investigation of the Highland golfer and move on to something more useful.
Meanwhile, she had to come up with a name to substitute for Drew’s. She didn’t want to endanger another innocent soul, but it had to be a recognizable name.
What golfers played at Musselburgh? She remembered Ronald Metz, Michael Cochrane, Campbell Muir, Ian Horn…
All at once, it occurred to her. There was someone who’d played at Musselburgh recently, a memorable character who would be completely above suspicion.
Smiling, she carefully dipped the quill in the lemon juice and scrawled the name across the page.
Chapter 43
As Josselin continued to stare in confusion at the innkeeper behind the counter of The Sheep Heid, her smile grew brittle. “What do ye mean, he’s gone?”
He shrugged. “Sorry, lass. He left late last night.”
Her heart began hammering in her breast, but she refused to panic. “But his things are still here?”
“Nae. He packed up, settled his account, and set off.”
She tried to make sense of what the innkeeper was saying, which wasn’t easy when she could scarcely breathe. “Did he say where he was goin’?”
The innkeeper made a strange grimace, as if he knew, but was reluctant to tell her. Which, if he’d known Josselin better, he would never have done.
She seized him by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward across the counter, drawing her dagger to press against his throat.
“Listen, ye hound-swiver! If ye know where he is, ye’d better tell me now, or ye’ll be whistlin’ out o’ your bloody throat for the rest o’ your miserable life.”
“T-tinkle… Tank…” he stammered. “Tinklake…”
“Tintclachan?”
“Aye, that’s it.”
She released him, furrowing her brow in thought.
There was no such town. Drew had admitted as much to her. He’d invented it. So where had he really gone?
“Did he say when he’d return?”
The innkeeper swallowed hard, loath to say, but wary of her blade. “In a year.”
“A year!”
“Or so.”
Josselin blinked. What the devil was going on? Why would Drew leave so suddenly? Had D.S. caught up to him? Had he been forced to flee?
“Did he say anythin’ else, anythin’ at all?” she demanded. “Did he say why he was leavin’?”
The innkeeper backed away a step, out of her range. “He may have said he wanted to keep movin’.”
“Keep movin’?”
“And somethin’ about…women…wantin’ to put him in a cage.”
“Women? What women?”
The innkeeper gave her a fleeting glance and a gu
ilty shrug.
“Me?”
She didn’t believe that for an instant. Cage Drew? She’d never given him cause to think that. She’d made no demands of him. She’d never mentioned marriage. In fact, she’d given him her virginity freely, never asking for anything in return. There was no need to cage him—he was bound to her by love and respect and trust.
Only last night Drew had held her in his arms and murmured to her that—for better or worse, no matter their bloodlines, no matter what the future held—their destinies were intertwined. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d meant every word.
Which meant he’d lied to the innkeeper. But why?
He must have had good reason. And if he’d fled Edinburgh, he must have had good cause to do that as well. They were allies now—she and Drew. She might not know his exact intentions, but she must do all she could to uphold the story he’d concocted.
The innkeeper was watching her expectantly, as if he’d never before seen a woman scorned. She supposed she’d better not disappoint him.
With a roar of rage, she stabbed her dagger into the oak counter. “That son of a bitch!”
One by one, she picked up the half-dozen clay flagons lined up along the counter, punctuating her oaths by flinging the cups to the floor, where they burst with satisfying crashes.
“That cuckoldin’ varlet! That miserable cur! That sheep-swivin’ dastard! That bloody, good-for-nothin’, philanderin’ rogue!”
She wrenched her dagger from the counter and shoved it back into its sheath, then skewered the innkeeper with a fierce glare, spitting forcefully into the rushes. “A curse on your sex!”
Whipping around in an angry swirl of skirts, she stalked out of the inn, slamming the door behind her.
Drew huddled over his table in the shadowy corner of The White Hart, pushing the candle away and tugging the hood of his cloak farther forward. He adjusted the telltale scarf that swathed the lower half of his face and marked him as a pox victim.
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