MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

  Hoping to catch him offguard, she jerked her neck away from his blade and, with a sharp blow of her hand, knocked the weapon from him. Then she tried to sweep him off his feet with a kick to the back of his leg, a move she’d learned from Angus.

  But somehow he anticipated her movement. He dodged her foot, and his hand shot out to seize her by the throat. He shoved her up against a tree, slamming her head against the trunk, pinning her there with the weight of his body.

  Dazed, she scrabbled at his fingers.

  “Well, ye might be a wily kitten,” he murmured cheerfully, inches from her mouth. “But ye’re fightin’ a lion now.”

  She spat in his face.

  He casually whipped a kerchief from his jerkin and wiped the spittle from his cheek, then banged her head hard against the trunk again.

  Her head throbbed, and her vision swam, but she managed to muster a fierce frown. “Who are ye?” she growled. “What do ye want?”

  He pouted in mock injury. “I told ye who I am. Have ye forgotten so soon?” He clucked his tongue. “As for what I want, does the name Ambrose Scott mean anythin’ to ye?”

  She gasped. Everything fell into place.

  Ambrose Scott was Queen Mary’s alias. ’Twas the name Josselin had cleverly forged onto the secret message, knowing ’twould do no harm, since Ambrose Scott would be completely above reproach. But if the man in black had read the missive, if he knew that Josselin had changed the name…

  Donald Syme he’d said his name was.

  D.S.

  Bloody hell. This was the spy who’d been tracking Drew. Now she prayed to God Drew wouldn’t show up.

  Chapter 45

  Drew entered the clearing, throwing back his hood, tearing off his mask, and brandishing his sword before him. “Unhand her!”

  He hadn’t known what he intended when he followed the pair out of the inn. He wasn’t certain until he stepped outside to discover that they’d utterly vanished. With one hand on the hilt of his hidden sword, Drew searched the premises. When he ventured behind the inn, he found Jossy’s dagger lying in the grass.

  He recognized at once she was in trouble. Jossy wouldn’t unsheathe unless she felt threatened. And she certainly wouldn’t leave her dagger behind.

  Scowling, he’d straightened, tossed aside his walking staff, drawn his sword, and followed the trail of bent grass into the woods.

  And now, glowering fiercely at the brute who had his filthy hands on Jossy, he knew exactly why he’d followed them out of The Sheep Heid.

  The man, startled by Drew, glanced over his shoulder, and in that instant, Jossy jabbed him hard in the stomach with her knuckles.

  The man doubled over, releasing her at once, and Drew focused his attention and the point of his sword upon him.

  “Well, well,” the man managed to wheeze, still bent in half, looking up at him. “Drew MacAdam. I thought ye’d left us—hied to your Highland home.”

  “Get away from her now, ye filthy bastard,” Drew ground out, not even caring how the villain knew his name, “or I’ll run ye through where ye stand.”

  To his surprise, ’twas Jossy who objected.

  “Nae, Drew,” she said. “’Tisn’t your fight.”

  The man in black was just as surprised. “Ye are a wee spitfire, aren’t ye?” he rasped out. “Philipe said as much.”

  Philipe? Drew tightened his grip on his sword. He was Philipe’s man. Which meant he had much more than seduction in mind.

  “Stand aside, Jossy,” Drew said.

  “Nae,” she stubbornly replied, holding out her hand. “Lend me your sword.”

  Drew cursed under his breath. Sometimes Jossy’s willfulness was infuriating.

  “Do ye know this man?” he asked her.

  “I do now.”

  The man raised one hand in a weak wave. “Donald Syme.”

  D.S. Drew had feared as much. “And do ye know what he’s after?”

  “What I’m after?” the man said with a forced chuckle. “Ah, I see. Ye think I mean to swive the lass.”

  Drew seared Syme with a burning glare. “Nae, I think ye mean to kill her.”

  Syme half-laughed, half-coughed. “Kill her? Hardly. I’m here on royal business. I only need to collect a wee bit of information from her.”

  Drew knew he was lying through his teeth.

  “This is my fight, Drew,” Jossy said. “And I know the cost.”

  Drew frowned. ’Twas just like Jossy to throw his own words back at him.

  “Ye mean to cross swords with me yourself, lass?” Syme asked, straightening with difficulty. “Well, my dear Josselin, aren’t ye the devoted mistress? First ye change the name on the missive to protect your lover here, and now ye’re offerin’ to fight in his stead.” He sarcastically pressed a gloved hand to his black heart. “’Tis touchin’.”

  Could it be true? Drew gazed at Jossy in wonder. “Ye changed the name on the missive?”

  She shrugged as if forging a royal document were the most natural thing in the world. “I had to. It named Drew MacAdam as a traitor spy.”

  “I know.”

  “Ye know?”

  He quirked up one corner of his mouth. “Why do ye think MacAdam had to hie home so suddenly?”

  “But how could…” Her eyes widened as she realized the truth. “Ye read the missive.”

  “Aye.”

  “All this time ye’ve been able to read?”

  He arched a sheepish brow. “I never actually said I couldn’t.”

  Her gaze softened. “Ye stayed by my side, knowin’ ye were in peril.”

  His heart swelled with love. “How could I leave ye?”

  Syme wiped at his eye in mockery. “Please stop. Ye’re bringin’ tears to my eyes.”

  “Quiet!” they barked simultaneously.

  “Or what?” Syme said on a chuckle, casually drawing his sword and pointing it toward Jossy. “Are ye goin’ to throttle me with your bare hands, lass?”

  “Jossy,” Drew said, “let me squash this weevil.” As much as he despised duels, there were some things in life worth fighting for, and Josselin was definitely one of them.

  She shook her head. “Not on your life, golfer. Toss me your sword.”

  Syme’s eyes gleamed in amusement as he made lazy circles in the air with his blade. “Oh, aye, who’ll fight me then? Will it be the lovesick English golfer or the wee scrap of a lass from Selkirk?”

  Drew narrowed his eyes. He knew this was Jossy’s moment to prove herself, and she was right—this wasn’t his fight. She needed him to believe in her, to give her the respect she was due. But damn it, Drew loved her. He couldn’t stand idly by and watch her be killed. This wasn’t just any opponent with a blade. This man was an assassin.

  ’Twould be a duel to the death—hers or Syme’s. But there was one thing about killing a man that Jossy didn’t know, something Drew had discovered long ago, something that had probably cost Jossy’s mother her life. Drew had to be vigilant. He couldn’t let Jossy make the same mistake her mother had.

  “Ye know ’tisn’t a fair fight,” Drew muttered to Syme.

  “I think the lass would beg to differ,” Syme said.

  Jossy straightened and lifted a haughty brow, confirming his opinion. Damn Syme—he was right. Jossy was a proud Scottish lass—too proud. She’d never back down from a fight, never admit she’d met her match. And knowing Jossy, the moment Drew tried to convince her otherwise, she’d dig in her heels even deeper.

  “Fine,” Drew said on an exasperated sigh. He reversed his sword and tossed the weapon to Jossy, who caught it in one hand, giving the blade a flashy whirl.

  He couldn’t miss the eager gleam in her eyes, and already he regretted arming her. On the other hand, Jossy was skilled, probably more skilled than Syme would expect. Drew had fought her. The lass could hold her own…to a point. Maybe Syme would be caught offguard and Jossy could seize the advantage.

  Still, ’twas not a fair fight. Not only did Syme have the clear be
nefit of size, reach, and power, but he had a history of killing.

  Like Drew, Jossy might have been trained in chivalrous combat, but nothing could prepare her for the atrocity of real battle. As in love, in war there were no rules. War was ugly and desperate and inhumane. There was nothing noble or decent about it.

  Drew had learned that painful lesson when he’d slain his first opponent. War was literally a double-edged sword. It might cut down one’s enemy, but it also carved large pieces out of one’s soul.

  He couldn’t let Jossy pay the price of that lesson. He’d fold his arms and let her fight, and he wouldn’t distract her. But the instant he perceived the battle was nearly finished, he intended to be ready with Jossy’s dagger, which rested just beneath his itching fingertips.

  Chapter 46

  Josselin’s blade whistled through the air. She loved Drew’s sword. ’Twas beautiful, and it had perfect balance and weight. After she settled this dispute with Syme, she’d ask Drew who had made it for his father.

  Her confidence was high, and her spirits soared, fueled by Drew’s love and trust and respect. And now she was eager to show him just how deserving she was of that respect.

  She kicked her skirts out of the way and faced Syme with narrowed eyes. No matter how much she wanted to impress Drew, she didn’t dare let him distract her. This battle would take all her concentration.

  She whipped her blade twice through the air, testing its performance, while Syme waited with a smug smile on his face, a smile she intended to wipe off in another moment.

  She wasn’t going to kill him. After all, they both worked in the service of Queen Mary. He was only doing what he thought was in the queen’s best interests. She just meant to teach him a lesson, proving to him that she was no timid mouse, that she knew what she was doing, and that she was not to be trifled with. All she had to do was drag him from his lofty pedestal long enough to talk some sense into him. Once Syme realized that she was Mary’s loyal servant, that Drew was not a dangerous enemy, that she’d not been compromised, she was sure they would all shake hands and walk away in peace.

  So, with a lightness she hadn’t felt in days, Jossy flexed her knees and prepared to engage the spy.

  He thrust swiftly forward, and she deflected the blade.

  He grinned and nodded his appreciation, then slashed downward in a savage arc that would have chopped off her head if she hadn’t dodged aside.

  ’Twas immediately obvious that, despite the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, he was taking this duel seriously.

  So could she.

  She replied with a low slash that grazed his shin just enough to scar one of his black leather boots, which dimmed his smile considerably.

  He attempted another killing blow, but he was too slow, and she sneaked in a matching slice for his other boot.

  Now the grin disappeared from his face, and she could see by the flare of his nostrils that he was displeased.

  He jabbed forward, and she let him come, pulling his sword arm further forward with her free hand, using his own momentum against him. He stumbled forward past her, and she swatted him on the arse with the flat of her blade.

  His face flushed red with fury, and his gray eyes looked like smoke from a fire raging inside. He lifted his sword high, looming over her, and charged.

  She ducked under his arm and came up behind him, this time thwacking him on the back of his head.

  He roared and turned on her with murder in his eyes. Josselin wasn’t afraid. She’d dealt with men of temper before, and Angus had shown her how to use an opponent’s anger against him.

  If he barreled forward, she need only deflect that motion from herself to send him careening into the bushes.

  Predictably, he did barrel forward, and she sidled away, intending to shove him past. But her foot slipped on a patch of mud, and she didn’t move out of the way fast enough. The edge of his blade caught her shoulder, slicing through cloth and flesh.

  She didn’t feel the cut at first. But from the corner of her eye, she saw Drew’s arms come out of their fold before he could stop himself, and she knew ’twas bad. Quickly, before the pain could register, she regained her wits and her balance and came at Syme with a series of aggressive slashes.

  She managed to back him against a tree before the pain surged in her shoulder. It stung like the devil, and she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. Blood was surely dripping down her arm, but she didn’t want to look at it.

  She winced, and Syme used that instant of vulnerability to attack, slicing low as if to cut her legs out from under her.

  Josselin leaped up and dove over his blade, rolling forward to come up beside him. But before she could strike, he jabbed her viciously with his elbow, which she caught in the ribs. She grunted and stumbled backward, and he brought his blade straight up, earning her a nick at the point of her chin.

  She scrambled back and braced herself for another attack. He came at her with blow after blow, which she easily anticipated and was able to counter. But though his strikes were predictable, they had a heavy, ruthless quality that was quickly taking a toll on her stamina.

  She was lighter, quicker, more agile. But he was determined, tireless, and brutal. More than once she suffered bruises from his pummeling elbows, and he didn’t hesitate to deliver rough kicks to her legs at every opportunity. She could only skip out of his way so often before her strength began to flag.

  Though she’d enjoyed the challenge of battling him, ’twas clear to her that she needed to look for a way to finish the fight before his violent blows broke one of her arms or legs or ribs.

  Breathless and sweating, Josselin retreated to the edge of the clearing to allow herself a moment of respite. She flipped the hilt over in her grasp and pushed her damp hair away from her face with her forearm. Then she prepared to engage him again.

  This time she drew him in, enticing him to continue his measured strikes by exaggerating their impact upon her, while carefully evading his blade. She gasped and winced as his slices came closer and closer, lulling him into overconfidence. Then, when he swung with lethal force toward her torso, she suddenly dove for the ground, rolling sideways at his feet.

  Like a cluster of skittles upended by a barreling ball, he tripped over her and fell heavily, losing his weapon and lolling onto his back. When she came up again on her feet, she was able to whip her blade around, placing it at his throat.

  With a cocky grin, she stared down at him, squirming there at the point of her sword. Now she had him. Now she could make him understand.

  “Kill me then,” he ground out, his eyes no longer dancing, but full of cold hatred. “Kill me. But know this. I’m not the only one after ye. Ye’re not long for this world, lass.”

  She frowned. “Quit with your threats. I don’t mean to kill ye. We’re kin, ye and me. We both serve Scotland and the queen. But I want ye to understand how ’tis with me, with us,” she said, gesturing toward Drew, “and if I have to do it with a blade at your throat, so be it.” She took a deep breath. “Ye’re right. Drew MacAdam is no Highlander. He’s an Englishman. But he’s no spy. He has no interest in royal intrigue. He only came to Scotland for the golf.”

  Syme may have been listening, but ’twas hard to tell. His eyes smoldered like live coals, ready to ignite at any moment.

  “My identity hasn’t been compromised,” she assured him, “and I’ve revealed no secrets. ’Tis true I forged the name on your missive, but ’twas only to protect an innocent. I changed nothin’ else, and if ye’ve seen the letter, ye know that. I’d never do anythin’ to endanger Mary.”

  She let up slightly on the pressure against his throat. Syme was a reasonable man. Surely he’d realize it had all been a misunderstanding. There was no need to risk pricking a fellow servant of the queen.

  “Here’s what I propose,” she told him. “Ye’ll tell Philipe ye were mistaken about my disappearance. As far as identifying Ambrose Scott as a possible agent,” she said with a smirk, “I’m sure t
he queen will be pleased to know her disguise was able to fool—”

  Without warning, Syme slapped her blade away. Before she could gasp in surprise, he rose up, grabbed her by the front of her bodice, and tossed her aside like a sack of laundry.

  “Jossy!” Drew cried.

  The breath was knocked from her, yet she managed to gasp out, “Stay back, Drew!”

  She scrambled back to her feet at the same time as Syme.

  “He’s mine,” she told Drew, pinning Syme with her gaze.

  She might be swordless, but her fathers had taught her to fight with her fists and feet as well. She still had plenty of weapons in her arsenal to battle the brute. The last thing she needed was Drew coming between them.

  Still, she silently cursed herself for her misjudgment. She’d let down her guard for an instant, and Syme had seized the upper hand. Apparently, he wasn’t ready to listen to reason.

  Syme circled her like a predator, his gray eyes now as flat and dull as clay.

  He lunged forward, and she skipped back out of his reach. He lunged again, and she spun, coming around with a high kick that caught him in the side of the head.

  He staggered but didn’t fall, then charged forward with fists clenched.

  She ducked two punches, but a third caught her in the ribs, and she bent forward, wheezing in pain.

  “Jossy!” Drew yelled.

  “Nae!” she protested.

  Syme towered above her, his laughing face now a mask of grim satisfaction. While she cradled her bruised ribs with her arm, he laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  Will had taught her to use a strong man’s strength against him. When Syme swung for her chin, she pushed his forearm aside, knocking him off-balance. There was no time to reply, but she at least gained freedom as he stumbled past.

  He turned on her again, growling like a raging bear. She flexed her knees and put up her fists, ready for him.

  This time when he approached, she gave him a kick to his midsection followed by a punch to his chin.