Seduced by Destiny

by Morgan, Kira

  He’d intended to bid the lass good-day at the door, but she’d practically dragged him into the inn. So he’d chosen the darkest corner of the room in the hopes of avoiding notice.

  Now it seemed that wasn’t to be. Josselin, with her radiant looks and her unbridled spirit, couldn’t help being the center of attention.

  His only hope then was to distance himself from her as soon as possible.

  But the way the wolves in the room were perusing her now—narrowing their eyes and licking their lips as if to devour her—he couldn’t very well abandon the little lamb, especially not in her present state. She might not be fully sotted, but Scots beer was markedly strong, and she was definitely tipsy.

  Maybe a bit of food would temper her intoxication.

  “Are ye hungry?” he asked.

  “If ye’re buyin’, I’m famished.”

  He snorted. The lass certainly had no qualms about spending his coin. But then she was a Scot. Notoriously close-fisted with their own purses, they had little trouble squandering away the wealth of others. He’d learned that more than once on the golf course, trying to collect his winnings.

  He waved the tavern wench over and ordered two servings of whatever skink was simmering on the fire.

  Once the stew arrived, Josselin proved as straightforward in her supping as she was in her speech. She didn’t pick at her food, as most maids did. She dove in eagerly without wasting a drop and finished before he was halfway done.

  For a small thing, she could certainly pack away a respectable meal.

  “More?” he asked, indicating his own portion.

  She paused, considering his offer, then politely shook her head.

  “I had an enormous breakfast,” he lied. Actually, he’d had two buttered oatcakes and a cup of ale, but since he wasn’t golfing today, he wasn’t very hungry. “I don’t think I can finish it.”

  Her tongue flicked out involuntarily, and he pushed the bowl toward her.

  “If ye insist,” she said.

  While she polished off his barley skink, he glowered in threat at the men in the inn, hoping his black looks would dissuade them from coming anywhere near the lass, even after he was gone.

  He was about to tell Josselin that he had to be off when she happened to glance toward the door behind him, and a flicker of recognition lit her eyes.

  “ ’Tis him,” she breathed.

  Drew cursed silently, but didn’t turn around. How the devil had the man gotten here so quickly? Drew had hoped to be long gone by the time the secretary arrived.

  Now what would he do? ’Twas difficult enough to maintain his anonymity among common Scots. But to sit across from a bloody French noble…

  He tensed, prepared to bid the lass a swift farewell and make his escape. Then he made the mistake of glancing up at her again.

  She’d raised her chin a notch, putting on a brave face as she watched the man approach. But her lower lip trembled slightly, and she gulped as her fingers tightened around her tankard.

  He couldn’t just leave the poor lass. That would amount to desertion.

  With a sigh of self-mockery, Drew reached out to squeeze her hand. “I won’t let him have ye.”

  Even he didn’t know what that meant. But the words seemed to soothe her. She nodded and loosed her hand to lift it in greeting to the Frenchman.

  The man was no friendlier than he’d been on the Royal Mile, acting as if whatever task he’d been set to was far beneath his station.

  “I would speak to you alone, Madame,” he informed her, giving Drew a pointed glare.

  She looked uneasy for an instant, but quickly masked her fears. “O’ course.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

  Drew assailed the man with his most charming Highland grin, assuring Josselin, “I’ll wait near the door, darlin’. If ye need anythin’, just give me a wink.”

  He winked at her, then stood to give the secretary his seat. ’Twas tempting to pull it out from under him, but Drew resisted the urge.

  What madness had possessed Drew to pose as Josselin’s guardian, he didn’t know. Nor did he much care to ponder it.

  ’Twas the height of recklessness. He had no idea what the secretary intended. But if the sneer on the man’s face was any indication, the lass wasn’t going to like his news. All Drew knew was that if he threatened Josselin, if he laid one bony finger upon her…

  What? Drew wondered as he commandeered a table by the door. Would he box the man’s ears? Pull a dagger on the fellow? Challenge Queen Mary’s personal secretary to a duel?

  Hopefully ’twouldn’t come to that. In the meantime, he’d watch the man like a hawk.

  When Philipe de la Fontaine took the seat across from her, Josselin had two simultaneous opposing thoughts. One was that she shouldn’t have drunk so much beer. The other was that she wanted nothing more than to seize her tankard and gulp down the rest of its contents.

  ’Twasn’t that the pinch-nosed nobleman frightened her. She wasn’t easily intimidated by men. Her da’s had trained her well. What troubled her was that she’d wanted so badly to make a good impression on the new queen. And she was deathly afraid she’d ruined her chances.

  “You may have noticed,” the secretary intoned, “that you caught the eye of the queen.”

  She swallowed hard. “Aye.”

  “Her Majesty was quite…” He searched for the word.

  Disgruntled? Offended? Enraged?

  “Intrigued by you.”

  Josselin blinked. Intrigued? That wasn’t bad, was it? “I see,” she said carefully.

  Behind Philipe’s shoulder, she glimpsed the Highlander, seated by the door, scowling as if he could burn a hole in the secretary’s back.

  Philipe continued, oblivious to Drew’s smoldering stare. “Her Majesty likes your spirit, your loyalty, your…” He shuddered. “Attire.”

  Josselin’s gaze snapped back to the secretary. “My attire?”

  He shrugged, as befuddled by the news as Josselin was.

  “It is not my place to question the queen,” he said, indicating with a sharp look that ’twasn’t hers either. “Her Majesty has sent me to make you an offer of employment.”

  Josselin’s heart skipped. “Employment?”

  The tavern wench came briskly to the table, and the secretary asked, “You have French wine?”

  “Nae, m’lord,” she said, “only beer and ale and a wee bit o’ Madeira.”

  Philipe shooed her away, muttering, “Dozens of taverns in this city and not a drop of good French wine.”

  “An offer, you said?” Josselin reminded him, breathless with anticipation.

  “Yes, yes. The queen desires to reward your loyalty. She has sent me to find out your qualifications.” He sniffed in scorn. “I already know you have a penchant for wreaking havoc. Do you have any other skills?”

  Josselin was stunned silent. The very opportunity she’d hoped for—to serve the new queen—had fallen into her lap.

  Thrilling images flashed through her mind … accepting a commission from the queen … leading a charge on the battlefield like a Scots Jeanne d’Arc… celebrating victory over the English at a royal dinner …

  “Cooking?” the secretary blandly inquired. “Sewing? Spinning wool?”

  Josselin frowned in disappointment.

  He pursed his lips in distaste. “Or do you make your husband keep the house?”

  “He’s not my…” She took a deep breath. She had to make her intentions clear, which wasn’t easy when her brain was swimming in beer. “I’m not a servant.”

  He stiffened. “In the court of Queen Mary,” he announced regally, “we are all servants.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. “I didn’t mean… That is to say…”

  He spoke slowly, as if he were addressing a child. “What is it you do all day, Madame? Besides inciting riots.”

  “I serve beer at a tavern in Selkirk.” Then she straightened proudly and added, “But I’m good with a blade and my fists. Bot
h of my parents fought in battles against the English—my father at Solway Moss, my mother at Ancrum Moor. I’ve held a sword since I was three years—”

  He held up a hand to stop her, taking a sudden keen interest. “You’re a tavern wench?”

  “Aye,” she said cautiously.

  “And how long have you been employed?”

  She shrugged. “Seven years.” She didn’t want to talk about serving beer. She wanted to talk about swordfighting.

  “Seven years,” he repeated.

  “Aye. I started when I was twelve.”

  “Ah, you know your numbers.” He nodded, impressed. “I don’t suppose you are able to read as well?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Aye. I keep the accounts for the tavern.”

  “Indeed?” He leaned back and studied her, stroking his neatly trimmed beard in speculation. “I may have a suitable position for you, after all.”

  Josselin waited for him to elaborate, but he only continued to peruse her, narrowing his eyes, pursing his lips, pensively tapping his cheek.

  “Aye?” she blurted.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Can you keep a secret, or are you one of those maids who cannot stop her jaws from flapping?”

  Josselin answered stonily. “I can keep a secret.”

  “On pain of death?”

  Now he was speaking a language she could understand. “Aye.”

  “I wonder.”

  She furrowed her brows. The beer made her less cautious than usual. She leaned forward and bit out, “Ye can ask me that after what I did on the streets? Ye doubt my devotion to the queen? I defended Her Majesty against—”

  “Reckless violence is not the same thing as devotion. I need to know if you would give your life to keep the queen safe.”

  “In the beat of a heart.” She’d been trained from the time she could barely walk to do just that. She’d fight with her last breath and die if she must. But she didn’t intend to die. She intended to succeed where her mother had failed.

  “So he is not your husband,” Philipe said, gesturing with a nod of his head over his shoulder. “Who is he?”

  She glanced at Drew. In her excitement, she’d almost forgotten about the Highlander. He was leaning back against the wall now, but his eyes were fixed on the secretary with a steely stare, and he was drumming his fingers on the table with calculated impatience.

  “Nobody,” she said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “He knew the way to the inn, that’s all.”

  He studied her eyes, as if to gauge the truth of her words.

  “Do ye wish me to send him away?” she asked.

  “No. That would arouse suspicion. But you must tell no one, no one, what I am about to tell you.”

  Josselin nodded soberly. If there was one thing at which she excelled, ’twas keeping secrets. The secrets of Queen Mary she would take to her grave.

  Chapter 9

  Drew sat back with feigned indifference, all the while watching Philipe de la Fontaine’s every move. He wished he’d chosen a closer table. Unable to hear over the rolling dice and cheering players, the best Drew could do was watch for trouble.

  Why he should worry, he didn’t know. The lass might look as pretty and delicate as an English peach, but she was more lethal than a thistle tipped with poison. If Philipe made any wrong moves, she’d likely pull a blade on the poor fool.

  Still, from what he’d seen of her so far, Josselin of Selkirk seemed to attract trouble, and this might prove to be more than she could handle alone.

  They were talking rather animatedly, and so far Jossy was holding her own with the royal secretary rather than cowering in fear or misplaced humility.

  But when the man pulled out a scroll of vellum and a quill from his penner and uncorked his inkhorn on the table, Drew straightened.

  The secretary began writing something on the page while Jossy grimly looked on.

  Still, the lass didn’t seem to be in distress. She didn’t try to garner Drew’s attention. She didn’t wave. She didn’t wink. She didn’t so much as glance his way.

  Finally, the secretary reversed the page and handed her the pen, and Drew fought the urge to bolt forward and tear the vellum out of her hands.

  What was she signing? A letter of apology? A writ of guilt? Her own death warrant?

  He tried to read her face, but ’twas nigh impossible to read the face of a stranger. Was her expression calm stoicism? Resigned defeat? Silent dread? When she passed the paper back to the secretary, her countenance was as solemn as the grave.

  The secretary fanned the ink to dry it, then rolled the document and slipped it inside his doublet. He scrawled something on another small scrap of paper and handed it to Jossy, who nodded and tucked it covertly into her knife sheath. Finally, to Drew’s astonishment, the secretary counted out several silver coins into her palm.

  Drew decided the lass had an uncanny knack for relieving men of their riches.

  The Frenchman rose to go then, sketching an elegant bow of farewell.

  Drew’s instincts told him not to confront the man. If Philipe de la Fontaine intended to harm the lass, Drew reasoned, he wouldn’t be leaving her unguarded, nor would he have paid her silver. So as Philipe turned, Drew dropped his head onto his arms atop the table as if he’d passed out and began snoring loudly.

  He didn’t look up again until the door closed behind Philipe. Then he cast a quick glance at Jossy, who sat deep in thought, staring at the age-warped planks of the floor.

  He approached her, tempted to demand what the bloody hell she’d just signed. But knowing he’d catch no flies with vinegar, he summoned up his Highland charm.

  “So,” he said with a wink, “the Frenchman didn’t come to drag ye off to gaol after all.”

  She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Nae.” She gave him an evasive smile. “He only wished to convey the queen’s appreciation.”

  “Appreciation?” he asked, lowering himself to the vacant chair.

  “For my loyalty. For defendin’ her name.”

  “Ah.”

  He signaled the tavern wench for another beer. He hadn’t intended on staying, but now that the immediate danger was past, his curiosity got the best of him.

  Jossy elaborated. “With John Knox and his ilk tarnishin’ her good name, the queen is grateful for loyal subjects.”

  “Is that so?” He tapped a finger twice on the tabletop in front of her. “And was that a document of appreciation ye were signin’ then?”

  His question rattled her, but she managed an answer. “ ’Twas a…’twas an invitation.” He noticed, however, she wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  “An invitation from the queen,” he said with a low whistle of amazement. “To dinner?”

  “Nae.”

  “What then?”

  He could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to come up with a suitable lie. In the end, she forfeited.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” she told him haughtily.

  Drew’s beer arrived at that moment, and he was glad of the interruption, for it gave him time to ponder her words.

  What would she have signed that she didn’t want him to know about? What kind of deal had she made with the devil? Had the man blackmailed her? Indentured her? Or worse? And what had he scribbled onto that scrap of paper?

  Whatever he’d written, ’twas apparent that Philipe de la Fontaine wasn’t finished with the lass.

  Drew had to get a look at that note.

  Even while a small voice in his ear told him that he was a fool, that he should look after his own affairs and leave the lass to hers, he couldn’t shake off the fear that Jossy had somehow just signed away her life, that she’d trapped herself in some royal intrigue that was far more perilous than anything she’d encountered in the sleepy village of Selkirk, and that ’twas his fault.

  Josselin’s head was spinning. She felt as if she were balancing at the edge of a cliff, peering down at the loch be
low, about to plunge into unfamiliar waters. The current might carry her safely, or she might drown in the murky depths. But now that she’d committed to the leap, everything was in the hands of fate.

  Philipe had made her the most amazing, dangerous, exciting offer. As unbelievable as it seemed, he’d asked Josselin to serve as part of the queen’s network of spies. Philipe had told her that women were often employed in intelligence-gathering because they were least likely to arouse suspicion. Not even the queen herself would be aware that Josselin was her spy. Mary would simply believe that Philipe had found work for Josselin selling beer.

  The secretary had already enlisted male spies in the field to infiltrate John Knox’s ranks and gather information about the Reformation uprising, but he had to have a secure method for collecting that information. He needed someone who appeared harmless, who could move easily in various circles, who could make contact with the queen’s agents beneath the noses of the most dangerous Reformers.

  The men of Scotland, Philipe had told her, had two great passions—golf and beer. In Edinburgh, when there was a golf match afoot, every man with five pence in his purse would buy a pint with four pence and wager his last penny on the game. Peasant, noble, merchant, clergyman—it made no difference. When there was gambling to be done and beer to be drunk, all Scots partook equally.

  In the diverse crowds that attended golf matches, clandestine contacts could be easily made. And a beer-wagon set up beside the course was the perfect contrivance for the exchange of encrypted messages. The queen’s spies need only buy a pint of beer from Josselin to slip her their missive, which she could later deliver to Philipe at this very inn.

  “Another pint to celebrate disaster averted?” offered the Highlander, proving Philipe’s point about Scots and their drink.

  “What?” she said distractedly. “Oh, nae, thank ye.” There was much to do, and she had to order her thoughts.

  “I’m buyin’,” he tempted.

  “Nae, I’ve had quite enough.” With effort, she turned her pensive scowl into a wide-eyed smile. Philipe had warned her to do nothing to arouse suspicion.