Seduced by Destiny

by Morgan, Kira

  ’Twas the most difficult thing she’d ever done.

  But Alasdair had trained her to shut down distractions, to focus on the fight at hand.

  She wasn’t afraid. Fear was something she’d conquered long ago. Angus had assured her that even someone of her size always had advantages.

  And Will had cautioned her to keep a cool head, for her temper was her greatest failing.

  She would win this match. Her opponent was bigger and stronger, but Josselin was quick and clever. She’d spent hours every day honing her talents, and though Drew might be handy with a fairway club, he’d likely let his skills with a sword lapse.

  She was about to find out.

  She widened her stance and tossed the hair away from her face. “Do your worst,” she dared him.

  Never losing eye contact, he tested his blade, bringing it whistling down with a flick of his wrist. Then he flexed his knees and lifted the point of the sword, inviting her with a beckoning wave to make the first move.

  She frowned. For someone who preferred golf to warfare, he seemed surprisingly comfortable with a sword. But she had the power of vengeance on her side.

  Her da’s began to yell directives, giving her advice and encouragements. Josselin was deaf to everything but the hot blood of battle rushing in her ears.

  With a rage-filled cry, she thrust forward.

  He immediately caught her blade with his own, turning it aside.

  She attacked again, this time with a diagonal slash.

  He blocked the blow with a simple sweep of his arm.

  She advanced with a series of quick, short strikes.

  Which he glanced aside as if he were swatting flies.

  She growled in fury and redoubled her efforts, spinning and slashing and thrusting with her sword, trying to inflict damage anywhere.

  But without moving his feet an inch, he managed to deflect every blow.

  Damn the cocky rogue! He was toying with her.

  Despite her best intentions, she felt her temper rising. She hated Andrew Armstrong. Hated him for being English. Hated him for taunting her. And most of all hated him for making her fall in love with him.

  Chapter 40

  It had been a long time since Drew had battled with a sword, but he’d trained for so many years that it came as naturally to him as breathing.

  Josselin, too, was skilled. But she didn’t have his discipline, and she definitely didn’t have the coldblooded temperament required to be a master swordfighter.

  Instead, he saw burning hatred in her eyes as she struck out wildly at him.

  She was quick, but he was quicker. She was clever, but her intent was easy to read. She was agile, but she was wearing herself out.

  He needed to keep her attacks at bay just long enough to tire her, to drain her strength and her rage. Then, and only then, could he try to use reason.

  He fought defensively at first, blocking her blows, glancing her thrusts aside. But gradually he advanced on her, carefully and strategically backing her into a corner.

  Her men shouted out warnings as panic widened her eyes.

  He had her now. There was nowhere she could go. She was tired. She was defenseless. At last maybe he could talk some sense into her.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he told her. “I’ve no wish to fight you. There’s no point in opening an old wound, and—”

  He hadn’t counted on her swinging her left hand around and knocking him in the side of the head with the manacle.

  He staggered back, stunned, and in his moment of disorientation, she managed to slip out of his reach.

  He winced as his head began to throb, cursing his own inattention. But he shook off the pain and advanced on her again, charging with aggressive blows to drive her back against the door of the inn. This time he seized the shackle, immobilizing her hand, and came across with his sword hand to knock the blade from her grip.

  As her weapon clattered on the floor, there was a loud gasp from the onlookers. But Josselin stood firm as he placed the edge of his sword against her neck.

  He was impressed. Most men would cower in her place.

  He leaned forward to whisper to her. “Jossy, listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you. This isn’t our fight. We can’t be—”

  She drove her knee up between his legs so fast he never saw it coming. All the air left his lungs, and he doubled over as his abused ballocks began to ache. He barely had the presence of mind to withdraw his blade so he wouldn’t cut her.

  She escaped him again, scooping up her sword as she fled toward the hearth.

  He gasped, trying to catch his breath. As he glanced at his audience, he saw they were all wincing in empathy, even the Scots.

  Limping in pain, he nevertheless managed to engage her again. He struck her blade with blows heavy enough to jar her bones. She fell back, inch by inch, until her back was to the fire.

  Then her heel caught on on uneven plank, and her arms cartwheeled back as she lost her balance.

  He seized her around the waist, hauling her forward against him so she wouldn’t fall into the flames.

  Though she struggled against him, he held her tightly in his grasp and rasped out, “We can’t be responsible for the actions of our parents. What your mother did, what my father did, ’twas a lifetime ago.”

  “He murdered her,” she spat.

  “Nay,” he said. ’Twas time she learned the truth. “ ’Twas an act of mercy.”

  She squirmed in frustration against him.

  “She was already dying,” he murmured, remembering his father’s last words, scrawled on the note he’d left behind. “She asked him to slay her. She asked him to end her suffering.”

  Her da’s gasped, and she paused for a moment, taken aback by this information. Then she began pounding on his shoulder with the pommel of her sword. “Why should I believe ye? Ye’re nothin’ but a bloody English—”

  “I told ye my father died in battle,” he said, ignoring her blows. “That was a lie. My father took his own life.” His uncles started to protest, but he didn’t give a damn what they thought. He’d hidden the truth long enough. “When he came home from Ancrum, he sent me off to fetch my uncles. By the time we returned, he’d written out his confession and hanged himself.”

  “As he deserved,” she breathed.

  He flinched at her cruelty. But when he looked closer into her eyes, he saw that she was in anguish. What he was telling her was counter to everything she’d ever believed. All her life, she thought her mother had been tortured to death. She didn’t know that the one who’d ended her life had done so out of kindness and that he’d paid for his sin with his own life. She’d expended so much energy believing in the injustice of her mother’s death that she probably didn’t want to hear the real story.

  But he was going to make her listen anyway.

  “Do you know why he killed himself?” he asked.

  She wrenched at his arms, trying to get free.

  “Remorse,” he said. “Even though he’d killed a woman out of compassion, he was burdened with horrible guilt over it.”

  Her eyes were filling with moisture, though she still fought him with what remained of her strength.

  “You see, my father had no killer instinct,” he explained, “and no appetite for war.” Then, silently praying he wasn’t making a fatal mistake, he dropped his sword to the floor and let her go. “And neither do I.”

  Set free, Jossy raised her blade, and for one awful instant, Drew feared she meant to behead him then and there. But the sword wavered in her grip, her chin trembled, and a tear spilled down her cheek.

  Josselin had the advantage now. Her sword was poised above his head. She could kill him. With one slash she could exact the vengeance she was born to, and be free of the curse of her bloodline.

  But what if he was speaking the truth? What if his father had been the one English soldier at Ancrum with the heart to end her mother’s agony?

  He stood before her now—unarmed, vulne
rable. He’d left his life in her hands. He trusted her. How could she not show him the same trust?

  He spoke softly. “My father already paid for your mother’s death. There’s no more revenge to be had.” He held his palms up in surrender. “You can kill me. But if you do, where will the vengeance end? When all our kin are dead?”

  He was right. The burden of hate she’d carried for so long was only an empty cask after all. Suddenly, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

  Tears spilled over her lashes, and she sniffed them back angrily. Bloody hell! She hated to cry, especially in front of her da’s. She lowered her sword and swiped brusquely at her eyes with the back of her shackled hand.

  There was a collective sigh of relief from the witnesses.

  Drew lowered his hands to his sides and asked, “Jossy, can you forgive me?”

  She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. She knew what he meant. He’d lied to her. Kidnapped her. Bedded her. But he’d also lied for her. Loved her. And saved her life.

  She nodded.

  “Can you…” he asked, raising hopeful brows, “love me?”

  Will stepped forward with a growl. “Over my dead body.”

  Simon agreed. “Oh, nay, you don’t, lad.”

  “ ’Tis time we went home, lass,” Angus hastily added.

  “Aye,” Robert said, “ ’tis time we all went home.”

  Thomas said, “ ’Tis settled then.”

  Alasdair chimed in, “We’re all agreed.”

  Josselin rounded on them with her sword, making them step back a pace. “Nae, we’re not agreed,” she snapped, glad of an excuse to turn her weeping into ire. “In case ye old fools hadn’t noticed, the two of us are full-grown. I think we can bloody well decide our own destiny. It may not be an easy road. But we’re strong and brave. The blood o’ heroes runs in our veins. Together we have the cods to face whatever fate hands us, and by God’s Cross, we’ll kick the arses of anyone who stands in our way.”

  Everyone grumbled at that, everyone except Drew, who grinned proudly, then turned to tip up her chin and plant a sweet kiss on her lips.

  There was a unanimous groan from the old men, but Josselin didn’t care. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the taste of Drew. Her bones seemed to melt as he wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She sighed into his mouth as he slipped his hand into her hair and kissed her thoroughly. At some point, her sword hit the floor, but she hardly noticed. All she knew was that she was right where she belonged.

  Without a word, Drew swept her off her feet and carried her up the stairs. The last she heard of the old men was their disgusted muttering.

  “I can’t believe you let a lass curse like that.”

  “I can’t believe ye let your nephew golf.”

  Then Drew slammed the chamber door behind them.

  Chapter 41

  The heat of battle still raged in Josselin as she attacked Drew, tearing his shirt half off and scrabbling at the laces of his trews.

  He countered with just as much passion, heaving her onto the bed and tossing up her skirts.

  Their mouths met, and they fed on each other, licking and sucking and feasting like half-starved beasts.

  Her hands roamed over his body, delving into the thick mass of his hair, rounding the solid muscle of his shoulder, stroking the sculpted planes of his chest.

  He explored her just as thoroughly, stroking her bare arms, ensnaring his hand in her tresses, grazing the flesh over her ribs.

  She arched up toward him, breathless with desire, and he pushed her down into the mattress, grinding against her hips.

  Impatient, she shoved her hand boldly down the loose top of his trews to find the full treasure within.

  He groaned, but his revenge was swift. He nuzzled aside her chemise and suckled at her breast while his fingers searched beneath her skirts and found that hot, hungry spot betwixt her legs.

  She moaned in pleasure, squeezing her eyes closed as a wave of lust washed over her. Then she circled her hands around his back, sliding his trews down to knead the solid muscle of his buttocks.

  He growled in approval, gently lifting her knee up and out to prepare her for his swollen staff.

  Aching with need, wet with desire, she grasped his buttocks and pulled them toward her, impaling herself on his thick cock with a cry of delight.

  He dropped his head to her shoulder, overcome with lust, taking a moment to enjoy her warmth. After a moment, he moved against her, initiating the sweet friction that would spark the sensual fire between them.

  His flesh was hot against hers, and she burrowed her head against his neck, alternately nipping at his throat and soothing him with her tongue.

  She squeezed his buttocks, urging him, guiding him as he plunged into her again and again, ultimately wrapping her legs around him to drive him with her heels. Her head swam in a glorious sea of sensation as she writhed on the pillow.

  From deep within, she felt the familiar turbulence begin, a small rumbling at first. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, grounding herself for what was to come. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in gasps as the thunder within her rolled closer and closer to the surface. And then, in one magnificent flash, lightning struck, blinding in its brilliance, and she felt shocked to life.

  As she shook with violent tremors, he, too, found his release, roaring with the power of it, thrusting until he could thrust no more, emptied of his seed and drained of his will.

  Wary of crushing her, he rolled to the side, taking her with him. Then, with what little strength he had left, he showered the top of her head with grateful kisses.

  She laughed in exhausted delight and nestled her face in the hollow of his shoulder. They lay there until their pulses slowed and their breath came in long, contented sighs.

  “Do ye think they’re gone?” she finally murmured.

  “Who—the peevish old men? I hope so.”

  She smiled and traced a path down his chest with her fingertip. “My da’s meant well.”

  “Oh, aye. So did my uncles. They just don’t understand me any more than they understood my father. They expected me to serve in King Henry’s army, to use my sword,” he said mockingly, “in the glorious war with Scotland.” He arched a sardonic brow. “Well, I went to Scotland. But I chose to wage my battles with a golf club.”

  “ ’Tis no use fightin’ against your nature.”

  He pulled his head back to gaze down at her. “And what about your nature, my wee warrior?”

  “I suppose ’tis what I was born to, bein’ the daughter o’ the Maid of Ancrum Moor.”

  He nodded, then grew pensive. “ ’Twas a tragedy,” he breathed, “what happened to her.”

  She furrowed her brow. “My mother knew what she was doin’ the moment she stepped onto that battlefield. I’ll always believe that. The real tragedy was what happened to your father.”

  He smiled ruefully, coiling a lock of her hair around his finger. “If I’d done what my father did—killed an innocent who was suffering—I wouldn’t have hanged myself. I don’t believe he was weak, but I think he was wrong to feel guilty. My uncles taught me that in war there are no rules.” He quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Which is why I prefer golf.”

  She shook her head in amusement. “Ye truly prefer golf to war?”’Twas hard to imagine for Josselin, who’d been raised with a blade in her hand and a legacy to her name.

  “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 his blood.”

  “No rules,” she mused, biting her lip. “I’ve heard the same thing said about love.” She gazed at him with la
nguid 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 da’s 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.