MacAdam's Lass Read online

  Drew crouched to scoop sand into a tee and placed his ball on the small mound. As he lined up the shot, the crowd waved their arms and shouted, but he neither saw nor heard them. His thoughts were still on the lass from Selkirk who’d betrayed him.

  Betrayed him?

  The word had popped into his mind unbidden just as he swung his longnose club, and the ball hooked, going completely off target.

  The crowd let him know in no uncertain terms just how bad his shot was, and he grumbled a curse under his breath.

  Betrayed? Where the hell had that come from? There was nothing between them to betray. He had offered Jossy an escort to a tavern. She had accepted. That was all.

  Everything else had happened because Drew hadn’t been able to keep his nose out of her affairs and his mind out of the bedchamber.

  He scowled. His ball had landed in the rough. The match had only started, and already he was falling behind young Colin Barrie, the novice from Dunbar.

  He slogged through the thick marram and flattened the grass as best he could for the difficult shot, choosing a niblick from among his clubs for the task.

  Who was this Duncan anyway? Drew had expected the note Josselin had dropped to come from Philipe. Was Duncan a golfer? Someone from The White Hart? One of Philipe’s friends?

  He placed the head of the club behind the ball and swung back.

  ’Twasn’t that he was jealous, but…

  When he swung forward, his club jammed into the sod just behind the ball, chipping it almost straight up. When it landed, it rolled meekly onto the green, a few inches from the edge of the rough and no nearer the hole.

  “Shite.”

  The crowd concurred.

  Jealous? Had he actually thought that? Whatever Drew was feeling, ’twasn’t jealousy. How could he be jealous of someone he’d never met?

  Or had he?

  While young Barrie was busy eyeing up his shot, Drew scanned the men jostling each other for a good vantage point. One of them might be Jossy’s sly suitor. One of them might have slipped the love letter to her at the beer wagon this morn. But which one?

  There were half a dozen nobles among the onlookers, a number of the merchant class, and a few students. ’Twas unlikely the rest of the bunch could read or write. He sized up the possible candidates, one by one.

  The nobleman with the fur-trimmed collar was old enough to be Jossy’s grandfather.

  The scowling merchant with the black beard looked too cynical to write a love letter.

  Students were impulsive and romantic. Could one of them be Duncan? Perhaps the tall one with the broad shoulders? Or the one with the laughing eyes and the straight white teeth? Or the fellow with the head full of golden curls?

  Drew ground his teeth. ’Twas probably that golden-headed one. Women adored blond curls.

  Somebody jostled him.

  “Are ye goin’ to play or not?” the scowling merchant asked.

  “Aye. Aye.”

  Faith, he had to get his mind back on the game. There were men counting on him to win.

  He chose his fairway club and settled it behind the ball, eyeing the distant hole. He wondered if the silver-tongued Duncan had bet for or against him.

  Silently cursing his stupid jealousy of a man he didn’t know over a woman he didn’t possess, Drew cocked his arm and swung forward with surprising force. The club hit the ball with a loud crack, and it shot like an arrow across the green, bypassing the hole completely and eventually rolling to a stop in the middle of the marshy spot on the far side of the course.

  “Oh, that’s bloody brilliant,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  A shoving match broke out then between Barrie’s cocky supporters and Drew’s disappointed ones. By the time they reached the seventh hole, the violence had escalated into a full-scale brawl, Barrie was winning by five strokes, and Drew was no closer to identifying the elusive Duncan.

  Chapter 22

  Josselin’s hands were still shaking as she surreptitiously retrieved the note from her bosom. She never read the missives. The less she knew, the safer she was.

  But the Highlander had taken a good, long look at this one. If he’d been able to decipher anything…

  “My dearest Josselin,” it began. She quickly skimmed the contents. ’Twas the sort of sugary prose a lover might write to his mistress, and ’twas signed, “your worshipful Duncan,” which was, of course, a fictitious name.

  Josselin knew there was some type of code encrypted into the letter. She didn’t know what ’twas. She didn’t want to know. But she certainly didn’t want anyone else to find out. ’Twas her responsibility to make sure the missive didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

  She studied the note a moment more. Then, satisfied ’twas a convincing love letter, no more, she put it away.

  If only she could put away her thoughts so easily.

  They kept straying to Drew MacAdam, and the more she thought about him, the more uneasy she became.

  This time, ’twas more than his sky blue eyes and sly grin that worried her, more than his startling embraces and troubling kisses that set her heart to pounding.

  This time, she began to think deeply about her relationship with the Highlander.

  Was it mere coincidence that they kept showing up at the same places? Or could it be he was following her?

  He’d seemed very concerned about the document she’d signed with Philipe. Was it possible he wasn’t interested in her welfare so much as her activities?

  He’d intercepted two of her missives now and had ample time to look them over. He insisted he couldn’t read, but what if he was lying? What if he’d known exactly what he was looking at?

  It suddenly seemed very plausible that the Highlander might be a spy for Walsingham.

  The thought sent a sobering shiver up her spine. The man had stood within a blade’s reach of the queen yesterday, knowing full well who she was. He could have assassinated her.

  Worse, Josselin herself had led him to her. She’d insisted he play against the queen, practically shoving him onto the green. And when he’d used Josselin for cover, she’d gone along with his ruse, pretending she was his mistress. Bloody hell, she’d kissed the traitor.

  She brought trembling fingers to her lips. How could she have allowed him, allowed an enemy spy, to get so close to her?

  Philipe had warned her that agents were usually those who aroused the least suspicion—tavern wenches, stable lads, even monks. She supposed a golfer from the Highlands was as unlikely a spy as there could be.

  She wiped sweaty palms on her apron. What should she do now?

  Josselin was accustomed to fighting duels, where one faced one’s enemy openly with a sword. Subterfuge was not in her nature. Perhaps she should stay out of this particular fight. Perhaps she should alert Philipe to the peril and let him do what he thought best.

  Then she smiled ruefully. Walk away from a fight? ’Twas unthinkable.

  Josselin was her mother’s daughter. She’d no more refuse a challenge than she’d refuse a thirsty patron with a purse full of silver.

  Besides, going to Philipe and admitting her error in judgment would be unwise. How would she explain that she’d let Drew see those two missives? How would she assure Philipe that she was a competent agent when she’d been seen consorting with the enemy? And did she even have enough solid evidence to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Drew MacAdam was a spy?

  Nae, she couldn’t say anything to Philipe, not until she had more proof.

  As distasteful as the prospect was, if she wanted to unmask him, Josselin had to get closer to the Highlander, persuade him to trust her, compel him to expose his secrets.

  ’Twas the same cat-and-mouse game her Da Angus had taught her in swordfighting. By drawing the enemy in and feigning helplessness, she’d lull him into complacency. Then, when he least expected it, she’d strike at his heart.

  Her own heart quivered at the thought. ’Twas a dangerous game. If she became impatient an
d lost her self-control, she might strike too soon. If she misjudged the distance and drew too close, she’d leave herself vulnerable to attack. Worst of all, she might finally strike at him with all her might, only to discover that she was the unwitting victim in his game of cat-and-mouse.

  She shivered, then mentally scolded herself for such nonsense. She wasn’t talking about a swordfight, after all, though she was sure she could best the golfer in a duel with one hand bound behind her back. ’Twas only a harmless flirtation she planned, nothing that might leave a scar.

  Still, when she thought about intentionally ingratiating herself to the Highlander, courting his affections, encouraging his intimacy…

  Marry, her belly didn’t flutter half as much when she was preparing to do battle with a blade.

  Josselin took a determined breath and tossed her apron down on the counter. She was no coward. She was fully prepared in mind and body to put herself in harm’s way for her country, for her queen, for the memory of her mother. If only her racing heart would believe that…

  Drew was disgusted with himself. He’d let emotion get in the way of his game. As a consequence, he’d lost. Badly. ’Twas a good thing he’d been battling with a golf club and not a sword, for such inattention might have cost him an arm or a leg instead of only his pride.

  Long after the victorious Barrie had left the field on the shoulders of his cheering companions, Drew was still sulking at the last hole, sitting on the sod with his chin in his fist, staring pensively out toward the shifting sea.

  “Hey! Highlander!”

  He turned to see Jossy heading toward him, carrying two tankards in her hand. The sunlight burnished her hair to a gleaming gold, and the soft breeze ruffled the linen across her breasts, reminding him of what would never belong to him, of what belonged to the insidious Duncan.

  “Here’s the pint I owe ye,” she said, offering him one of the tankards, then plopping artlessly down onto the grass beside him with the other.

  He shook his head, amused. The lass was certainly unpredictable. He raised his tankard in thanks, and she clanked her cup to his. They both took a sip, then resumed gazing silently at the sea.

  “I lost,” he finally admitted, taking another consoling swig.

  “I’d say ’twas more like slaughter.”

  He nearly choked on his beer. “Well, don’t be waterin’ it down, lass. Give it to me straight.”

  “’Tis true,” she said with a shrug. “At least ’tis what they were sayin’ at the beer wagon.”

  He clucked his tongue. “And ye came all the way o’er here to tell me so?”

  She acted hurt. “O’ course not.”

  “Then why did ye come?”

  “I told ye, I owed ye a beer.”

  “A beer,” he said doubtfully. “And that’s it?”

  She frowned guiltily into her cup. “And perhaps an apology.”

  “An apology. For what?”

  “For snappin’ at ye, after ye helped me and all. My da says I’ve got a temper as short as a lamb’s tail.”

  He smiled. He rather liked her temper. ’Twas so easy to ruffle her feathers, to set her off-balance, and once she was off-balance…

  His smile faded. He dared not go down that road. “’Tis perfectly understandable. Ye didn’t want me perusin’ your private note.”

  “Aye, but ye did say ye couldn’t read.”

  “I did,” he said carefully.

  “So I suppose there was no harm done. Indeed, I owe ye thanks for its return.”

  His smile was forced this time. He wondered if the mawkish note was still tucked between her lovely breasts.

  Then he furrowed his brow. Where was her elusive suitor anyway? Everyone had left the links. Where had he gone? Surely Jossy wouldn’t dally on the course with Drew when “your worshipful Duncan” was waiting.

  “Well, ye’ve thanked me,” he assured her. “There’s no need to tarry.”

  “Are ye sendin’ me away?”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps.” Then he cocked his head at her. “I’m guessin’ that letter might be another invitation from your French friend?”

  “Philipe? Oh, nae. The letter? ’Twas nothin’ really, just a wee note from an admirer.”

  He was surprised she was telling him the truth. “An admirer?”

  “Aye,” she said shyly.

  Drew cast his glance around the course. “And won’t this admirer be displeased to see ye sittin’ here with me?”

  “What?” She froze for an instant, like a startled deer, then licked her lips and said, “Oh, nae. ’Tisn’t the way of it at all.”

  “Indeed?” He took a long pull of his beer, contemplating her cagey manner. The lass might be telling the truth, but she was definitely hiding part of it. “Well, I’d be jealous if ye were my lover.”

  “Lover? Oh, nae, he’s not my lover,” she said in a rush. “Nae, nae, not at all. He’s only… He’s…” She paused to collect herself. “Duncan…”

  “Duncan?” Faith, she really was telling him the truth. He was impressed.

  “Duncan is more of a…a devotee than a suitor.”

  “Hm.”

  Drew took another long drink to conceal his pleasure at hearing this news. Perhaps he’d delay his departure from Edinburgh after all.

  Chapter 23

  Josselin suddenly realized it was going to be hard to woo Drew’s affections while she was constantly receiving love letters from Duncan. She supposed she should have thought things out more carefully.

  She feigned a casual shrug. “He’s really nobody,” she said, which was oddly the truth.

  For once Drew didn’t reply, but sat quietly, sipping his beer and watching a flock of gulls circling over the distant waves.

  ’Twas obvious she’d have to take stronger measures if she wanted to loosen the Highlander’s tongue.

  “Do ye know The Sheep Heid Inn?” she asked.

  “’Tis where I’m stayin’.”

  “Indeed?” She supposed ’twas no surprise. The Sheep Heid was the nearest inn to the Musselburgh course. But that bit of information might be useful. “Well, I’ve got an hour or so before the next golfers arrive, and the wagon will be safe enough with Davey, the driver. Come sup with me. I owe ye supper.”

  He looked over at her, one eye squinting against the sun. “I can’t have ye payin’ for my supper, lass.”

  “Why not? I’m earnin’ wages now, and ’tis the least I can do to thank ye. If ’tweren’t for ye, I’d have no work at all.”

  “But ’tis only a tavern wench’s wages,” he pointed out.

  “Hmph!” she scoffed. “I wager I earned more silver today than ye did.”

  He winced. “True.” He shook his head. “Ach, ye drive the dagger deep, lass.”

  She scrambled to her feet and waited while he gathered his clubs and balls and slung the bag over his shoulder. Then she walked with him to the inn.

  Entering under the sign of the ram’s head, they were welcomed by the smells of mutton stew bubbling over the fire and free-flowing ale. Unfortunately, half a dozen of the Musselburgh regulars had commandeered the largest table, and they recognized Drew, so their progress was delayed by greetings and condolences on his game. But Josselin managed to secure a small spot in a dark corner where they could converse in private. She ordered two trenchers of stew and two pints of the tavern’s best ale. A couple of the strong brews and she was sure to have the spy singing like a sparrow.

  Drew pushed back his empty trencher and gazed in amusement at the adorable lass across the table. She was breathtaking. She was relentless. And she was drunk off her arse.

  Of course, she wasn’t aware of that. Nor was he about to enlighten her to the fact. He continued to chat with her as if nothing was awry, patiently answering her slurred interrogation, satisfying his appetite, and enjoying the view.

  “Where’d ye say ye’re from?” she asked him for the second time.

  “Tintclachan.”

  “Tint. Clach. An.” S
he said it slowly, as if to memorize it. “An’ how long’ve ye been travelin’ the Lowlands?”

  “Three years or so.”

  “Three years.” She paused to take another incautious swig of her third ale. “An’ ye’re stayin’ here at this inn?”

  “At the moment,” he told her, adding in a whisper, “up the stairs, third door on the right.”

  She nodded as if digesting all this. Then she raised a skeptical brow. “Are ye certain all ye do t’earn your keep’s golfin’?”

  He laughed. “I assure ye I usually play better than I did today.” He studied her face, lingering on her enchanting eyes and her enticing lips. “My attention wasn’t on the game.”

  “Huh.” She leaned forward, like a barrister gravely questioning a convict. “An’ what was your attention on then?”

  Drew flashed her a lazy grin. He might be able to hold his ale better than the lass, but there was still a pleasant buzzing in his head that made him speak impulsively. “I had my eye on a short-tempered blond lass.”

  She frowned.

  He added, “One with fiery green eyes?”

  She continued to frown.

  “And a honey-sweet mouth?” he suggested.

  She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she gasped. “’S’me.”

  He saluted her with his tankard.

  “But I’m nobody,” she argued. “’M jus’ a lass from Selk-, Selkirk. Why would ye want to spy—” She stopped suddenly, biting her lip as if she’d said too much.

  His gaze was drawn to those succulent lips. He might be feeling the effects of the ale, but ’twasn’t the ale that made him want to taste her again. Nor was it intoxication that awakened the beast slumbering below his belt.

  “Oh,” she breathed, finally understanding. Then a glint of interest flashed in her eyes, and she leaned forward to rest her chin in the cup of her hand. “Ohhh.”

  Drew clenched his jaw. At this angle, mere inches apart, he could see the sweet shadow between her lovely breasts, could too easily imagine how silky her flesh was there, too vividly envision resting his head upon her soft, warm…