MacAdam's Lass Read online

But that was before she’d met Drew. And ’twas before she’d tasted the glorious rewards of bedding a man who lavished her with adoration.

  She shivered at the memory, then glanced crossly at the sun, which was moving as slow as treacle across the sky today. Drew had promised to buy her a midday meal at The Sheep Heid. She smiled to herself. ’Twas more than pottage she hungered for.

  After what seemed an eternity, Drew finally came loping up to the beer wagon. As usual, her heart leaped at the sight of him, until she saw that he wore a frown.

  “I can’t sup with ye today,” he sighed.

  Her heart sank.

  He reached out and took her hand. “’Tisn’t that I don’t want to, darlin’.” He pulled her close, whispering, “Shite, I’m as hard as a niblick for ye and hungrier than a wolf.”

  His lusty words sent a thrill through her.

  He glanced over his shoulder and waved to a young lad across the green.

  “’Tis a messenger from some high and mighty clan chieftain,” he explained with a grimace. “He wants to meet me in the woods.”

  “In the woods?” There was a prickling along the back of her neck. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe he wants a second for a foursome. Or maybe he’s just lookin’ to place a wager. Some nobles are secretive about their vices. They’d rather not have it bandied about that they’re gamblin’ on such a…a vulgar game.”

  “Cods,” she said with a pout.

  “Anyway, I’ve got to go.” He hurriedly patted her hand, adjusted the clubs on his shoulder, and turned to leave. “I’ll make it up to ye at supper,” he called back, giving her a wink, “I swear.”

  What compelled Josselin to follow him, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d simply gotten into the habit of spying. Maybe she worried he might come to mischief, meeting with some conniving clan chief. Or maybe she feared he’d already tired of her and might be off for a tryst in the woods with some new lass.

  Of course, she didn’t dare nip at his heels. She watched him carefully to see where he went, then had Davey tend to the wagon while she followed Drew at a distance, keeping a cautious hand on her dagger.

  By the time she reached the forest, he was nowhere to be seen. But Will had taught her how to track and how to look for signs of passage. A path of freshly flattened grass led through the trees, and she took it, disappearing into the soft-shadowed green. From Angus, she’d learned how to move silently through the woods, and she did so now. Her progress was slow and stealthy, and though she listened for the sound of Drew’s passage, all she heard were twittering sparrows and the occasional scuffling of a lizard.

  Hell. Where had he gone?

  She stopped in the shade of a sycamore, scanning the brilliant green leaves and ferns and moss around her for signs of movement. A single squirrel scampered up an oak, but that was all.

  Just as she was about to continue along the path, she heard a distant shout. She froze, listening intently. There was another shout, and another. The shouts were too far away to distinguish, but it sounded like a pack of men.

  She took a tentative step forward.

  A loud bellow rang through the woods, and she knew at once ’twas Drew.

  “Shite!” she hissed.

  Her heart plummeted. She unsheathed, her fist clamped tight around her dagger, and charged forward.

  It must be thieves, she thought. The woods were crawling with them. She only prayed ’twas thieves and not murderers.

  She tore down the path now, not caring that she kicked up leaves and startled a bevy of quail. She was too alarmed to use stealth, too desperate to consider she might be outnumbered. Drew was in danger, and she had to save him.

  She followed the sounds of shouting. As she ran, her heart felt like a sharp stick poking her in the side, prodding her to hurry, hurry before ’twas too late. The yelling quickly subsided, but she could still hear a scuffling further ahead, off the path.

  Finally she managed to locate the culprits. She broke through a thick grove of aspens beside the path into a clearing. There she found Drew lying face-down on the ground, his clubs scattered amid the leaves.

  There were three men holding him down. They whipped around when she burst upon them, their eyes wide with surprise.

  She quickly calculated her fighting odds. They looked as old as her fathers, so she had youth on her side. One of the men, who seemed vaguely familiar, was leaning on a walking staff, but he and his two accomplices—one burly, the other tall and broad-shouldered—wore swords.

  She was at a disadvantage. But she wasn’t about to let them know that. ’Twas time for a strong offense.

  “Unhand him, ye villains!” she barked, snapping her skirts out of the way and wielding her dagger before her in threat.

  “What the—”

  “Ye heard me! Let him go!” She tossed her head and flared her nostrils, searing the ruffians with a glare. “Now!”

  Her bravado wasn’t working. They only frowned up at her.

  “Jossy!” Drew’s cry was muffled in the leaf fall.

  “’Tis his Scottish mistress,” the man with the staff explained to the others.

  “With a blade.” The burly man shook his head. “Of course.”

  “Come, my lady,” coaxed the tall man, in the foreign accent she knew all too well. “Put down your weapon. We won’t hurt you if you’ll—”

  “Bloody hell. Ye’re English!” she spat. All at once, the old rage she felt about her mother’s murder and the newfound protectiveness she felt for Drew surged to the surface like lava in a volcano, and she exploded.

  She charged the men, careless of the fact they had swords, with no other thought but to slash their despicable throats.

  To her amazement, they didn’t draw their weapons, but stood to face her barehanded.

  She froze, her dagger raised.

  Ballocks! Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t slay them in cold blood. Aye, they were English, but chivalry was chivalry.

  Frustrated, she lowered her dagger. Then she realized she could still use their error to her benefit. They’d had to let go of Drew to deal with her.

  “Run, Drew!” she shouted. “Run!”

  He pushed up from the ground and flopped onto his back, then rose up on his elbows. But he didn’t even try to escape.

  Maybe he couldn’t, she thought. Maybe he was hurt.

  “Bastards!” she yelled at the men. “English cowards!”

  They winced, likely fearful her cries might draw others.

  “Lass!” Drew said in warning.

  “Are ye afraid to fight me, ye pig-swivin’ poltroons?” she challenged. “Are your English ballocks so shriveled ye can’t even stand up to a wee Scots lass?” She waved her dagger in menace, but none of them would answer her. “God’s bones, ye’re nothin’ but a bunch o’ bloody lobcocks.”

  “She’s got a mouth on her,” the burly one finally said in wonder.

  “Lass,” Drew said.

  “Come on!” she taunted, brandishing her blade. “Who’s to know? What’s to stop ye? Ye attacked an unarmed Highlander. Why not me?”

  “What? Him?” The burly man jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  To her astonishment, the three men laughed grimly and shook their heads.

  “He’s no Highlander,” the man with the staff growled. “He’s as English as we are.”

  Chapter 32

  “What?” Jossy snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous! Tell them, Drew. Tell them where ye’re…”

  Drew gazed up at her, his heart heavy with guilt. A whole range of emotions played across Jossy’s face—disbelief, realization, horror, rage, and finally a cold hatred—and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do or say to make her hate him less.

  He wasn’t sure what pained him more, that his uncles believed he’d betrayed his father’s memory or that Jossy believed he’d betrayed her trust.

  Somehow he’d deluded himself into thinking he had a hope of happiness with Jossy. Maybe he’d lived so l
ong as a Highlander that he’d begun to believe his own fiction.

  How could he have thought she’d never discover he was English? Or that if she did, she’d somehow forgive him?

  He was a bloody fool.

  “Jossy,” he tried, scrambling to his feet, “I never meant to hurt you.”

  She flinched.

  “You have to believe me,” he said. “I…I love you.”

  Drew knew ’twas the truth the moment he said it. It didn’t matter that she was Scottish and he was English. Their hearts beat to the same rhythm. Their spirits soared in the same dance. They were meant to be together…even if theirs had been an ill-fated love.

  “Let her go,” Robert said.

  “You’ll find another mistress,” Thomas chimed in.

  “One who isn’t a bloody Scot,” Simon bit out.

  Drew turned on them. “She’s not…”

  He cursed under his breath. She was a Scot. But he’d been blind to that fact. He’d never once thought of her as his enemy. She was Jossy. Sweet, beautiful, spirited Jossy.

  He raised apologetic eyes to hers. But he couldn’t do anything to ease the pain of betrayal he saw there, the hurt that lay naked underneath the fiery fury of her glare.

  “’Tis time to come home, lad,” Robert said.

  Drew clenched his jaw, his gaze still fixed on Jossy. “This is my—”

  “She cannot love you,” Thomas said gently. “You’re her enemy.”

  He looked into Jossy’s stormy eyes and glimpsed the awful truth. Thomas was right. She loathed him. Not only for being English, but also for deceiving her.

  He couldn’t blame her. Everything he’d told her was a lie. Everything except…

  “I love you, Jossy,” he breathed.

  Her chin quivered, and he saw her eyes fill with tears, but the brave lass refused to shed them. Instead, she shoved her dagger back in its sheath, jerked her chin up proudly, and marched away.

  “Jossy!”

  Simon grabbed his forearm. “Let her go. You know it yourself. She’s better off this way.”

  Drew hesitated, wondering if ’twas true. Could Jossy ever forgive him? Did her hatred for the English outweigh her affection for him? Was she better off forgetting him and finding some lucky, loyal Scotsman to love?

  The thought crushed him.

  But as he thought about her leaving—walking swiftly out of his life—an even more unsavory thought wormed its way into his brain.

  Bloody hell, he had to stop her.

  “Jossy!” he called, weaving through the trees. She was already well down the path. “Jossy, wait!”

  His words had the expected effect. She began walking faster.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath, taking long strides to catch her.

  Behind him, his uncles shouted at him to let her go, but he paid them no mind. Did they truly believe that waylaying Drew and forcing him to return home with them would somehow show him the error of his ways? He was a grown man, for God’s sake. If he’d sneaked off to Scotland, ’twas because he wished to be there.

  He should have ordered them home when he’d first laid eyes on them. If he had, the old fools might have made it safely to the border.

  But now they’d done damage. They’d revealed themselves to a fiercely loyal Scot.

  “Jossy, wait! I only want to talk to you.”

  ’Twas an outright lie. But he’d already told her so many lies. What was one more?

  She increased her pace, never looking back. Her skirts snapped in the air, and her hair streamed out behind her.

  He began to run then. He had to catch her before she got out of the woods.

  The unfortunate truth was he couldn’t afford to let Jossy go. He still didn’t know what her relationship with Philipe de la Fontaine was, but he knew Jossy was devoted to Queen Mary. And the way she was feeling now, there was probably nothing she’d like more than to turn four Englishmen over to the authorities. If he let her leave, she’d go immediately to the queen.

  She heard him coming and cast a startled look over her shoulder. Picking up her skirts, she began to run in earnest.

  Cursing the desperation that forced him to such measures, he bolted down the path, gaining quickly on her, and tackled her to the ground, turning so his back would take the brunt of the impact when they fell.

  ’Twas like capturing a thrashing wildcat. He swiftly confiscated her dagger and tossed it out of reach, but she fought him with her heels and elbows, landing a number of painful blows.

  He put up with her struggles, holding her patiently, his arms wrapped around her waist, until she wearied herself. Even then, she lay stiff against him as her breasts heaved with every rasping breath.

  “Jossy,” he said, “I can’t let you go.”

  “But I hate ye,” she said bitterly.

  He swallowed hard. “I know.”

  Faith, ’twas like a knife in his heart to hear those words, but no worse, he supposed, than the wound he was about to inflict.

  “I mean I can’t let you go,” he explained regretfully, “because you’ll run straight to the queen.”

  She stopped breathing.

  “’Tisn’t that I blame you,” he said. “But I know where your loyalties lie. I can’t let you go.”

  She was quiet a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and solemn. “If that’s the way of it, at least let me die with my dagger in my hand.”

  “What?”

  “If ye’re goin’ to kill me—”

  “Kill you! What? How could you…” He hugged her closer to him, though she’d gone stiff as a club. “After all we’ve… Do you really think I’d…”

  Of course she did. She probably thought Englishmen were monsters. He’d thought as much of Scots…until he’d lived among them. Now ’twas hard to dredge up a healthy grudge against the lot.

  “Nay,” he said. “I meant what I said. I love you, Jossy. The Fates curse me for a star-crossed fool, but I do.”

  Then the Fates must curse her, too, Josselin thought, because some tiny piece of her heart still beat for this man who was supposed to be her worst foe.

  But the rest of her was filled with loathing—for him and for herself, rage, and a thirst for revenge.

  How could she have been so blind and so gullible?

  Bloody hell! She’d been beguiled by an Englishman. She’d supped with him, flirted with him, kissed him… She squeezed her eyes shut in horror as she remembered what else she’d done with him.

  “I never meant any harm, to you or your country,” he told her sadly. “I only came to golf. But now… You have to understand, Jossy, I can’t leave you behind. I’m going to have to take you with me.”

  He was right. He’d be a fool to let her go. She would rush to Queen Mary with news of English spies in the forest. ’Twas her duty as a Scotswoman. ’Twas her duty as Lilliard’s daughter. He had to abscond with her. If he didn’t, he’d be signing his own death warrant.

  But she wouldn’t make her abduction easy. She’d fight him at every step. He might have disarmed her, but at the first opportunity, she’d find a way to escape. And God help whoever stood in her way.

  The three men were coming down the path now, the one with the staff hobbling behind. She knew now where she’d seen him. He came regularly to The White Hart.

  What she didn’t understand was why, if they were Drew’s countrymen, they’d lured him into the woods and wrestled him to the ground.

  “God’s blood, Andrew, let the wench go,” the tall man in front grumbled.

  “She’s better off without you,” said the man with the staff.

  “Unless, of course,” sneered the burly one, “you’ve put a babe in her.”

  Josselin felt the world go still. She hadn’t thought of that. What if ’twas true? What if he’d gotten her with child? A chill slithered up her spine. She couldn’t give birth to the child of an Englishman. ’Twas too horrible to contemplate.

  “We have to take her with us. She
has connections,” Drew said, holding tight to her waist and hauling her to her feet, “to Mary.”

  “The queen?” the three men asked in unison.

  Lucifer’s ballocks! His words stunned Josselin. Why had he told them that? Now they’d never let her go. Even more motivated to make her kidnapping as difficult as possible, she began thrashing against Drew, who somehow held her fast with one arm. She started screaming at the top of her lungs and managed to get out three long shrieks before Drew silenced her with a wad of linen.

  “God’s teeth!” the man with the staff said. “She could summon the dead with that caterwauling.”

  If only ’twere true, Josselin thought. She’d summon her mother to make minced meat out of these English bastards.

  “Connections to the queen, you say?” the burly man asked, rubbing his grizzled chin in speculation.

  Drew nodded. “If we don’t bring her along, she could very well set the Scottish army on us.”

  The man with the staff gave her a disparaging glare and suggested, “We might lose her somewhere in the forest.”

  “Nay,” the burly man said. “If she has connections to the queen, maybe we can learn something from her. A few well-placed clouts might loosen her tongue.”

  Drew’s free arm shot out like a snake striking. He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, hauled him close, and snarled. “You touch one hair on her head, old man, and you’ll answer to me.”

  When he let go, the man staggered back, blinking in surprise.

  “Have you gone soft, lad?” the man with the staff asked gruffly. “Have you lived here so long you’ve forgotten about your father?”

  Josselin felt Drew stiffen, but he didn’t answer the question.

  “We do this my way,” Drew said, “or I stay in Edinburgh.”

  The men seemed utterly bewildered by the idea and began arguing among themselves. Finally the tall man conceded on behalf of all of them.

  “Fine. We’ll take her with us.”

  Drew gave them a curt nod. “Now,” he said, “where are the shackles you brought along?”

  The men feigned ignorance.

  “Don’t try to tell me you thought you could singlehandedly drag me all the way back to England without shackles.”