MacAdam's Lass Page 17

  The tall man cleared his throat and produced a pair of black iron manacles.

  Josselin kicked and bucked against Drew. He was nonetheless able to clap one iron around her right wrist. Then, to her consternation, he fastened the other to his own left wrist.

  “Are you mad, lad?” the man with the staff asked.

  The burly man shook his head. “I wouldn’t even shackle myself to a willing wench.”

  “Faith, Andrew, I hope you know what you’re doing,” the tall man sighed.

  It appeared she and Drew’s three English friends had at least one thing in common. They all thought he was daft.

  Chapter 33

  “She just…vanished,” the beer wagon driver said with a shrug, tipping his chair back against the wood-paneled wall of The White Hart Inn.

  The three old comrades-in-arms—Will, Angus, and Alasdair—as primed for a fight as they’d been on the Ancrum battlefield years ago—scowled ferociously at the man.

  “What do ye mean, she vanished?” Will ground out.

  Angus brought his boot down on the rung of the man’s chair, bringing it upright with jarring force.

  The man’s eyes went wide, and he glanced nervously at the three men. “She was there all morn,” he said, gulping, “and then suddenly she wasn’t.”

  “Poof?” Alasdair narrowed his eyes in threat. “Into thin air?”

  “I mean,” the man amended, “I saw her go off…”

  “Go off?” Will said. “Where?”

  “Toward the woods. After that golfer.”

  “Golfer?” Alasdair frowned.

  The beer wagon driver smirked. “She was always chasin’ after him.”

  Will clenched his teeth. “Go on.”

  “Then it got dark. The way I figure it, she must have caught him.” He grinned at his own jest, but one glance at Will’s scowl and his smile faded. He scratched his arm defensively. “I couldn’t stay. Like I said, it was gettin’ dark. I had to come back to the inn.”

  Angus growled. “Ye son of a—”

  Will stopped Angus with a shake of his head. They were in a crowded inn. Starting a brawl would only delay their progress, and they’d already lost a day.

  “Look,” Will said, crouching down to speak to the man in a reasonable voice. “What’s your name?”

  “Davey.”

  “Look, Davey. We need to find the lass. Ye were the last one to see her. So ye’re goin’ to show us the place she disappeared.”

  “’Tis all the way in Musselburgh,” he whined.

  Will fought the urge to backhand the puling dolt, instead muttering, “Then we’d best be leavin’ now.”

  Deciding ’twas in his best interests to cooperate, considering he was outnumbered, Davey gave a sulking nod and shuffled to his feet. He nodded to the innkeeper. “They want to look for the beer wagon wench.”

  The innkeeper scowled. “Everyone’s lookin’ for the beer wagon wench.”

  Will scowled back at him, and the innkeeper motioned him toward the counter to confide, “The queen’s secretary was sniffin’ around last night, askin’ after the lass.”

  “The queen’s secretary?”

  Will hadn’t expected that. When he’d discovered Josselin wasn’t in the royal army, but was working as a beer wagon wench, he’d assumed she’d exaggerated her connection to the queen.

  Maybe she hadn’t exaggerated after all.

  “Did he say anythin’ else?” Will asked.

  “He seemed a bit out o’ sorts, though ’tis hard to tell with the man. He said I was to send word to Holyrood at once if she turned up. Then he muttered somethin’ about her bein’ a dead woman.”

  Will’s heart turned to ice. A dead woman? What the devil was Josselin involved in? Had her bold tongue gotten her into trouble with the royals?

  “A dead woman?” he repeated. “Are ye sure?”

  The innkeeper grimaced. “I think that’s what he said. ’Twas hard to tell with his funny way o’ talkin’, but a dead woman, aye.”

  “Nae, nae,” the tavern wench chimed in, “not dead woman. Dead wrong.”

  “Dead wrong?” The innkeeper shook his head doubtfully. “Dead wrong about what?”

  The tavern wench shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “Bedwoman,” said a man at the counter. “The Frenchman said she was his bedwoman.”

  “Bedwoman?” the tavern wench said with a laugh. “What the hell is a bedwoman?”

  “Probably French for a lady o’ questionable virtue,” the man replied.

  “Besides,” the tavern wench said, “she wasn’t his bedwoman. She was swivin’ the Highlander.”

  Will felt ill. He never should have let Jossy go to Edinburgh alone. With a shudder of dread, he grabbed Davey by the arm and growled to the others, “Let’s go.”

  “If ye find her,” the innkeeper called as the three headed out the door, “she owes me a day’s wages.”

  ’Twas early afternoon when they arrived at the Musselburgh links. There was a commotion on the course, wagerers complaining because there had been a forfeit of a match. One of the players, a Highlander, hadn’t shown up, and he was nowhere to be found, not even at the inn where he was supposed to be staying.

  ’Twas too much of a coincidence, Will decided. Could he be Josselin’s golfer? Had they run off together?

  Will ground his teeth. ’Twas too distasteful to think about. Jossy was only a child. At least in his mind she was.

  Nonetheless, ’twas a distinct possibility that she’d gone willingly with the man, and that troubled the three of them only a wee bit less than thinking she’d been abducted. Still, whether she’d gone willingly or not, they’d go after Josselin and exert their fatherly influence to persuade her to leave the filthy, cradle-thieving bastard and come home.

  Thankfully, there was a clear path into the woods at the place where Davey said she’d disappeared.

  Will had always been the best tracker of the three men, though he hadn’t used his skills since the time they’d served together in the Scots army, tracking the enemy. He put his rusty talents to work now as they entered the forest.

  ’Twasn’t long before they discovered signs that there were more than just two travelers. It appeared one of the men had a walking staff. At one point, deep footprints in the mud indicated someone had been running at high speed. And at the spot where the tracks abruptly left the path, there were numerous broken branches, torn leaves, and ruts in the earth, evidence of some sort of scuffle.

  This, more than anything, convinced the three that they needed to make haste. Josselin was outnumbered and in danger.

  They didn’t eat. They didn’t sleep. They marched through the woods with the same cold-blooded determination they’d had years ago marching to war. They’d already lost one maid of Ancrum. They weren’t going to lose another.

  And thanks to Will’s still keen eyes and their relentless pace, on the second night, they managed to catch up with her.

  Chapter 34

  For two frustrating days, Josselin endured the company of the Englishmen, who she finally learned were Drew’s uncles, as they traveled south through the thick Scottish woods, avoiding the main roads. They supped on oatcakes, hard cheese, and berries they found in the forest and never crossed paths with a single Scot. She was beginning to despair of ever getting an opportunity to escape.

  Drew kept her shackled to him almost constantly. On the first day, he’d gagged her as well. But the linen had sucked all the moisture from her mouth and left her insufferably thirsty. So she promised she wouldn’t cry out, and though the others chided Drew for trusting a Scotswoman, he took her at her word and removed the gag.

  Of course, she would have broken her word and screamed her bloody head off if they’d ever run into another single soul.

  But on the third day, they crossed the border, and with each mile farther from Scotland they traveled, Josselin grew more ill at ease.

  All she knew of England was that ’twas filled with bloo
dthirsty villains who burned and pillaged the homes and churches of good Scots, stole cattle, razed crops, and cut down women in battle.

  Even if she somehow managed to escape, she wouldn’t live long without Drew’s protection. This was the land of her enemy. Once ’twas discovered she was Scots, the English would no doubt descend upon her like wolves cornering a lamb.

  They’d probably take turns on her first.

  Then they’d rough her up, blacken her eye, break a few bones.

  Maybe they’d beat her to death. Or maybe they’d make an example of her, burning her at the stake or hanging her in a public square.

  She shuddered.

  She’d never been afraid of death. But then she’d always imagined death would come in glorious battle. After all, ’twas how her mother had died. She had no intention of leaving herself at the mercy of her enemy to be raped, tortured, and executed.

  Of course, the answer crouched like a patient hound in the darkest corner of her mind, waiting for her to summon it from the shadows.

  For a while she pretended to have forgotten ’twas there. But occasionally throughout the day, it reared its ugly head, reminding Josselin that it waited for her. And the farther into enemy land she traveled, the more restless it grew. Finally, when the lengthening shade of evening stretched over a landscape that was becoming increasingly foreign and menacing, she called the animal forth.

  She’d signed that oath to Philipe de la Fontaine and to the queen, vowing that if she fell into enemy hands, she’d kill herself before she’d surrender any information. ’Twas her duty to honor that promise. And she might not have as clear a chance later.

  How she’d do it, she wasn’t certain. She was shackled to Drew, and he’d confiscated her only weapon. But after three days together, he wasn’t as watchful as he’d once been. She probably couldn’t overpower him, but she might be able to steal his dagger and inflict a mortal wound upon herself before he could stop her.

  ’Twas nightfall when her opportunity came. She lay awake beneath the full moon, waiting, her heart pounding, while the men drifted off to deep sleep. After a long while, Drew at last rolled away from her, leaving the dagger he wore on his hip within her reach. She took a breath to steady her nerves and mouthed a silent prayer.

  Then, in one swift, bold move, she jostled him forcefully with her shackled hand. Half-awake and distracted by her rough handling, he never noticed that she simultaneously slipped the dagger from his sheath with her free hand.

  “What is it?” he mumbled, rolling toward her.

  “I need to use the bushes,” she whispered.

  He sighed, then struggled up to his elbows and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear it. “All right.”

  She tried to avoid looking at him, reminding herself that he was her foe. But ’twas nearly impossible. When he raked back his tousled hair, she remembered how soft it had been upon her bosom. When he yawned, she remembered his hungry mouth claiming hers. When he stretched his arms, she remembered how sweetly he’d held her in the aftermath of their passion.

  Tears started in her eyes, and she blinked them back. For what she was about to do, she needed courage, not mawkish reminiscing.

  He unearthed the shackle key and helped her to her feet, then swept up Simon’s sword, and they left the clearing.

  She dared not risk waking the others, so, concealing the dagger in the folds of her skirts, she led Drew a considerable distance before she finally stopped beside a large shrub.

  Drew gave her that sleepy one-sided grin she’d once loved. “Faith, Jossy, I’ve spent less time shopping for a golf club,” he teased. “Are you sure this will do?”

  A knot jammed in her throat, and it took all her will not to—damn her vow and damn their past—rush into his arms.

  Tucking the sword under his arm, he lifted her shackled wrist. She hoped he couldn’t see how her hand trembled as he unlocked the manacle.

  Then she was free.

  Swallowing hard, she stepped away from him and pretended to rummage beneath her skirts. She peered at him from beneath her lashes, watching till he politely averted his gaze.

  She stared at the naked dagger in her damp palm. The blade looked so cold and gray and forbidding in the moonlight. She turned the weapon in her hand until it pointed toward her and placed the sharp tip under her ribs, praying she had the strength to plunge it into her heart.

  The cold reality of death made the blood drain from her face, and she broke out into an icy sweat. Her stomach clenched, and her mouth watered with nausea. If she waited much longer, she thought she might be sick.

  So she closed her eyes, held her breath, and counted silently.

  One…

  Two…

  Chapter 35

  While he waited, Drew whistled softly and absently twirled the point of Simon’s sword in the dirt. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long. After their inconvenient trek through the wilds of north England, he could use a good night’s rest. Impatient, he stole a fleeting glance at Jossy.

  He froze mid-whistle. Even under the pale light of the moon, he could see she’d turned as white as parchment. Her lips were compressed into a thin line, and her chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. Sweat popped out at her brow, and she looked like she was about to lose her supper.

  Then she squeezed her eyes shut, swaying ever so slightly, and he turned to watch her, frowning in concern. Misgiving suddenly pricked the back of his neck. What the…?

  He clapped a hand to his sheath.

  ’Twas empty.

  His heart in his throat, he dropped his sword and lunged forward, knocking the dagger from her hand with his fist, using such force that the weapon sailed across the clearing.

  She went limp, and he caught her awkwardly with his left arm and half of his body, staggering under her dead weight. At first he thought she’d fainted, but she was conscious, just half-aware, as if she’d just awakened from a strange dream.

  His heart stabbed at his ribs as a maelstrom of emotions coursed through him—despair, panic, hurt, and then brutal, inexplicable rage.

  “Nay!” he bellowed, shaking her roughly. “Nay!”

  She had no reaction to his violence, just looked at him quizzically. “Am I…dead?”

  “Nay!” he snarled. “Nay, you’re not dead! And you’re not going to die. Do you hear me?” He shook her again, his anger rapidly growing out of control. “I won’t let you die! I won’t let you die like my…”

  He stumbled back a step.

  God’s blood. ’Twasn’t Josselin he was yelling at, he realized. ’Twas his father.

  That long-buried pain had risen to the surface. He suddenly recalled in vivid detail the anguish of seeing his father’s body swaying from the rafters, the hollow grief of watching his uncles bury him, his devastation as he realized his father had left him…forever.

  He never spoke of his father’s death. His uncles had forbidden it. When anyone asked, they were simply told that Edward Armstrong died in battle. All these years, Drew had had to live with a lie and suffer in silence.

  No more.

  For years he’d blamed himself. He’d been the last one to see his father alive, and he’d agonized over that. Was there something he could have said, something he could have done, to prevent his death? As young as he’d been, he’d still felt like he could have stopped his father if he’d only known.

  And if Josselin thought for one moment he’d allow her to snuff out her life the way his father had, to have another death on his conscience…

  “I’m supposed to be dead,” she whispered. Her face crumpled in despair. “Damn you!” she wailed, beating on his chest with her fists. “Damn you! I’m supposed to be dead! I’m supposed to be—”

  “Nay! Nay. You’re not,” he said firmly, gripping her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. You’re young and beautiful. You have your whole life in front of you. You’ll marry. And you’ll have children. And you’ll be there for those children. Y
ou’ll be there, do you hear me?”

  Tears filled Josselin’s eyes. She couldn’t stop trembling. Indeed, if ’tweren’t for Drew holding her up, she’d likely have collapsed. But if he thought she was grateful he’d saved her life, if he thought his passionate words would convince her to live, he was wrong.

  She’d been mentally prepared to die. She was supposed to die. Drew had dragged her from the grave. And ruined everything.

  Now she was condemned to die at the hands of her enemy—a wretched, ghastly, dishonorable death.

  She attempted to wrench herself out of his arms, to no avail, then hissed, “Why couldn’t ye have just let me die in peace? ’Tis what I wanted.”

  He flinched, incredulous. “In peace?” he snarled. “Oh, aye, ’twould have been peaceful for you. But you intended to kill yourself on my blade! God’s blood, did you never think of what that might have done to me?”

  Truthfully, she hadn’t. She guiltily lowered her gaze. “’Twas the only way.”

  “The only way to what? Take the craven way out?” He shook his head. “And ye told me ye were no coward.”

  His insult stung. “Ye don’t understand,” she said bitterly. “I’m dead already. Ye killed me when ye brought me to England.”

  “I had to bring you here. You know that. I couldn’t let you turn my uncles in.”

  “And now they’ll turn me in.” She didn’t add that even if they didn’t, she was obligated by her service to the queen to take her own life.

  He cupped her jaw in his hand. “Jossy, I won’t let harm come to you. I love you. I don’t care whether you’re Scottish or English or…or from the moon. No matter what else you believe of me, believe this. I love you.”

  She gave him a brittle smile. He didn’t understand. “If ye truly loved me, ye would have let me die. Don’t ye see? They’ll torture me. Once they find out I have connections to Mary, they’ll break every bone in my body to—”

  “I won’t let them have you,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “I swear.”