MacAdam's Lass Read online

  He seemed so sure. He spoke with such intensity. ’Twas so tempting to believe him. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to forget that he was English, that she was a spy, that her mother’s murder demanded vengeance. She wanted to escape to that heavenly place the two of them had gone, when their bodies were joined and the rest of the world disappeared.

  His eyes lowered to her lips, and for one suspenseful moment, she feared he might kiss her, hoped he might kiss her.

  Then the moment passed.

  “Listen, Jossy. I had to get my uncles out of Scotland for their own sake, and they wouldn’t have come without me. I’ll see them home safe, but I don’t mean to stay in England.” He let out a rueful chuckle. “How could I live in a country that doesn’t have golf?”

  He took her hand. “I promise I’ll keep you out of harm’s way. I won’t let anyone take you from me. And if they try…” Using the same trick he’d shown her on the golf course, he flipped up the haft of the dropped sword with his foot, caught it, and twirled the blade in his hand. “They’ll have to come through me.”

  After Jossy and the Englishman left, Will remained crouched in the moonlit bushes for a long while, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

  He knew he should report back to Angus and Alasdair, who waited a quarter mile behind the abductors’ makeshift encampment. But after what he’d just seen, he wasn’t sure what to tell them.

  He’d left his companions slumbering there, exhausted after their two-day journey. But Will’s worry for Jossy wouldn’t let him sleep, and curiosity had gotten the best of him. So sometime near midnight he’d stolen into the enemy camp, as luck would have it, just as Jossy was rising to leave.

  He followed her with utmost stealth as she led her captor a great distance away from the others, and he glimpsed the glint of a blade hidden in her skirts. Perhaps she planned to kill the man and make her escape before his accomplices could catch her. Will unsheathed, prepared to lend a hand if she needed it.

  Once he learned she’d gone to answer the call of nature, he’d been abashed and did his best to avert his gaze.

  But something wasn’t right with the lass. He detected it in her pale face as she closed her eyes with a strange expression of defeat. She wasn’t going to kill the man, he suddenly realized in horror. She was going to kill herself.

  After that, everything happened so fast, Will scarcely knew what transpired.

  The man clouted Jossy’s hand, sending the dagger across the clearing to land inches from Will’s hiding place, and Jossy collapsed into the man’s arms.

  Will’s heart dropped to the pit of his belly, and he would have cried out to her, but his gasp was smothered by the man’s furious shouts. And once Will heard the raw and angry concern in the man’s voice—a rage that echoed Will’s own—he decided Jossy was safe enough in the man’s care. Will settled back weakly on his haunches, glad the fellow was strong enough to give her the stern reprimand she deserved, and watched until his heart could return to a reasonable pace.

  ’Twas immediately obvious from his accent that the man wasn’t a Highlander at all, but from England, which made Will’s blood boil, particularly since the brute had his filthy English hands all over Jossy.

  But Will reined in his rage. The man had saved Jossy’s life, after all. Whatever else he was, he was clearly concerned for her welfare.

  Once they lowered their voices, Will could no longer hear them. But at one moment as the couple gazed into one another’s eyes, they seemed about to kiss, and Will knew that if they did, he couldn’t be responsible for what he might do. Fortunately, his restraint wasn’t tested. They drew apart, the man clapped a manacle around Jossy’s wrist, and they returned to their camp.

  Now ’twas up to Will to decide how to explain it all to Jossy’s other fathers.

  Back at their camp, it took him several attempts with numerous interruptions, but he finally got the news across to Angus and Alasdair.

  “I say we rush in now with our swords swingin’,” Angus ground out, “murder them all, and take Jossy home where she belongs.”

  “Now, Angus, be reasonable,” Will whispered. “I told ye, Jossy tried to kill herself. ’Tis a delicate situation. She’s fragile, and as much as it rubs against our grain, she obviously has feelin’s for the one man. No matter how it upsets us, care has to be taken not to upset her.”

  Alasdair stroked his chin. “What if we were to work out an equitable trade for the lass? Men o’ their sort can be bought off with enough silver.”

  Angus growled, “The English would as soon lop off a Scotsman’s head as let him speak. Ye wouldn’t get a word out.”

  Will had to agree. “Our best approach is a cautious, prepared one. But we’re in enemy country now. We can’t wait till they lead us to a village full of Englishmen. We have to act soon.”

  “Here,” Angus suggested. “At first light.”

  Will nodded. “We’ll wake up the other three with our swords at their necks. Jossy is shackled to the fourth, but I don’t think he’ll hurt her. We’ll let them live if he gives us Jossy. If not…”

  Angus puffed up his chest, remembering the long-ago bravery of his youth, and the three of them settled back down on their plaids, their swords in hand, dreaming of the heroic rescue to come.

  The plan would have worked brilliantly if they’d wakened before dawn. In their younger days, Will thought in disgust, they would have. But by the time the three road-weary Scots finally stirred themselves, the Englishmen had already left with Jossy.

  Chapter 36

  Though The Red Lion looked much the same as Kate’s tavern, or any tavern, for that matter, Josselin found little comfort there as she huddled by the fire. They’d stopped here because Simon’s leg was troubling him. She hoped he’d recover soon. The pair of rough Englishmen in the corner giving her hooded, sidelong glances made her feel as if she wore a banner proclaiming she was Scots.

  She rubbed her wrist. At least Drew had removed her shackle. In this hostile environment, she wasn’t about to leave his side. Nor would she speak, lest she betray her Scottish birth, which seemed to satisfy Drew’s uncles all too well.

  Her silence, however, didn’t indicate peace of mind. Raging in her brain was a fierce moral battle, rife with contradiction.

  She’d sworn to the queen to take her life if she fell into enemy hands. She’d already made one attempt.

  But was Drew the enemy? He’d sworn to protect her from English foes. And he’d all but promised to return her to Scotland.

  If he did return her to Scotland, his own life would be in jeopardy.

  But why should she care? He was English and therefore a foe.

  Lord, the circle of logic made her head spin.

  Still, no matter how much she thought about her murdered mother, no matter how vital her mission was to Queen Mary, no matter how long she’d trained to take up the sword against the English, she couldn’t summon up enough moral weight to counterbalance the way she felt about Drew.

  To Josselin, he wasn’t English. Even if he spoke in that hated accent and had traded his saffron shirt for one of sun-bleached linen, his tartan trews for simple brown, she’d fallen in love with Drew the Highlander. ’Twas hard to imagine he could be a different man just because he was born across the border.

  Drew wasn’t responsible for her mother’s death. He wasn’t an enemy spy. He owned a blade, but he had no appetite for bloodsport, preferring to wield a golf club. Even then, though he admitted it gave him some satisfaction to relieve Lowlanders of their coin, he mostly won his matches fair and square.

  How could she then despise him?

  The two leering strangers finally departed, leaving her alone with Drew and his uncles. She sat, staring into the flames, while Drew went to fetch her an ale.

  So lost in thought was she that she didn’t notice Simon approach. He must have been sitting beside her a long time, for when he suddenly swore under his breath, it took her completely by surprise.

/>   She looked up, and her heart slammed into her ribs.

  He had her note.

  How she’d forgotten about it, she didn’t know. It must have been on her person from the time she’d left the Musselburgh links. She supposed in all the excitement of chasing after Drew, being abducted, and trying to kill herself, it had slipped her mind.

  The thing must have fallen out of her pocket just now. Simon had picked it up and was squinting at it.

  She looked away quickly with studied nonchalance. As Philippe had told her, to the untrained eye, the missive would appear to be a harmless love letter.

  “What the…” Simon breathed.

  Josselin stole a clandestine glance at the missive, which he was holding upside down and which he’d brought close to the flames to peruse. As she watched, her eyes widened in awe, for between the lines of sugary prose, entire new lines seemed to materialize like magic.

  Simon frowned, and she hastily returned her attention to the fire, as if nothing was amiss.

  “What’s this, wench?” he asked.

  Her heart was thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. But she couldn’t let him put her on the defensive.

  She furrowed her brow at the note. “Where did ye get that?” she whispered furiously.

  “It came off your person,” he said pointedly.

  She held her hand out for the missive, hissing, “Well, give it back. ’Tisn’t yours.”

  “Oh, I think it might be of interest to me.”

  “What—a love note?” She made a grab for it.

  He snatched it out of her reach. “’Tisn’t a love note.” She frowned as he raised his voice so his brothers could hear. “’Tis something else, isn’t it?” He held it up to the light. “In fact, I’d say it looks like a hidden message.”

  All the breath left her lungs. She lunged for the missive.

  But Simon pulled back, waving the note smugly in the air, out of her reach. “I think, brothers, we have a spy in our midst.”

  Josselin might have done something rash and stupid then, perhaps pushed Simon into the fire, note and all, if Drew hadn’t intervened at that instant, snatching the missive from Simon’s gleeful grasp.

  “What’s this?” Drew asked, glancing cursorily at the note.

  “’Tis a secret missive,” Simon said.

  Drew looked closer. “’Tisn’t a secret missive, Uncle. ’Tis a love letter.” He chuckled. “Too bad the poor sot, Duncan, doesn’t know his beloved can’t read a word of it.” He looked at her, saying pointedly, “Where did you get this, lass? Did that lovesick lad at the links give it to you?”

  Relief flooded her. As amazing as ’twas, Drew was coming to her rescue, pretending to read the missive while keeping it out of his uncles’ grasp. She managed to choke out, “Aye, ’twas Duncan.”

  Drew shook his head. “There’s never a shortage of admirers around the lass.”

  “But ’tis more than just a love note,” Simon argued. “Strange letters appeared when I held it up.”

  “Strange letters?” Drew asked. “Uncle, with all due respect, how would you know strange letters from not so strange, since you can’t read?”

  “The words appeared like objects out of mist.”

  “Out of mist.” Drew turned to his other two uncles and raised a skeptical brow.

  Simon scowled. “She’s a spy, I tell you.”

  “She’s just a beer wagon wench,” Drew scoffed. He started to hand the missive back to Josselin, but Thomas stopped him.

  “Wait!”

  Josselin froze, resisting the urge to incriminate herself by jumping up to seize the thing. She held her breath for so long she feared she might faint for lack of air.

  Thomas stared at Drew, his face grave. “I’ve heard of this before. The words are written with the juice of a lemon. The letters are invisible until they’re held up to flame. Then they appear…” He glanced at Simon. “Like objects out of mist.”

  Shite. Drew knew he should have thrown the damned thing into the fire.

  Simon he could outwit. But Thomas was bright. He was the one who’d taught Drew how to read. And at the moment, both of them knew exactly what the letter was.

  In fact, the instant Drew had seen the note in Simon’s hand, everything fell into place. He knew now what Philippe had hired Josselin to do for the queen.

  “I’m afraid your mistress is a spy,” Thomas said.

  “I told you!” Simon crowed.

  Drew shook his head in disgust. “How can she be a spy when she can’t read or write?”

  Simon jutted out his chin. “I can’t read or write, and I’m a…”

  He silenced at the sharp looks from his brothers.

  Drew lifted a brow in surprise. Then he smugly crossed his arms and perused his uncles, who suddenly looked as guilty as monks in a brothel. “Well, well. Is that what you three were doing in Edinburgh? Spying for—”

  “Shh,” Robert said, glancing nervously over his shoulder, though there was no one in the tavern but the innkeeper, who was rolling a cask noisily across the floor.

  “In any case,” Drew said in hushed tones as the innkeeper disappeared into the cellar, “I assure you if she’s involved in espionage, ’tis without her knowledge, which is more than I can say for the lot of you.”

  Robert frowned, whispering, “You said yourself she had ties to the queen.”

  “She does,” he whispered back. “The queen likes to golf, and Josselin brings her beer on occasion.”

  Thomas eyed the missive, clearly itching to snatch it from Drew. But Drew returned it to Josselin before Thomas could make his move, and she tucked it quickly out of sight.

  “Now,” Drew murmured, dusting off his hands, “I suggest we forget about these intrigues…on both sides.”

  Thomas fumed. “You should give that message to Elizabeth,” he bit out.

  Simon jabbed his thumb toward Jossy and muttered, “We should turn her in as well.”

  “You’re harboring a spy,” Robert said under his breath. “’Tis treason.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas. “What do you think your father would say about that?”

  “He’d be ashamed,” grumbled Robert.

  “Haven’t you learned anything about the scurvy Scots?” Simon hissed. “Did your father die for nothing?”

  Their words were like blows of a sword. They cut Drew to the quick, dealing him mortal wounds that left him gasping.

  But no sooner was he reeling from their attacks than Jossy leapt to her feet to defend him.

  “Listen, ye arse-wisps!” she hissed as loud as she dared. “Ye can say what ye like about the Scots. I’d expect no less from a bunch o’ pulin’ Englishmen. But I’ve heard enough o’ ye belittlin’ your own. Ye should be ashamed o’ yourselves! Have ye no decency? Lucifer’s cods! Ye three might have lost a brother, but Drew’s father was taken from him when he was but a wee lad.”

  While Drew’s uncles stared in amazement, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, and her eyes flashed with fire.

  “Any man would be bloody proud to call Andrew his son,” she scolded. “He’s a fine man. He’s kind and fair and brave and decent. He’s got a strong arm and a good heart.” She pierced them with her gaze and stabbed at them with an accusing finger. “Don’t ye dare throw your own pitiful failin’s at his feet. And don’t ye dare rest your bloody vengeance on his shoulders. Ye’re cruel bastards to force him into his father’s empty boots. He’s his own man. And whether that man is someone ye can be proud o’ makes not an arse-hair o’ difference. I know his father would be proud o’ him.”

  She was magnificent, and Drew looked at her with awe and admiration. No one had ever fought so valiantly for him, and he loved her more in that moment than he’d ever loved anyone before.

  For an instant there was stunned silence. Drew’s uncles stood in shamefaced, open-mouthed shock while Josselin towered before them like an avenging angel, her face glowing with power, her breast heaving with passion. And Drew beamed with grate
ful pride.

  Then the innkeeper, who’d returned from the cellar to catch the last of her tirade, broke the silence. “God’s bones! Did you bloody fools bring a Scotswoman into my tavern?”

  It took a great deal of persuasion and considerable coin to calm the innkeeper, and Drew had to promise to keep his “wife” behind a closed door the rest of the evening.

  Chapter 37

  “They’ve been in there for hours. Do ye think they’re stayin’ the night?” Angus asked as they peered out from the bushes toward The Red Lion.

  A thin stream of smoke still rose from the chimney into the starlit sky, and the windows glowed with flickering firelight, but no one had come or gone for at least an hour.

  Will nodded to the tracks that led to the inn. “The lame one’s been leanin’ heavily on his staff. He’s grown weary.”

  “They’ll probably get a good night’s rest,” said Alasdair, “then light out early in the morn.”

  “I say we go in now,” Angus said, clapping a hand on the pommel of his sword, “take them by surprise, rescue Jossy, and make a run for it.”

  “Nae,” Will said.

  “Nae?”

  “I’ve no wish to brawl with a tavern full o’ drunken Englishmen.”

  “Then what do ye suggest?”

  “I’m goin’ in alone.” Will unbuckled his sword. “And I’m leavin’ this here.”

  “Are ye barmy?” Angus said. “Ye just said yourself, the place is crawlin’ with bloody English.”

  “All the more reason to go in unarmed.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “But ye can’t take on Jossy’s captors by yourself.”

  “I’m not goin’ to take them on,” Will said. “We’ll confront them when they’re sober, in the morn. And this time we’ll be ready for them. We’ll take turns on watch.”

  “Then why are ye goin’ in now?” Alasdair asked.

  Will frowned. “Because I’m half-starved, and I’ve been smellin’ whatever they’ve got cookin’ over the fire for hours now.” He got to his feet, dusted off his clothes, and tried to look as English as possible. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring somethin’ back for ye as well.”