Seduced by Destiny (25 page)

A
hard lump lodged in the pit of Drew’s stomach, and he felt sick.

Surely he’d heard wrong. Surely she hadn’t said Ancrum.

But the pieces fit. She was the right age. She came from the right place. The history was undeniable.

He longed to stop everything here and now, to silence them all forever, to keep the horrible truth from unraveling. He wanted
to whisk Jossy out of the tavern and run away with her, away from his uncles, away from her da’s, away from the past.

Instead, he could only watch helplessly, mutely, unable to move, as the inevitable chaos and betrayal unfolded around him.

The bearded Scot scowled. “Bloody hell, what ails the lot o’ ye?”

Simon, pale as parchment, answered. “We don’t fight… with women.”

“Not since…” Robert said, breaking off to glance at Jossy.

Thomas narrowed his eyes at the lass. “Did you say… Ancrum?”

The bearded one pushed his way forward and set the point of his blade under Thomas’s chin. “What do ye know about Ancrum?”

“You realize I’m unarmed,” Thomas pointed out.

The man muttered into his beard and lowered his weapon. “Well?”

“We fought there, the three of us,” Thomas said, “at Ancrum Moor, in ’45.”

The Scots gasped.

“
Ye
fought there?” the bearded man breathed. “Ye fought at the Battle of Ancrum Moor?”

“Aye.”

The bearded man stepped forward until he was nose to nose with Thomas. “So did we.”

Simon sneered, “So you’re the cowardly bastards who sent women into battle.”

The burly Scotsman gestured with his sword. “And ye’re the cowardly bastards who slew them.”

“I see you’re still sending women to fight your battles,” Robert said, glaring at Jossy.

“Nobody sent me,” Jossy said through her teeth, her eyes fierce, “and nobody sent my mother. But I fight to avenge her, because
she was brutally murdered at Ancrum. And ye seem to have her blood on your hands.”

“That may be,” Thomas said, “but you’ll find no combatants here. If you want us dead, you’ll have to kill us in cold blood.”

“After Ancrum Moor,” Simon added, “we took an oath on our brother’s grave.”

Robert snorted. “We don’t fight women.”

Drew could see this was going to end badly. Jossy was primed for battle. She’d probably been raised on a thirst
for vengeance. She’d probably been looking forward to this moment her entire life. She’d probably dreamed of the day she’d
face those who’d left her an orphan.

He knew exactly how she felt. His father may have killed her mother. But in a sense, her mother had killed his father.

Jossy, however, was impetuous and passionate. She might well take Thomas’s suggestion and murder them all while they were
unarmed.

Blood would be spilled, and nothing would be solved.

If she wanted a fight, he’d give it to her, but not at the risk of her soul and not with innocent men who would never have
allowed her mother on a battlefield in the first place.

“I took no such oath,” he said quietly, facing her. “Fight me.”

She furrowed her brow. “But ye weren’t at Ancrum. Ye couldn’t have been more than a lad.”

“I’m the one you want,” he told her. “The one who killed the maid at Ancrum? Who slew your mother?” He leveled her with a
grave stare. “ ’Twas my father.”

Josselin felt the world slide sideways as she gaped at Drew. It didn’t seem possible.

She’d imagined this confrontation a hundred times—the moment where she’d meet her mother’s murderer. He was always brutish
and ugly, an evil sneer twisting his face. She’d practiced the curses she’d lay upon his head and envisioned killing him the
way he had her mother, with cruel gashes that would make him bleed to death slowly.

’Twasn’t supposed to be like this, where death had already claimed the culprit and where the only one on
whom she might exact revenge was… a man with whom she’d fallen in love.

She suddenly felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. ’Twas bad enough that Drew was an Englishman, but the son of her
mother’s murderer…

God help her, she’d kissed him. She’d touched him. She’d given him her virginity. And he’d utterly betrayed her.

How long had he known? Had he planned this from the beginning? Was it some kind of game to him—seducing and abducting the
daughter of the Maid of Ancrum Moor? Was she the prize in his twisted play of vengeance?

She trembled with hurt, with sickness, with rage.

“Andrew!” Simon barked. “Put down your weapon. Have you learned nothing from your father?”

Drew’s eyes never left Josselin. “I’m not my father.”

“She’s a lass, Andrew,” Robert scolded. “She doesn’t know—”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Drew said.

“But if you wound her,” Thomas said, “if you kill her…”

“If she steps onto this battlefield,” Drew said to her, “she’d better know what the stakes are.”

Josselin straightened grimly. Now he was speaking a language she understood. It didn’t matter what her heart said, what her
emotions had been. Her mother’s blood demanded retribution. Her da’s had trained her for this. ’Twas what they expected, what
her mother expected, what she expected of herself. So she turned a blind eye to the handsome Highlander she’d made love to
only days before and faced her English enemy with a raised blade and a curt nod.

Simon addressed the Scots. “Andrew’s right. This is
their
battle. It should be between the two of them.”

Will reluctantly sheathed his blade and nodded to Alasdair to do the same. Drew exchanged his golf club for Simon’s sword,
and Josselin cast aside her dagger, so they’d be evenly matched. Then everyone moved back to give them room.

Josselin met Drew’s eyes and swallowed hard, trying to blot everything from her mind but the duel. She tried to forget his
smile, his kiss, his touch. She tried to forget that he was the man who’d saved her life. She tried to think of him as nothing
more than her betrayer, the son of the man who’d killed her mother.

’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.

I
t 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, vulnerable. He’d left his life in her hands. He trusted her. How could she not show him the
same trust?