Seduced by Destiny (29 page)

The name didn’t mean anything to her, except that ’twould be burned into her memory forever when she survived whatever he
had in mind and reported back to Philipe.

At her lack of response, he clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I took ye for a master spy. But ye’re not very observant,
are ye?”

She didn’t know what he was rambling about, didn’t know and didn’t care. She was busy thinking up ways to disarm him.

“And ye’re a troublemaker, aren’t ye?” he said. “A wee troublemaker who can’t keep her nose out o’ other people’s affairs.”

Hoping to catch him off guard, she jerked her neck
away from his blade and, with a sharp blow of her hand, knocked the weapon from him. Then she tried to sweep him off his feet
with a kick to the back of his leg, a move she’d learned from Angus.

But somehow he anticipated her movement. He dodged her foot, and his hand shot out to seize her by the throat. He shoved her
up against a tree, slamming her head against the trunk, pinning her there with the weight of his body.

Dazed, she scrabbled at his fingers.

“Well, ye might be a wily kitten,” he murmured cheerfully, inches from her mouth. “But ye’re fightin’ a lion now.”

She spat in his face.

He casually whipped a kerchief from his jerkin and wiped the spittle from his cheek, then banged her head hard against the
trunk again.

Her head throbbed, and her vision swam, but she managed to muster a fierce frown. “Who are ye?” she growled. “What do ye want?”

He pouted in mock injury. “I told ye who I am. Have ye forgotten so soon?” He clucked his tongue. “As for what I want, does
the name Ambrose Scott mean anythin’ to ye?”

She gasped. Everything fell into place.

Ambrose Scott was Queen Mary’s alias. ’Twas the name Josselin had cleverly forged onto the secret message, knowing ’twould
do no harm, since Ambrose Scott would be completely above reproach. But if the man in black had read the missive, if he knew
that Josselin had changed the name…

Donald Syme, he’d said his name was.

D.S.

Bloody hell. This was the spy who’d been tracking Drew. Now she prayed to God Drew wouldn’t show up.

D
rew entered the clearing, throwing back his hood, tearing off his mask, and brandishing his sword before him. “Unhand her!”

He hadn’t known what he intended when he followed the pair out of the inn. He wasn’t certain until he stepped outside to discover
that they’d utterly vanished. With one hand on the hilt of his hidden sword, Drew searched the premises. When he ventured
behind the inn, he found Jossy’s dagger lying in the grass.

He recognized at once she was in trouble. Jossy wouldn’t unsheathe unless she felt threatened. And she certainly wouldn’t
leave her dagger behind.

Scowling, he’d straightened, tossed aside his walking staff, drawn his sword, and followed the trail of bent grass into the
woods.

And now, glowering fiercely at the brute who had his filthy hands on Jossy, he knew exactly why he’d followed them out of
The Sheep Heid.

The man, startled by Drew, glanced over his shoulder, and in that instant, Jossy jabbed him hard in the stomach with her knuckles.

The man doubled over, releasing her at once, and Drew focused his attention and the point of his sword upon him.

“Well, well,” the man managed to wheeze, still bent in half, looking up at him. “Drew MacAdam. I thought ye’d left us—hied
to your Highland home.”

“Get away from her now, ye filthy bastard,” Drew ground out, not even caring how the villain knew his name, “or I’ll run ye
through where ye stand.”

To his surprise, ’twas Jossy who objected.

“Nae, Drew,” she said. “ ’Tisn’t your fight.”

The man in black was just as surprised. “Ye
are
a wee spitfire, aren’t ye?” he rasped out. “Philipe said as much.”

Philipe? Drew tightened his grip on his sword. He
was
Philipe’s man. Which meant he had much more than seduction in mind.

“Stand aside, Jossy,” Drew said.

“Nae,” she stubbornly replied, holding out her hand. “Lend me your sword.”

Drew cursed under his breath. Sometimes Jossy’s willfulness was infuriating.

“Do ye know this man?” he asked her.

“I do now.”

The man raised one hand in a weak wave. “Donald Syme.”

D.S. Drew had feared as much. “And do ye know what he’s after?”

“What I’m after?” the man said with a forced chuckle. “Ah, I see. Ye think I mean to swive the lass.”

Drew seared Syme with a burning glare. “Nae, I think ye mean to kill her.”

Syme half-laughed, half-coughed. “Kill her? Hardly. I’m here on royal business. I only need to collect a wee bit of information
from her.”

Drew knew he was lying through his teeth.

“This is my fight, Drew,” Jossy said. “And I know the cost.”

Drew frowned. ’Twas just like Jossy to throw his own words back at him.

“Ye mean to cross swords with me yourself, lass?” Syme asked, straightening with difficulty. “Well, my dear Josselin, aren’t
ye the devoted mistress? First ye change the name on the missive to protect your lover here, and now ye’re offerin’ to fight
in his stead.” He sarcastically pressed a gloved hand to his black heart. “ ’Tis touchin’.”

Could it be true? Drew gazed at Jossy in wonder. “Ye changed the name on the missive?”

She shrugged as if forging a royal document were the most natural thing in the world. “I had to. It named Drew MacAdam as
a traitor spy.”

“I know.”

“Ye know?”

He quirked up one corner of his mouth. “Why do ye think MacAdam had to hie home so suddenly?”

“But how could…” Her eyes widened as she realized the truth. “Ye read the missive.”

“Aye.”

“All this time ye’ve been able to read?”

He arched a sheepish brow. “I never actually said I couldn’t.”

Her gaze softened. “Ye stayed by my side, knowin’ ye were in peril.”

His heart swelled with love. “How could I leave ye?”

Syme wiped at his eye in mockery. “Please stop. Ye’re bringin’ tears to my eyes.”

“Quiet!” they barked simultaneously.

“Or what?” Syme said on a chuckle, casually drawing his sword and pointing it toward Jossy. “Are ye goin’ to throttle me with
your bare hands, lass?”

“Jossy,” Drew said, “let me squash this weevil.” As much as he despised duels, there were some things in life worth fighting
for, and Josselin was definitely one of them.

She shook her head. “Not on your life, golfer. Toss me your sword.”

Syme’s eyes gleamed in amusement as he made lazy circles in the air with his blade. “Oh, aye, who’ll fight me then? Will it
be the lovesick English golfer or the wee scrap of a lass from Selkirk?”

Drew narrowed his eyes. He knew this was Jossy’s moment to prove herself, and she was right—this wasn’t his fight. She needed
him to believe in her, to give her the respect she was due. But damn it, Drew loved her. He couldn’t stand idly by and watch
her be killed. This wasn’t just any opponent with a blade. This man was an assassin.

’Twould be a duel to the death—hers or Syme’s. But there was one thing about killing a man that Jossy didn’t know, something
Drew had discovered long ago, something that had probably cost Jossy’s mother her life. Drew had to be vigilant. He couldn’t
let Jossy make the same mistake her mother had.

“Ye know ’tisn’t a fair fight,” Drew muttered to Syme.

“I think the lass would beg to differ,” Syme said.

Jossy straightened and lifted a haughty brow, confirming his opinion. Damn Syme—he was right. Jossy was a
proud Scots lass—too proud. She’d never back down from a fight, never admit she’d met her match. And knowing Jossy, the moment
Drew tried to convince her otherwise, she’d dig in her heels even deeper.

“Fine,” Drew said on an exasperated sigh. He reversed his sword and tossed the weapon to Jossy, who caught it in one hand,
giving the blade a flashy whirl.

He couldn’t miss the eager gleam in her eyes, and already he regretted arming her. On the other hand, Jossy
was
skilled, probably more skilled than Syme would expect. Drew had fought her. The lass
could
hold her own… to a point. Maybe Syme would be caught off guard and Jossy could seize the advantage.

Still, ’twas not a fair fight. Not only did Syme have the clear benefit of size, reach, and power, but he had a history of
killing.

Like Drew, Jossy might have been trained in chivalrous combat, but nothing could prepare her for the atrocity of real battle.
As in love, in war there were no rules. War was ugly and desperate and inhumane. There was nothing noble or decent about it.

Drew had learned that painful lesson when he’d slain his first opponent. War was literally a double-edged sword. It might
cut down one’s enemy, but it also carved large pieces out of one’s soul.

He couldn’t let Jossy pay the price of that lesson. He’d fold his arms and let her fight, and he’d not distract her. But the
instant he perceived the battle was nearly finished, he intended to be ready with Jossy’s dagger, which rested just beneath
his itching fingertips.

J
osselin’s blade whistled through the air. She loved Drew’s sword. ’Twas beautiful, and it had perfect balance and weight.
After she settled this dispute with Syme, she’d ask Drew where his father had gotten it.

Her confidence was high, and her spirits soared, fueled by Drew’s love and trust and respect. And now she was eager to show
him just how deserving she was of that respect.

She kicked her skirts out of the way and faced Syme with narrowed eyes. No matter how much she wanted to impress Drew, she
didn’t dare let him distract her. This battle would take all her concentration.

She whipped her blade twice through the air, testing its performance, while Syme waited with a smug smile on his face, a smile
she intended to wipe off in another moment.

She wasn’t going to kill him. After all, they both worked in the service of Queen Mary. He was only doing what he thought
was in the queen’s best interests. She just meant to teach him a lesson, proving to him that she was no timid mouse, that
she knew what she was doing, and that she was not to be trifled with. All she had to do was
drag him from his lofty pedestal long enough to talk some sense into him. Once Syme realized that she was Mary’s loyal servant,
that Drew was not a dangerous enemy, that she’d not been compromised, she was sure they would all shake hands and walk away
in peace.

So, with a lightness she hadn’t felt in days, Jossy flexed her knees and prepared to engage the spy.

He thrust swiftly forward, and she deflected the blade.

He grinned and nodded his appreciation, then slashed downward in a savage arc that would have chopped off her head if she
hadn’t dodged aside.

’Twas immediately obvious that, despite the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, he was taking this duel seriously.

So could she.

She replied with a low slash that grazed his shin just enough to scar one of his black leather boots, which dimmed his smile
considerably.

He attempted another killing blow, but he was too slow, and she sneaked in a matching slice for his other boot.

Now the grin disappeared from his face, and she could see by the flare of his nostrils that he was displeased.

He jabbed forward, and she let him come, pulling his sword arm further forward with her free hand, using his own momentum
against him. He stumbled forward past her, and she swatted him on the arse with the flat of her blade.

His face flushed red with fury, and his gray eyes looked like smoke from a fire raging inside. He lifted his sword high, looming
over her, and charged.

She ducked under his arm and came up behind him, this time thwacking him on the back of his head.

He roared and turned on her with murder in his eyes. Josselin wasn’t afraid. She’d dealt with men of temper before, and Angus
had shown her how to use an opponent’s anger against him.

If he barreled forward, she need only deflect that motion from herself to send him careening into the bushes.

Predictably, he did barrel forward, and she sidled away, intending to shove him past. But her foot slipped on a patch of mud,
and she didn’t move out of the way fast enough. The edge of his blade caught her shoulder, slicing through cloth and flesh.

She didn’t feel the cut at first. But from the corner of her eye, she saw Drew’s arms come out of their fold before he could
stop himself, and she knew ’twas bad. Quickly, before the pain could register, she regained her wits and her balance and came
at Syme with a series of aggressive slashes.

She managed to back him against a tree before the pain surged in her shoulder. It stung like the devil, and she sucked a sharp
breath through her teeth. Blood was surely dripping down her arm, but she didn’t want to look at it.

She winced, and Syme used that instant of vulnerability to attack, slicing low as if to cut her legs out from under her.

Josselin leaped up and dove over his blade, rolling forward to come up beside him. But before she could strike, he jabbed
her viciously with his elbow, which she caught in the ribs. She grunted and stumbled backward, and he brought his blade straight
up, earning her a nick at the point of her chin.

She scrambled back and braced herself for another
attack. He came at her with blow after blow, which she easily anticipated and was able to counter. But though his strikes
were predictable, they had a heavy, ruthless quality that was quickly taking a toll on her stamina.

She was lighter, quicker, more agile. But he was determined, tireless, and brutal. More than once she suffered bruises from
his pummeling elbows, and he didn’t hesitate to deliver rough kicks to her legs at every opportunity. She could only skip
out of his way so often before her strength began to flag.

Though she’d enjoyed the challenge of battling him, ’twas clear to her that she needed to look for a way to finish the fight
before his violent blows broke one of her arms or legs or ribs.