Seduced by Destiny (7 page)

“On pain of death?”

Now he was speaking a language she could understand. “Aye.”

“I wonder.”

She furrowed her brows. The beer made her less cautious than usual. She leaned forward and bit out, “Ye can ask me that after
what I did on the streets? Ye doubt my devotion to the queen? I defended Her Majesty against—”

“Reckless violence is not the same thing as devotion.
I need to know if you would give your life to keep the queen safe.”

“In the beat of a heart.” She’d been trained from the time she could barely walk to do just that. She’d fight with her last
breath and die if she must. But she didn’t intend to die. She intended to succeed where her mother had failed.

“So he is not your husband,” Philipe said, gesturing with a nod of his head over his shoulder. “Who is he?”

She glanced at Drew. In her excitement, she’d almost forgotten about the Highlander. He was leaning back against the wall
now, but his eyes were fixed on the secretary with a steely stare, and he was drumming his fingers on the table with calculated
impatience.

“Nobody,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“He knew the way to the inn, that’s all.”

He studied her eyes, as if to gauge the truth of her words.

“Do ye wish me to send him away?” she asked.

“No. That would arouse suspicion. But you must tell no one,
no one
, what I am about to tell you.”

Josselin nodded soberly. If there was one thing at which she excelled, ’twas keeping secrets. The secrets of Queen Mary she
would take to her grave.

D
rew sat back with feigned indifference, all the while watching Philipe de la Fontaine’s every move. He wished he’d chosen
a closer table. Unable to hear over the rolling dice and cheering players, the best Drew could do was watch for trouble.

Why he should worry, he didn’t know. The lass might look as pretty and delicate as an English peach, but she was more lethal
than a thistle tipped with poison. If Philipe made any wrong moves, she’d likely pull a blade on the poor fool.

Still, from what he’d seen of her so far, Josselin of Selkirk seemed to attract trouble, and this might prove to be more than
she could handle alone.

They were talking rather animatedly, and so far Jossy was holding her own with the royal secretary rather than cowering in
fear or misplaced humility.

But when the man pulled out a scroll of vellum and a quill from his penner and uncorked his inkhorn on the table, Drew straightened.

The secretary began writing something on the page while Jossy grimly looked on.

Still, the lass didn’t seem to be in distress. She didn’t try to garner Drew’s attention. She didn’t wave. She didn’t wink.
She didn’t so much as glance his way.

Finally, the secretary reversed the page and handed her the pen, and Drew fought the urge to bolt forward and tear the vellum
out of her hands.

What was she signing? A letter of apology? A writ of guilt? Her own death warrant?

He tried to read her face, but ’twas nigh impossible to read the face of a stranger. Was her expression calm stoicism? Resigned
defeat? Silent dread? When she passed the paper back to the secretary, her countenance was as solemn as the grave.

The secretary fanned the ink to dry it, then rolled the document and slipped it inside his doublet. He scrawled something
on another small scrap of paper and handed it to Jossy, who nodded and tucked it covertly into her knife sheath. Finally,
to Drew’s astonishment, the secretary counted out several silver coins into her palm.

Drew decided the lass had an uncanny knack for relieving men of their riches.

The Frenchman rose to go then, sketching an elegant bow of farewell.

Drew’s instincts told him not to confront the man. If Philipe de la Fontaine intended to harm the lass, Drew reasoned, he
wouldn’t be leaving her unguarded, nor would he have paid her silver. So as Philipe turned, Drew dropped his head onto his
arms atop the table as if he’d passed out and began snoring loudly.

He didn’t look up again until the door closed behind Philipe. Then he cast a quick glance at Jossy, who sat deep in thought,
staring at the age-warped planks of the floor.

He approached her, tempted to demand what the bloody hell she’d just signed. But knowing he’d catch no flies with vinegar,
he summoned up his Highland charm.

“So,” he said with a wink, “the Frenchman didn’t come to drag ye off to gaol after all.”

She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Nae.” She gave him an evasive smile. “He only wished to convey the queen’s appreciation.”

“Appreciation?” he asked, lowering himself to the vacant chair.

“For my loyalty. For defendin’ her name.”

“Ah.”

He signaled the tavern wench for another beer. He hadn’t intended on staying, but now that the immediate danger was past,
his curiosity got the best of him.

Jossy elaborated. “With John Knox and his ilk tarnishin’ her good name, the queen is grateful for loyal subjects.”

“Is that so?” He tapped a finger twice on the tabletop in front of her. “And was that a document of appreciation ye were signin’
then?”

His question rattled her, but she managed an answer. “ ’Twas a…’twas an invitation.” He noticed, however, she wouldn’t look
him in the eyes.

“An invitation from the queen,” he said with a low whistle of amazement. “To dinner?”

“Nae.”

“What then?”

He could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to come up with a suitable lie. In the end, she forfeited.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” she told him haughtily.

Drew’s beer arrived at that moment, and he was glad of the interruption, for it gave him time to ponder her words.

What would she have signed that she didn’t want him to know about? What kind of deal had she made with the devil? Had the
man blackmailed her? Indentured her? Or worse? And what had he scribbled onto that scrap of paper?

Whatever he’d written, ’twas apparent that Philipe de la Fontaine wasn’t finished with the lass.

Drew had to get a look at that note.

Even while a small voice in his ear told him that he was a fool, that he should look after his own affairs and leave the lass
to hers, he couldn’t shake off the fear that Jossy had somehow just signed away her life, that she’d trapped herself in some
royal intrigue that was far more perilous than anything she’d encountered in the sleepy village of Selkirk, and that ’twas
his fault.

Josselin’s head was spinning. She felt as if she were balancing at the edge of a cliff, peering down at the loch below, about
to plunge into unfamiliar waters. The current might carry her safely, or she might drown in the murky depths. But now that
she’d committed to the leap, everything was in the hands of fate.

Philipe had made her the most amazing, dangerous, exciting offer. As unbelievable as it seemed, he’d asked Josselin to serve
as part of the queen’s network of spies. Philipe had told her that women were often employed in intelligence-gathering because
they were least likely to arouse suspicion. Not even the queen herself would be aware that Josselin was her spy. Mary would
simply believe that Philipe had found work for Josselin selling beer.

The secretary had already enlisted male spies in the field to infiltrate John Knox’s ranks and gather information about the
Reformation uprising, but he had to have a secure method for collecting that information. He needed someone who appeared harmless,
who could move easily in various circles, who could make contact with the queen’s agents beneath the noses of the most dangerous
Reformers.

The men of Scotland, Philipe had told her, had two great passions—golf and beer. In Edinburgh, when there was a golf match
afoot, every man with five pence in his purse would buy a pint with four pence and wager his last penny on the game. Peasant,
noble, merchant, clergyman—it made no difference. When there was gambling to be done and beer to be drunk, all Scots partook
equally.

In the diverse crowds that attended golf matches, clandestine contacts could be easily made. And a beer-wagon set up beside
the course was the perfect contrivance for the exchange of encrypted messages. The queen’s spies need only buy a pint of beer
from Josselin to slip her their missive, which she could later deliver to Philipe at this very inn.

“Another pint to celebrate disaster averted?” offered the Highlander, proving Philipe’s point about Scots and their drink.

“What?” she said distractedly. “Oh, nae, thank ye.” There was much to do, and she had to order her thoughts.

“I’m buyin’,” he tempted.

“Nae, I’ve had quite enough.” With effort, she turned her pensive scowl into a wide-eyed smile. Philipe had warned her to
do nothing to arouse suspicion.

“Somethin’ more to eat then?”

“Nae.” She needed to make several purchases. Philipe had said he’d provide a horsecart and driver for her, as well as taking
care of her lodging here at the inn. But she’d have to buy provender and clothing—women’s clothing—and settle up with her
current innkeeper. She also needed to find someone to carry a missive to Selkirk so her da’s wouldn’t fret over her. She couldn’t
reveal many details, of course, but she’d tell them not to worry, that she’d secured a position in the queen’s service and
was living safely in Edinburgh.

“At least let me walk ye to your lodgin’s,” the Highlander offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” she began, then realized her swift dismissal might seem suspicious. After all, the man had brought
her to the inn, bought her food and drink, and offered to protect her. He’d expect a little gratitude. “I mean, ye’ve done
so much already.”

“ ’Twas nothin’,” he assured her.

“Ye really needn’t trouble yourself.”

“ ’Tis no trouble.”

“I wouldn’t dream of askin’ ye to—”

“I insist.”

Somehow she’d known he’d say that. The Highlander seemed to enjoy insisting. First he’d insisted on escorting her to the inn.
Then he’d insisted she finish his meal. Now he was insisting she let him accompany her to her lodgings. And that coy little
wink of his didn’t make his insistence any less irritating.

“Fine,” she said. “But I don’t intend to dally.”

Taking her words to heart, he saluted her with his tankard, then upended it, guzzling the beer with all the
untempered expedience she’d expect from a Highlander, and banging it down on the table. “Shall we?”

She shook her head, wondering if he’d make it to the inn before he passed out. The Highlanders’ reputation notwithstanding,
the man clearly had no capacity for beer. She’d stolen a peek at him a moment ago, and he’d been slouched over the table,
snoring into his tankard.

G
lancing down at the delectable lass beside him as they ambled down the streets of Edinburgh, Drew thought he might have made
a mistake, downing that last beer. If ever he needed a clear head, ’twas now. But every time he caught the glint of sunshine
on Jossy’s curls or watched the confident swing of her arms or glimpsed the upper curve of her creamy breast when her oversized
shirt happened to gap away, as it did just then…

’Twas surely the beer causing the buzzing in his head. Ordinarily, he’d not give the wayward lass a second glance. Aye, she
was pretty, the same way a wicked faery or a thistle blossom was pretty. She was far too full of fire and mischief for his
taste. He preferred his women agreeable, predictable, and English. Didn’t he?

“ ’Tis just up the lane,” she said dismissively. “I’m sure I’ll be safe now.”

He frowned. How had they traveled so far so fast? He still hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of that note. He’d have to move
more quickly.

“I’ll see ye to the door,” he told her, glancing down at her knife sheath, where he knew the missive was hidden.
“ ’Twould be a travesty to have come so far, only to be accosted by—”

The words stuck in his throat as she turned and her baggy shirt slipped off of one shoulder, exposing supple flesh that looked
as smooth and delicious as honey.

She smirked. “Who would accost
me—
a lass clad in men’s clothing?” She shook her head as if he were a dolt, then turned to start down the alley.

He had to think fast, which wasn’t easy when the blood was rushing from one’s head to one’s nether regions.

“Wait,” he said, loping up to her.

Her smile was bright, if a little strained. “Thank ye, sir, for bein’ a gentleman. ’Tisn’t somethin’ I’d expect from a… well,
a Highlander. But now that I’m home safe, I must
insist
,” she said, borrowing his phrase, “that ye be on your way.”

The lass was right. A real Highlander wouldn’t bow politely and let his quarry escape. A real Highlander would damn well take
what he wanted.

Silently cursing the desperation that made him act so ignobly, and praying his reflexes weren’t completely dulled by beer,
Drew reached out, caught Jossy’s arm, and hauled her into an embrace.

The instant his lips touched hers, he heard her sharp intake of breath and feared he’d shortly feel the prick of her knife.
But it didn’t come.

What came instead felt like a brand searing his soul.

She tasted like summer—warm and ripe and sweet. Her mouth was soft and much more yielding than her dry wit and caustic tongue
had led him to expect.

Still she didn’t stab him.

He increased the pressure of his lips, sinking into the
kiss like a child tasting his first peach—surprised, then pleased, then intoxicated by the sweetness. He began to feel delightfully
drunk, a sensation that had nothing to do with beer.

Still, by some miracle, Jossy let him live.

True, her left fist, which pushed ineffectually at his chest, was trapped between them. But as he’d hoped, she’d drawn her
knife with her right hand, likely dislodging the missive, and that hand was perfectly capable of killing him.

Emboldened by her lack of violent response, Drew pulled her closer against him, deepening the kiss. He tangled one hand in
her silky curls, knocking off her hat, and slanted his mouth across hers as if claiming her for his own. The blood flowed
hot in his veins, sang in his ears, rushed to his loins.