MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

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 fathers 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.

  Chapter 10

  Glancing 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.

  ’Twas madness, what he was doing, and in a moment he was sure he’d be skewered. But he couldn’t stop himself. Whether ’twas the strong Scots brew, the sultry September afternoon, or his long abstinence, Drew felt incapable of tearing himself away from the pleasure of the moment. He was drowning in a sea of desire, and there was nothing he could do to resist the Siren dragging him down.

  Then she made that sound.

  ’Twasn’t anything really. Just a small moan. The kind of sound a child might make in her sleep, as soft as the mew of a nursing kitten.

  But that innocent sound struck at the sweet spot of Drew’s lust, driving him straight toward the point of no return.

  He answered with a groan that came from the depths of his manhood, and, fueled by his own primitive response, he feasted upon her with increasing urgency, nudging her lips apart to taste the fruit within.

  If she were going to kill him, she’d surely do it now. And he’d probably never even feel the prick of the blade.

  Josselin knew her hand was around her knife. She could feel the worn leather grip in her palm. And there was no mistake that the Highlander was overstepping his bounds, committing the most grievous insult upon her person. She should by all means use her blade on him.

  ’Twas what her fathers had prepared her for—defending herself against the improper advances of a wicked stranger.

  But somehow, though the knife was in her hand and she knew how to use it, she couldn’t force herself to plunge the blade into the Highlander’s gut.

  In fact, at the moment, she couldn’t force herself to let go of the man’s shirt. Or twist out of his arms. Or tear herself away from his mouth.

  Some devil had a hold of her, and she’d be damned if she could resist his temptation.

  With a savage groan, the Highlander pressed her back against the stone wall, pinning her there with his mass, devouring her with the desperation of a starving animal.

  She should have been terrified. No one had ever taken such liberties with her, cornering her and kissing her with such blatant possession.

  At the very least, she should have been furious with the brute. Seduction was a low form of betrayal.

  Instead, she felt wildly alive. Her heart raced, and heat unfurled in her body like a blossoming rose. She gasped against his mouth, which was rough and foreign and male. They were not gasps of pain, but a curious breathlessness that kept her hungering for more.

  The Highlander must have slipped some intoxicating poison into her beer, she decided, one that stole her willpower, dizzied her senses, and made her throb in places no man had ever touched.

  Worse, it made her respond in kind, clinging to him like ivy to a wall, slaking her feverish thirst upon his lips, moaning as if he somehow tortured the sound out of her.

  ’Twas the clatter of her knife on the cobblestones, dropped from her slack fingers, that broke the enchantment. She gasped, and they both drew back in horror.

  Rattling his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, the Highlander bent to seize her dropped weapon.

  Flustered, Josselin wiped the back of her mouth with a trembling hand. She tried to snap at him, but her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “I should skewer ye for that.”

  He lifted a brow over one languid eye. “Probably.” Despite confiscating her knife, as he hunkered there before her, the Highlander seemed as curiously vulnerable as she felt.

  “Is that all ye have to say?” she demanded. Lord, his eyes smoldered like live coals. And his mouth looked absolutely…delicious.

  He came slowly to his feet. “If ye think I’m goin’ to say I’m sorry,” he said, passing her the knife, hilt-first, “I’m not.”

  She bit her lip. She wasn’t exactly sorry either. She’d never felt anything quite so thrilling. But ’twas very unchivalrous of him not to accept the blame.

  She sheathed her knife. “I was right,” she bit out. “Ye’re nothin’ but a savage Highlander, swivin’ anythin’ that’ll stand still. I should have jabbed ye while I could. And I will if ye follow me. Go on now. Go back to your sheep.”

  She swept up her hat, jammed it back on her head, and turned on her heel. Then she stomped off in the direction of the inn before Drew could see the confusing glow of arousal and humiliation coloring her skin.

  He may not have followed her, but she felt his hot gaze tracing her all the way down the lane. She swore she wouldn’t look back at him. And she didn’t. Until she arrived at the door of the inn.

  The Highlander was standing just where she’d left him. But now he leaned with cocky arrogance against the wall, waving something over his head like a taunt.

  Suddenly, her heart seized and her eyes widened. She clapped a hand to her knife-sheath. The note from Philipe!

  She narrowed her eyes, steeling herself for the worst.

  “Ye lose somethin’?” he called out.

  She mouthed a silent oath.

  Damn the rake! How had he…?

  Transfixed by the incriminating scrap of paper grasped between his careless fingers, Josselin worried her lip. The Highlander had no idea what he possessed or how important ’twas.

  He continued to wave the note with maddening negligence. “I believe ye dropped this!” he yelled.

  Josselin flinched. Did men have to bellow everything?

  She glanced about for witnesses, then forcefully gestured for him to come to her.

  “Oh, nae!” he shouted with a shake of his head. “I’ve no wish to be skewered! Don’t follow me, ye said. I don’t need to be told twice!”

  His voice attracted the attention of a man staying on the second floor of the inn, who leaned out from his window.

  “Come here!” Josselin hissed.

  “If ye want it,” Drew yelled, “ye’ll have to come and get it!”

  The housekeeper appeared at another window, opening the shutters to see what all the shouting was about.

  The last thing a spy wanted was attention. Josselin hadn’t even started on her first assignment, and already her vow of secrecy was being jeopardized.

  Though it chafed against every fiber of her being to come at the man’s beckoning, Josselin had no other recourse. As quietly and calmly as she could, she retraced her steps. But under her breath, she cursed the smirking Highlander every step of the way.

  Of course, she was nearly as vexed with herself as she was with Drew. Entrusted with a task by the queen’s secretary not two hours ago, she’d already lost her first message and endangered her first mission. What kind of a spy would she make if she let frivolous passions distract her from the queen’s business?

  Sobered by her own lapse of judgment and with newfound resolve, Josselin stopped before Drew and held her hand out for the missive.

  The Highlander, too, seemed to have collected his wits since she’d stormed off. He was back to his grinning, cocksure, irritating self.

  “I knew ye couldn’t stay away,” he teased.

  She arched a brow. “And I knew ye couldn’t leave without stealin’ somethin’.”

  He coughed as if she’d punched him, then snickered and shook his head. He placed the note in her palm, closing her fingers gently over it. To her mortification, she actually shivered at his touch.

  “Ye’d best hold on tight, lass,” he murmured
with a knowing smirk. “I’d hate to see ye lose your ‘invitation to the royal supper.’”

  His sarcasm gave her pause. Had the cad read the missive, her missive?

  Of course he had. Who would be able to resist? How else would he know it belonged to her?

  She glanced uncertainly at the Highlander, whose eyes danced with mirth.

  ’Twas no laughing matter. She’d signed an oath of allegiance to Queen Mary. She’d sworn that if ever she were compromised, she’d take her own life rather than reveal her identity as the queen’s spy. If he’d read the note…

  “Go on, lass,” he urged, his gaze grazing her suggestively from head to toe, “ere ye lose both your note and your trews.”

  Josselin fumed. He was a vile, vile man. She couldn’t believe she’d let him…let him…

  ’Twas too terrible to think about.

  “Mind your own bloody affairs,” she snapped, shoving the note into her belt, and whipping smartly about to march back toward the inn. “All o’ ye!” she shouted to the small mob of curious onlookers that now leaned out of the windows over the lane, chasing them back inside.

  Halfway to the door, she turned back toward Drew to fire off one last warning. “If ye know what’s best for ye,” she hissed, sliding her knife halfway out of its sheath in threat, “ye’ll forget what ye read in that note.”

  He turned away with a grin, tossing a lazy wave of farewell over his shoulder.

  “Silly lass,” he called back. “Highlanders can’t read.”

  Chapter 11

  Drew liked to think of himself as a lone wolf, roaming the woods of Scotland on his own, keeping to the shadows, never forming attachments, never staying in one place too long. At choice spots, he’d emerge to feed on the native prey, then return to the sanctuary of the forest.

  So the fact that he’d been in Edinburgh long enough for the innkeeper at The Sheep Heid to start calling him by name and for the tavern wench to have memorized his favorite brew was completely against his usual conduct.

  He’d lingered for two weeks after the queen’s procession, playing consecutive golf matches at Musselburgh, Berwick, Carnoustie, and St. Andrews, and winning most of them. To his chagrin, the wagering crowd was beginning to think of Drew MacAdam as a local favorite.