She glared at him.
He broke into a grin. “Come here then,” he said, motioning to her. “Watch me. Ye address the ball like so.” He spread his legs slightly to form an uneven triangle with the ball, which perched on the mound of sand. He moved aside then, inviting her to stand in his place.
She imitated his stance and placed the head of the club behind the ball.
“That’s right,” he said. “Now look down the green until ye see the hole.”
“Where?”
He placed his head beside hers and pointed it out. “Do ye see it?”
His hair was soft against her cheek, and his breath was warm and stirring. She couldn’t see the air in front of her, much less the hole.
“Aye,” she lied.
“Your feet should line up with the hole, but after that, ye don’t want to look at it. Ye want to keep your eye on the ball.”
She nodded, and he took a large step backward for safety’s sake. Keeping her gaze locked on the elm ball, she reared back and slashed forward with all her might, finishing the swing above her head.
The ball hadn’t budged. She frowned.
He snickered. “Well, that’s one way to make sure ye don’t lose the ball.”
“What did I do?”
“Ye tried too hard. Don’t chop at the thing. Swing through it.”
She squared up to the ball again.
“Bend your knees.”
She did.
“Find your balance.”
She did.
“Keep your eye on the target, and take a smooth, even swing.”
Josselin realized his instructions sounded very familiar. ’Twas the same advice her fathers gave her for swordfighting. Maybe golfing wasn’t that different from dueling. Perhaps if she imagined the wooden ball was the head of an Englishman…
She hit the target this time with a crack, and she felt the shiver of the club all the way up her arm. When she looked up, the ball was rolling gently across the green.
“Well done!” Drew said, applauding.
She shrugged, though she had to admit there was something satisfying about knocking a ball about with a stick. “Now what?”
“Ye go find it and hit it again.”
She did. It took her nearly twenty strokes and a few different clubs, but she finally got the ball within close range of the hole.
“Now ye’re ready for the puttin’ cleek,” he said. “Ye just need a light tap. Some like to kneel to putt, but I prefer to stand.”
She smiled. Of course the proud Highlander preferred to stand. Then so would she. “I’ll stand.”
He nodded. With amazing dexterity, he hooked his boot under the grip of his putting cleek as it lay on the ground, flipped the club up smartly into his hand, gave it a twirl, and handed it to her with a cocky flourish. Then he came behind her again to guide her swing.
Perhaps ’twas the exertion of the game or the heat of the sun, which was fully above the sea now, or just her proximity to a man who might be a dangerous spy, but Josselin felt suddenly warm as Drew placed his arms around hers once more and whispered against her hair.
“We’ll try a few swings without the ball. Line your feet up with the hole, find your balance, and keep your head down.”
He’d pushed up his sleeves now, and the touch of his bare flesh on hers was heavenly.
“Here’s the secret,” he confided. “Take a few deep breaths.”
They breathed together.
“Now let out all your air, give one smooth swing, and push the ball into the hole.”
They practiced three more times, then Drew backed away and pronounced her ready to address the ball.
She took three breaths and let out the third, easing the club forward, and swept the ball straight into the hole.
Then she let out a whoop and turned to grin at Drew.
“I did it!”
His eyes sparkled, his teeth flashed in the morning sun, and before Josselin even knew what she was doing, she rushed forward to give him a hug of victory.
Laughing, he picked her up and swung her around. She squealed, clinging to him, and for a moment she felt like a child again.
Then his circling slowed, and his grin faded, and she grew aware that they were not children, not at all. His body felt powerful and masculine against hers. His mouth looked delicious and inviting. The spice of his damp skin was heady. And the smoldering lust in his gaze…
“MacAdam!”
Ballocks.
She staggered back, stunned, and Drew steadied her, then scowled, nodding to acknowledge the interloper on the course, his opponent, Michael Cochrane.
“I thought that was ye!” the man shouted, trotting over to greet him. He was a burly fellow with bushy brows and a long beard, and there was a satchel of golf clubs slung over his broad shoulder.
“Cochrane,” Drew called out. “Ye’re early.”
Cochrane shook his head. “Nae. There’s already a line at the beer wagon. So how’ve ye been, MacAdam? I hear ye beat the trews off o’ Metz. And ye’ve been makin’ a name for…”
Josselin didn’t hear anything else. A line at the beer wagon? Damn, where had the time gone? She had to get back. What if she missed her contact?
With her heart in her throat, she picked up her skirts and fairly flew across the green.
Chapter 26
Josselin decided she must be the worst spy ever. Not only had she misplaced missives, abandoned her post, drunk herself into a stupor, and grown dangerously fond of a man who might be an enemy of the queen, but she didn’t have anything to show for all her efforts.
Fortunately, she hadn’t missed her contact. He came midway through the afternoon, and his note was now safe with her.
But what was she going to do about the Highlander?
He’d done something to her this morn. Playing golf with him had made her feel alive, the way she did when she perfected a new move with her sword. The two of them seemed to be kindred spirits, delighting in the same small triumphs and cursing over the same disappointments. But kindred spirits didn’t begin to describe the closeness she felt to Drew when he wrapped his arms about her or whispered against her cheek or pressed against her backside…
She fanned herself with a rag.
This was insufferable. Drew MacAdam was an enigma. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him.
She had to find out whether he was a spy, here and now. If he was, she’d know for certain that his flirtation was only a ruse to get information from her. But if he wasn’t…
Her heart flipped over at the possibilities, but she put her head firmly in charge.
If he wasn’t a spy, she could move on to another target, knowing Drew was harmless.
Drew and Cochrane were back on the far side of the course, battling it out for the second time today after tying their first match and taking a break for the crowd to visit the beer wagon. All their tankards were full now. They wouldn’t return for a while. Josselin could leave Davey in charge and steal away to The Sheep Heid.
’Twould take half an hour at most. Josselin could make her way to the inn, sneak into Drew’s room, rifle through his things, and be back at the beer wagon before the Highlander was done for the day.
Then she’d know for sure where they stood.
Aye, she decided, untying her apron and leaving it on the counter. By sunset, she’d know if Drew was friend or foe.
The tavern wench at The Sheep Heid gave her a curious perusal when she walked in, but Josselin recalled her Da Will’s advice about hiding a weak defense with a strong offense. She gave the maid an arrogant scowl, holding her head high as she made her way up the stairs.
Fortunately, nobody locked doors in a small village like Musselburgh. She pushed her way through the third door and closed it quickly behind her.
The room was dim. The shutters were closed, and the fire was banked. Pausing a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, she spotted a candle. She took it to the hearth and stirred th
e coals just enough to light the wick.
These were definitely his quarters. An array of golf clubs leaned against one wall, and two saffron shirts were hung on a cupboard near the fire to dry. A pitcher and basin sat on a small table in the corner, and beside them were his personal items.
She walked around the bed, giving it an anxious glance. She could too easily imagine the handsome Highlander stretched out naked upon it.
Setting the candle down, she inspected his belongings. There was a razor, tooth powder, and a mirror case, nothing suspicious. She picked up the chunk of wool-fat soap and sniffed it. It smelled like Drew—clean and manly, with a subtle hint of clove. There was also a wooden comb that probably didn’t get much use.
Next she searched the cupboard. The top shelf was filled with hose and linen rags, a few belts and leather gloves, and other odds and ends of clothing.
Cutlery and tools occupied the second shelf, along with small bottles of what seemed to be either spices or medicines.
The bottom shelf held a small wooden chest, and Josselin’s heart raced at the sight. If any evidence existed to prove Drew was a spy, ’twould probably be in that chest.
She carefully slid it from the shelf. ’Twas surprisingly heavy for its size, and she swiftly set it on the bed.
Gazing down at the simply carved box, she hesitated. Truthfully, she didn’t want to find proof that Drew was a spy. As uncomfortable as ’twas to confess, she…
She…liked…the Highlander.
There was absolutely no good reason for it. He was rude and crude and cocky. He teased her and smirked at her and kissed her without leave. He was everything Lowlanders despised about Highlanders.
But there was something in his eyes and his smile that told her there was sunken treasure to be found beneath his turbulent sea, and Josselin was curious enough to want to delve under those waves.
Still, she dared not let her heart have its way until her head was satisfied with the man’s innocence and all suspicions were put to rest.
So, taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted the lid of the chest and brought the candle near. To her surprise, bright coins gleamed up at her in the candlelight—a veritable fortune. She’d never seen so much silver in one place. ’Twas true what he’d said then—one could make a living, knocking a ball around in the grass.
She let a few coins trickle through her fingers, making sure there were no secret documents hidden in their midst. Then she closed the lid and returned the chest to the cupboard.
He seemed to have no other possessions. Still, a good spy would cache incriminating evidence in the least conspicuous places. So she searched the cracks in the walls, the stones of the hearth, beneath his pillow, under his bed. There was nothing.
One spot remained. Behind the door, a heavy woolen plaid hung from a peg on the wall, draped over a pair of tall boots. She ran her fingers over the folds of the plaid and found something rigid. Moving the cloth out of the way, she exposed a finely tooled leather scabbard. One end of it rested in one of the boots, and propped against the wall was the silver hilt of the sword within it.
Biting her lip, she tipped the weapon toward herself and ran her fingers over the wrapped leather grip. ’Twas of excellent craftsmanship, the kind of blade a swordmaster might own. What was a golfer doing with it?
She angled her head to examine the graceful arcs of the swept hilt. Where had Drew gotten such a fine sword? Had he stolen it? Taken it in payment of a golfing debt? Killed someone for it?
Unable to resist taking a peek at such a beautiful weapon, she began to slide the sword gently from its sheath. She smiled. The blade was of fine steel, probably Spanish. ’Twas brilliant, flawless, and sharp enough to split a hair. What she wouldn’t give to own a sword like…
A thump on the stair startled her. Someone was coming. She blew out the candle, dropped the sword back into its scabbard, scrambled behind the plaid and froze.
Chapter 27
Despite the lack of light, Drew knew the instant he walked into the room that he wasn’t alone. ’Twas almost impossible to see into the shadows, but the waxy scent of a freshly extinguished candle hung in the air, and he could sense…a presence.
For once, he wished he’d worn his sword. With a blade in his hand, he always felt invincible.
He supposed he could back out of the room and save himself the trouble of an altercation. But he had valuable golf clubs inside, not to mention his earnings, and he wasn’t about to let a common thief get the better of him.
Closing the door behind him as if nothing was wrong, he slipped the satchel of clubs off his shoulder, sliding out the jagged-edged niblick he’d just broken on a sand shot.
Reason told him that the intruder had probably slithered under his bed. ’Twas the only place in the room to hide. If so, the man was essentially trapped and helpless. Still, Drew would feel more comfortable facing the rascal with his sword in hand.
Listening in the direction of the bed for sudden movement and firmly gripping the niblick in his left hand, he sidled casually toward the plaid hung on the wall and fumbled beneath the fabric for his scabbard.
The instant his fingers contacted flesh, his instincts took over, and he reacted with lightning speed. He might not have his blade at hand, but any weapon would do at a pinch.
He gripped the niblick in both hands, planning to trap the intruder against the wall.
But the scoundrel slipped out from beneath his plaid and skittered along the wall like a startled cricket.
Drew pursued, following the sound of panicked breathing. Twice his fingers contacted cloth, but each time, the slippery villain managed to skip out of his grasp.
Finally he cornered the intruder. With a growl of victory, Drew advanced slowly forward, raising his niblick horizontally to force the fellow back. Then he slammed him against the wall, pinning him there with his body and pressing the shaft of the niblick across the man’s scrawny throat.
One moment more, and Josselin might have been able to unsheathe that magnificent sword and defend herself against her assailant. But he’d entered too quickly, found her too soon, and cornered her with the speed of a hunting hound.
Whoever had sneaked into Drew’s room knew what he was doing. Maybe he was a master thief. Or a Reformer contact. Or an assassin. Whoever he was, he’d been trained in mortal combat. And whatever weapon he pressed against her throat was threatening to close her windpipe. If she didn’t act now, within a few heartbeats she’d run out of air.
Fortunately, she always carried her dagger. Wincing against the bruising pressure at her throat, she drew her knife and drove her hand forward toward the man’s belly.
Which suddenly wasn’t there.
He’d dodged out of the way.
She tried again, but her dagger swished through empty air. Somehow his weapon pushed tighter against her neck, and the dark room began to fill with bright spots of light.
She clawed at his forearm with her left hand and slashed once more, this time aiming for his left arm. At the last instant, as if he’d read her intent, he pulled that arm out of reach, which made him loosen his stranglehold on her slightly.
Thank God Angus had taught her a few dirty fighting tricks. Forgetting about her dagger, she cocked her leg and brought it up hard to drive her knee into his crotch.
And missed.
He’d apparently guessed ’twould be her next move.
Luckily, his dodge had made him drop whatever he’d been holding against her throat, and it clattered to the floor.
She sucked in a welcome breath and swung her knife forward in a wide circular arc, hoping to find a target. But the blade whistled through the air. Stepping forward, she tried again. And again.
Where had he gone? She squinted into the shadows and listened for sounds of movement.
Without warning, she was seized low about the knees and upended. She gasped, expecting to hit the floor and crack her skull.
But she didn’t. She fell headlong onto the bed, and befor
e she could recover from the shock of her soft landing, she was crushed into the bedding by the weight of her assailant.
He pried the dagger from her fingers, then seized her wrists, securing them with one fist above her head and trapping her beneath him.
She struggled against him to no avail, and for several moments there was only the sound of their labored breathing.
“Well, now,” her attacker finally grunted, his Highland brogue unmistakable, “let’s see what we have here.”
Josselin stiffened. ’Twas Drew. But how could that be? He was a golfer, not a fighter. Wasn’t he?
A dozen questions fired through her brain in the span of an instant.
What was he doing back so soon from the course?
Did he not realize ’twas her? Or had he followed her here?
Where had he learned to fight like that?
Was he a spy? Or wasn’t he?
She’d found nothing incriminating in his room. But that didn’t necessarily mean Drew wasn’t a spy. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of spy who gathered information or passed encrypted missives. Maybe he was the kind of spy who killed those who got in the way.
With his free hand, Drew used a golf club to reach the hearth, stirring the coals. They flared enough to afford a small bit of light, enough for Drew to see who she was and for Josselin to glimpse the horrified look on his face when he saw who she was.
“Jossy?”
He immediately released her wrists and levered himself off of her chest, still straddling her.
So that answered one of her questions. He hadn’t known ’twas she when he attacked. But several other questions remained.
If Drew was only a golfer, why did he have that sword?
How had he known someone was in the room?
And where the bloody hell had he learned to fight like that?
Now that she was discovered and he’d released her, should she feign innocence? Did he mean her no harm? Or was she still in danger?
“Jossy?” he repeated, blinking in disbelief.
Josselin compressed her lips. Her fathers had taught her to err on the side of caution. Self-protection was paramount.
MacAdam's Lass Page 13
