MacAdam's Lass

by Glynnis Campbell

  He must truly love Jossy. Why else would he plant himself in an inn thick with Scots spies? Or forgo golfing indefinitely? Or take on the guise of a pox-riddled old man with a bent back and a pronounced hobble?

  It hadn’t been easy, secretly following Jossy for the last several hours. But unbeknownst to the lass, she was in mortal danger. Someone had to keep a close watch on her, and it couldn’t be Drew MacAdam.

  He hadn’t wanted to frighten Jossy by revealing just how much peril she was in. But frankly, the fact that the Highland golfer had been marked as a suspicious character and that Josselin, a spy for the queen, had gone away with him for several days, did not bode well for her.

  If she’d disappeared for good, Philipe would have assumed that either her secrecy had been compromised or that she’d double-crossed him. He would have had her hunted down and killed. Indeed, Drew suspected Jossy’s suicide attempt might have been part of her spy’s oath—a necessary precaution when dealing with the consequences of falling into the hands of the enemy.

  There was no question—Jossy needed to return to Edinburgh to prove her loyalty. As for Drew MacAdam, he must appear to have fled to his distant Highland home, far from royal scrutiny. To all concerned, ’twould seem that the tie between Drew and Jossy had been severed. But someone would have to watch over the lass, and it couldn’t be Drew.

  That someone else was currently staying at The White Hart, in the chamber next to Jossy’s. Jossy hardly seemed to notice the hunched old man with the masked face and the gnarled walking staff who’d followed her to Musselburgh this morn. But Drew was content with that. As she’d told him once, the less she knew, the safer she was.

  Drew didn’t know how long he’d need to protect her. Hopefully, once D.S. learned Drew MacAdam had gone to Tintclachan, he’d give up the hunt, report his fruitless search to Philipe, and Jossy’s name would be cleared.

  On the other hand, if D.S. had followed them into the woods that day and seen Jossy, a royal spy, abducted by Englishmen, ’twas surely a death sentence for her. After all, Philipe had no way of knowing what traitorous secrets she’d spilled under enemy coercion.

  It should be clear in a matter of days where Jossy stood with Philipe. Until then, Drew dared not reveal himself to her. But he’d never be more than a dozen yards away, his sword hidden under his cloak, ready to defend her to the death.

  He peered at Jossy over the top of his tankard of beer. ’Twas the worst sort of torture, being so close to her, yet unable to speak to her, to reassure her, to touch her. It crushed him to think she believed he’d forsaken her. He wanted to go to her, tear off his mask, and declare his unwavering love.

  He watched as she pushed away her half-eaten pottage and tossed back her beer, then made her way up the stairs. He ached to sweep her off her feet and carry her there, to kiss away her sorrow and make sweet, tender love to her.

  He sighed. The poor lass’s heart must have broken into a million pieces when she learned he’d left her. Drew hoped when all this was over he could repair the damage he’d done. He prayed she’d forgive him and take him back. Love conquered all, the bards said. He hoped they were right.

  Josselin stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, waiting. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. The hunched man with the masked face and the hooded cloak had been dogging her all day, and once he noticed she’d retired upstairs, he’d no doubt follow at her heels. When he did, she’d be ready for him.

  There was a telltale squeak on the stair. The instant he stepped into the shadows of the landing, she pushed him up against the wall, intending to silence any protest with a forceful kiss. Instead she got a mouthful of linen.

  While she was spitting out the scarf, he took her by the shoulders and pinned her against the opposite wall.

  “What are ye doin’?” he hissed behind the mask.

  She smiled. “What do ye think I’m doin’?”

  He released one of her shoulders to tear away the scarf. “How did ye know ’twas me?” he whispered.

  “Oh, I didn’t,” she teased, reaching up to play with his ear. “I just have an affinity for poxy men.”

  He swore softly, then seized her roaming fingers, enclosing them in his hand, and repeated, “How did ye know?”

  She chuckled. “Why, love, did ye think I hadn’t memorized every inch o’ ye? After all…” She leaned close to whisper in his ear, “I’ve crossed swords with ye.” She took a deep breath of his intoxicating scent. “I’ve kissed ye.” She turned her head until their lips nearly touched and murmured against his mouth, “I’ve made love to ye.”

  His shuddering breath grazed her cheek.

  “I know ye…intimately,” she told him, freeing her hand to draw back his hood and run her fingers through his hair. “From your wild mane…” She wrapped her leg around his and slid her heel sensuously down the back of his calf. “To your scuffed boots.” She let her hand drift down his neck and beneath his shirt, stroking the thick muscles of his chest and arms. “From your broad shoulders…” Her other hand stole around his waist and lower to squeeze his buttocks. “To your firm arse.”

  She was rewarded with a groan of desire, but ’twas clear Drew had weightier matters on his mind.

  “Oh, lass,” he whispered brokenly, pushing her away and staggering backward. “We can’t. We mustn’t be seen together.”

  “Ye’re right,” she said, clasping his hand and tugging. “Come. We’ll hide in my chamber.”

  He resisted her pull. “Now, lass, ye know that isn’t what I… We can’t…” He extricated his hand from hers. “Damn it, lass, I have to keep ye safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “Aye.”

  “So ye’re guardin’ me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, what better way to guard me than to sleep at the foot o’ my bed?”

  “I’m not goin’ to—”

  “Shh,” she warned, placing her finger over his lips and frowning at some imagined noise. “Hurry.”

  She wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Taking his hand again, she pushed open the door and half-dragged him in.

  In the end, ’twas Josselin who slept at the foot of the bed, but only because they made such a chaotic mess of the linens that ’twas impossible to tell which end was which.

  Chapter 44

  Josselin was still glowing when she arrived at the Musselburgh course the next morn, but she was careful to avoid looking at the cloaked hunchback hanging at the back of the knot of spectators. In truth, she thought Drew was being overly cautious. After all, he didn’t know about the incriminating missive, which, thanks to her cunning, was no longer incriminating. As far as he knew, there was no evidence tying him to any espionage.

  But by now all of Musselburgh was well aware that the Highland champion had gone home, so she had no choice but to go along with the ruse. She supposed ’twouldn’t be so bad, as long as that pox-riddled old man visited her chamber once in a while. She smiled at the thought.

  Her reverie was suddenly interrupted when a nobleman in black emerged from the throng at the beer wagon to hand her a triple-notched tankard. She dutifully turned to fill it, feeling under the bottom of the cup for the missive. ’Twasn’t there.

  She quickly scanned the ground at her feet, fearing she’d dropped it. There was nothing.

  “Hurry up, wench!” someone barked.

  “They’re almost ready to tee off,” another added.

  She didn’t know what to do. Perhaps the contact had dropped the note. Deciding swiftly, she turned back to him and placed his empty cup on the counter.

  “I believe there’s a crack in your tankard, sir,” she told him slowly, hoping he’d comprehend her message. “Perhaps ye can find another and come back.”

  She started to turn toward the next patron, but the man in black snatched her wrist in his gloved hand. She gave a little gasp and glanced up into a pair of merry gray eyes.

  Loudly enough for the bystanders to hear, he said, “Here’s a coin
for your honesty, lass,” slipping a note into her hand. Still gripping her wrist, he leaned forward to whisper, “’Tis meant for ye.”

  Then he released her and turned to go, leaving his tankard on the counter and vanishing into the crowd.

  She shoved the missive into her pocket. There would be time to look at it later, when there were fewer witnesses about. But it rattled her to have a contact speak to her directly. And it troubled her even more that she’d taken a good, long look at him, and she’d never forget his face.

  The young nobleman was quite handsome. Beneath his black velvet cap with the black feather, dark, curly hair framed his swarthy face. He had a straight nose and an easy grin, but most memorable were his remarkable gray eyes, which gleamed like warm mercury, jolly with mirth and charm.

  He seemed the most unlikely spy.

  But then that was the point, wasn’t it? The best spies were the ones who looked like beer wagon wenches and merry noblemen.

  Gradually, most of the crowd dispersed to meander over the green, and Josselin finally had an opportunity to read the missive. ’Twas brief and to the point.

  J –

  Send driver back tonight. Meet me at Sheep’s Heid. Come alone.

  – P

  She ran her thumb over the P. ’Twas Philipe’s mark.

  She folded the missive and tucked it away.

  ’Twas very mysterious. What could it mean? Why did Philipe wish to see her alone? Had there been a surge in Reformation activity? Had a Knox plot been uncovered? Were her services required in some new, exciting capacity?

  She hoped so. To be honest, she was growing rather weary of serving beer to wagering fools.

  Josselin’s hackles had gone up the moment she arrived at The Sheep Heid and encountered, not Philipe, but the handsome nobleman in black from the golf course. Spying was a risky business, and surprises were most unwelcome, even when they came with laughing gray eyes.

  Nonetheless, she greeted him politely, taking a seat at his table while he ordered an ale for her.

  “Philipe sends his apologies,” he confided. “Some royal business came up, and he was unable to get away.”

  There was no reason not to trust him. But somehow she didn’t. “I see.”

  “He entrusted me to pass on his message.”

  “Aye?”

  Her ale arrived, and she took one sip, then set it down. She sensed ’twould be best to keep her wits about her.

  “First, he wanted to commend ye on your good work so far,” he said, smiling broadly. “He says ye’ve done your country a great service.”

  She warily returned his smile. “’Tis no more than any loyal Scot would do.”

  “Loyal, aye,” he said thoughtfully. “Philipe has in mind to reward ye for your loyalty.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Aye.” He gazed at her a little too long, then shook his head as if to stir himself from a dream. “Forgive me, lass. I never expected ye to be so bonnie.”

  His remark was unsettling, but she didn’t wish to give him cause for suspicion. So she lowered her eyes in feigned shyness and ran her fingertip idly around the rim of her cup. Meanwhile, her mind was working furiously. What kind of spy would say such a thing? What kind of spy would be so easily distracted by a woman’s beauty?

  “And now I’ve made ye blush,” he apologized. “Can ye forgive me?”

  Did the fool think he was putting her at ease? He wasn’t. In fact, she was growing impatient. She wished he would get on with Philipe’s message.

  “O’ course,” she said sweetly. Her patience might be limited, but she knew better than to annoy noblemen.

  “Philipe said ye were one o’ his most valuable assets,” he continued, “that ’twould be a shame to lose ye.”

  She glanced up in alarm. “Lose me?”

  “Aye,” he said, crinkling his eyes with pleasure. “Ye see, Philipe has great plans for ye.”

  Despite her wariness, she couldn’t help but be intrigued. “Great plans?” Already she could imagine commanding an army of spies or serving as the queen’s personal guard.

  “Oh, aye,” he assured her. “Ye know, I started out much as ye.” He chuckled, then leaned forward. “I wasn’t born a nobleman.”

  “Nae?”

  “Nae. ’Twas an honor conferred upon me for loyal service.”

  She raised a brow. “And were ye a beer wagon wench before?”

  He laughed. “Ah, ye’re a woman o’ wit, Josselin.”

  She flinched internally. Why did he know her by name? The missive had identified her as simply J.

  She took a sip of ale to ponder that. Had Philipe told him? ’Twas troubling. Anonymity among spies was sacrosanct.

  “A great wit,” he repeated, “with a lively sense of humor.”

  He’d scarcely met her. He couldn’t know anything about her sense of humor.

  She decided to play into his game. She flashed him a bright smile. “So what are these great plans Philipe has in store for me?”

  “Eager, are ye?” He gestured to her tankard. “Finish up your ale then. Ye’ll need a ride back to The White Hart, won’t ye? We’ll talk about it in the privacy o’ my coach.”

  Privacy of his coach? Josselin didn’t like the sound of that. Now she knew she didn’t want to drink another drop. “I’m far too excited to finish,” she gushed. “Why don’t ye just tell me now?”

  He glanced around the room. “There are too many ears here.”

  He stood and took her by the hand, bringing her to her feet and escorting her toward the door as if they were lovers.

  She was tempted to pull out of his grasp, to demand that he stop being coy with her and deliver his message without delay, and to tell him she’d bloody well find her own way back to The White Hart. But she knew one had to be careful with royal contacts. She’d already made numerous mistakes with Philipe. She couldn’t afford to offend his agent.

  Drew scowled into his ale. Following Jossy to The Sheep Heid had been risky. ’Twould be a miracle if the innkeeper didn’t recognize him, regardless of Drew’s hunched back, his bad limp, and his pox mask. But he’d taken that risk to safeguard the lass.

  The fact that she’d come, not to an assignation with Philipe as he’d expected, but to sup with the handsome nobleman from the golf course…

  He smirked beneath his mask. In his heart, he knew Jossy couldn’t possibly like the smug popinjay, but she was certainly making a good show of it. She smiled coyly at the fellow, running her finger around the rim of her tankard, and laughed at his remarks as if he were the most brilliant wit, while jealousy gnawed at Drew’s gut.

  It appeared he’d worried for nothing. This man was no assassin. He was clearly interested in courting Jossy, not killing her.

  Having seen enough, Drew was about to push up from the table when he saw the nobleman take Jossy’s hand. Her brow furrowed as the man glanced surreptitiously around the room, as if checking for witnesses. When the man stood, lifting her to her feet, Drew felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck.

  Drew recognized the look in his gleaming gray eyes. The man wanted to get Jossy alone. He intended to lull her into trusting him so he could seduce her and avail himself of her charms.

  Drew told himself that Jossy was a grown woman who could handle herself, that she knew damn well what she was doing, that she loved Drew and had no intention of letting the rogue have his way with her.

  He told himself that, but it didn’t keep him from following her when the nobleman escorted her out of the inn.

  The hour was getting late. ’Twould be dark soon. But when Josselin and the nobleman stepped outside ’twas still light enough to see there was no coach parked there, only a cart and horse and two lone cobs.

  At her hesitation, the man tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her along the perimeter of the inn.

  “I left the coach around back,” he explained.

  But when they reached the rear of the building, there was no coach there either. And
when his arm tightened around her hand, she knew there’d never been a coach.

  He’d lied to her.

  With her free hand, she drew her dagger and prepared to lay it against his throat. But to her shock, in the next instant she felt cold steel against her own neck.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  She hesitated, and he pressed the sharp tip against her flesh. She winced as she felt a sting and a tiny trickle of blood. Reluctantly, she dropped her dagger.

  “That’s a lass,” he said, as cheerily as before. “Now come along. ’Twould be a shame to bloody your gown.”

  For a fleeting moment, Josselin wondered where Drew was. After clinging to her like iron to a magnet for the last two days, he’d picked a fine time to let her out of his sight.

  Then the man wrenched her forward by the arm, and she had no choice but to be dragged along. All the way, she silently cursed her foolishness. She should never have believed him. He probably wasn’t even Philipe’s man. Whoever he was, he knew enough about her to trick her into following him.

  As they ventured farther and farther into the shadowy wood, Josselin started to wonder about his intent. What the devil did he want? Was he going to kidnap her? Hold her for ransom? Ravish her?

  And where the hell was Drew?

  The man finally stopped at a small clearing in the middle of the woods and turned to her.

  “I don’t believe I ever properly introduced myself,” he said with a polite dip of his head. “I’m Donald, Donald Syme.”

  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.”