Chapter 5

Josselin gulped. As she stood there, breathless, the queen gave her a thorough inspection, perusing her from her tangled blond hair to her dusty leather boots. After what seemed an eternity, Mary finally passed the Bible and Psalter to her captain, then waved her fingers in a beckoning motion.

Josselin instinctively started to step forward, but the Highlander dug his fingers hard into her shoulders, holding her back.

Mary’s gesture hadn’t been meant for her, but for one of the royal officials. The distinguished-looking man approached the queen, who bent to whisper something in his ear, nodding toward Josselin.

While Josselin watched with bated breath, Mary gave her a slight dismissive nod, then urged her mount onward down the road, and the procession resumed.

Meanwhile, the official straightened his belt and strode directly toward Josselin. The crowd parted to make way for him.

He was French, tall and thin, perhaps a dozen years older than Josselin, and he looked mildly displeased. He had perceptive brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long nose that he probably found useful for looking down on people.

With a curt nod, he introduced himself. “I am the queen’s secretary, Philipe de la Fontaine. The queen has commanded that you make yourself known to me. You and I are to have a rendezvous today at The White Hart. You know the place?”

Josselin tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out. Faith, she’d received a command from the queen herself!

The Highlander answered. “I know the inn.”

“Very well,” the secretary said. He gave Josselin a belittling frown. “I expect to see you there this afternoon, Madame…?”

“Josselin,” she managed to croak.

“Zhos-a-lahn,” he repeated, using the French pronunciation. Then he gave her a brief, contemptuous inspection. “See if you can stay alive long enough to make the appointment.”

The secretary hastened off to catch the royal entourage, and gradually the crowd resumed their chattering. But Josselin’s pulse was still racing when the Highlander gently pried the dagger from her white knuckles.

“Ye aren’t from around here, are ye, lass?” he murmured.

“Nae,” she answered in a daze. “I’m from Selkirk. Holy saints, did ye see that? Did ye see how she—”

“Who brought ye to Edinburgh?”

She stared in wonder after the procession. “I came alone.”

“Alone?”

“My da said I could,” she said dreamily. The queen was well down the road now, but Josselin kept watching. “As long as I don’t talk to strangers. Or go to taverns. Or lose my temper.” She smiled. “Ach! Wait till I tell Da that the queen herself—”

“A piece of advice, lass,” he confided. “Hie home to Selkirk straight away.” He scooped up her hat, dusted it off, and pressed it into her hands. “Ye could be halfway there by afternoon.”

She snapped out of her stupor and frowned up at the man with the dark hair and the clear blue eyes, who really was quite handsome…for a Highlander. “Home? Why would I want to go home?”

He looked at her as if she were barmy. “Ye aren’t thinkin’ o’ keepin’ the appointment?”

“O’ course I am. The queen herself commanded it.” The sound of that sent a shiver of excitement through her. “The queen.” She couldn’t wait to tell her guardians.

He arched a stern brow. “Look, lass, before ye get your trews in a twist, I don’t expect ye’re bein’ invited to supper.”

Supper! That idea hadn’t even occurred to her. Was it possible? She tucked the corner of her lip under her teeth, imagining it. Then she recalled, “She smiled at me.”

“Royals always smile whilst they’re sharpenin’ their swords.”

She lowered her brows. The damned Highlander was ruining her good mood. “Ach! What would ye know?”

“I know ye brought the procession to a halt.” He shook his head. “I don’t imagine the queen’s too pleased about that.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. He had a point. Josselin had made an impression on the queen. But what if ’twas the wrong impression?

“I did draw a blade,” she admitted.

“Aye.”

“And I was brawlin’ in the street.”

She looked at him uncertainly.

“I’ve heard in the French courts,” he said, eyeing her garments, “they even have strict laws about dress.”

She looked down at the overlong hem of her linen shirt, clutching a fistful of it. “Do ye think I offended her?”

He gave her a maddening shrug.

Her shoulders sank. “I didn’t mean to offend her.”

Then she narrowed her gaze at the Highlander.

“This is all your fault!” she decided, swatting his chest with her hat. “If ye hadn’t stolen my hat, none o’ this would have happened.”

His lips curled into a smirk that was half-smile, half-frown. “Oh aye, lass. Instead ye’d be wheezin’ at me through a knife-hole in your chest.”

She scowled at him, jamming the hat back over her head. “Ye’ve obviously never seen me fight with a blade.”

“I’ve seen enough to know ye’ve got a hot temper that likely ruins your aim.” He handed her dagger back to her, hilt first.

She snatched it from him in irritation and slid it back into its sheath. Her Da Angus had told her the same thing a hundred times. She didn’t need to hear it from a bloody Highlander, no matter how handsome he was.