Chapter 6

The crowd began to disperse. Mary’s procession was moving toward the Tollbooth. Drew could easily make his escape now, retreat to the comfort of his lodgings, settle in front of the fire with a frothy pint of ale, and forget about the whole upsetting debacle.

But something prevented him. Something with flashing green eyes, wild honey hair, and a filthy mouth. Something that was quickening his pulse and rousing the beast in his trews.

As a rule, Drew kept his distance when it came to exchanges with the natives. The less they knew about him, the better. His dark scowl kept most people away. For those to whom he had to be civil, he’d learned to affect Highland charm to steer the conversation away from personal matters. As for intimate encounters, he employed discreet wenches who charged for their services and their silence.

Why he felt drawn to engage a wee, fiery-tempered, trews-wearing lass who was a danger to herself and others, he didn’t know. Surely it had nothing to do with her rosy pink lips, the rough whiskey timber of her voice, or the thought of what bewitching charms might lie beneath that baggy shirt.

Lord, he thought, shaking his head, he’d spent too many days of late on the links and not enough feeding his carnal appetites.

The lass might be beautiful, but she was trouble. ’Twas a mistake to intervene in the affairs of quarrelsome Scots. And the last thing Drew needed was to draw the notice of their queen.

But he supposed he was obliged to help the maid. She was partly right—it had been his idea to expose her. The queen might never have noticed her had it not been for the waving pennant of her dazzling curls.

Besides, be they Scottish or English, he’d never been the sort who could walk away from tiny, helpless creatures. Especially those with sparkling eyes and tempting lips.

He’d at least get the lass out of immediate danger and on the road home. He owed her that much.

He studied the departing entourage to measure its progress.

“Look, lass,” he offered, “I’ll take ye as far as Roslin.” With the current speed of the procession, they had about an hour’s advantage.

“I’m not goin’.”

“We should leave before the…” He swung his head back to her. “What?”

“I’m not goin’.” Her arms were crossed stubbornly over her chest.

He checked quickly for witnesses, then lowered his head to whisper, “If ye leave before the procession’s o’er, ye can escape ere they know ye’re gone.”

Her eyes narrowed with disdain. “Spoken like a true Highlander.” She looked him up and down. “If ye get into a scrape, ye just scamper off into the hills, don’t ye, never to be heard from again.”

He blinked. He believed he’d just been insulted.

“I’m no coward,” she told him, “and I’m a woman o’ my word. I told the man I’d meet him, and meet him I will.”

Despite her brave vow, she was still a wee, naïve country lass from Selkirk who was about to get herself into more trouble than she realized.

He told himself ’twasn’t his duty to set wayward innocents on proper paths, particularly not enemy wayward innocents.

’Twas folly for an Englishman to traffic with Scots.

’Twas madness to traffic with Scots royals.

And ’twas the height of insanity for Drew to endanger his entire mission of vengeance for an impertinent, foolish, hot-tempered brat of a lass he’d just met who clearly didn’t want his aid.

But, God help him, the words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Fine. I’ll escort ye to The White Hart then.”

She lifted her impertinent, pointy chin. “Nae, ye go along. Shoo. Run off into the hills. ’Tisn’t your fight.”

’Twasn’t his fight. The people here could worship the Pope, the Heavenly Father, or the ancient Celtic gods as far as he cared.

But now the lass had insulted his honor and issued a challenge. He straightened proudly, fixing her with a stern gaze.

“I’m no coward either, lass,” he bit out. “Let’s go. ’Twas me who sliced ye into the rough. I’ll be damned if I won’t chip ye out of it.”

Her forehead creased in mild confusion.

He smirked. He had spent too much time on the links.

“Come along, lass,” he said with a resigned sigh, offering his arm. “Whatever the queen’s intent, after sufferin’ the sneers of her high and mighty secretary, we could both use a pint.”

She refused his arm, but let him accompany her as they weaved their way down Lawnmarket, past the tall buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder along the street. They made an admittedly odd pair—an Englishman in the guise of a Highlander escorting a lass in the guise of a lad. For someone accustomed to blending in with the crowd, Drew felt dangerously exposed as they ambled down the Royal Mile.

Still, he’d sworn to accompany the lass to the inn. He supposed if he was marching to his execution, he might as well do it with a pretty wench at his side.

Josselin grew curiously quiet as they walked past the crowded shops. When Drew gave her a sidelong glance, he saw that she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. The closer they got to their destination, the tighter she knitted her brows. Apparently, the stouthearted maid wasn’t quite as stouthearted as she pretended to be.

In golf, when Drew was faced with the prospect of a particularly daunting match, he found it best not to dwell on the game too much. A bit of distraction was beneficial. Perhaps he could distract the lass from her worries with his Highland charm.

“So tell me, lass…Jossy is it?”

“Josselin.”

“Tell me, Jossy,” he said, ignoring her disapproving scowl, “where did ye get your trews? From your father? Brother? Lover?” He cocked a brow. “Or is that what all the lasses are wearin’ in Selkirk?”

She gave him a long-suffering glare. “My da.”

“Ah, the same da who warned ye away from strangers…and taverns…and losin’ your temper?”

She sighed. “Aye.”

“Did he also teach ye to fight with a knife?”

“Nae, that was my other da.”

That stopped him in his tracks. “Your other da? How many do ye have?”

“Three.”

“Three?” That she needed to explain. He reached for her elbow, hauling her around to face him.

She instantly wheeled on him with her dagger drawn. “Get your bloody—”

Before she could finish, he’d seized her wrist and plucked the blade from her.

Her jaw dropped.

He, too, was startled. He hadn’t needed his defensive reflexes in a while. It appeared they were still in good working order.

After a moment of mutually shocked silence, they spoke at the same time.

“What the…?”

“How did…?”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Reflexes.”

“Instincts.”

They avoided one another’s eyes, finally exchanging brief sheepish smiles.

He returned her dagger.

She sheathed it.

After an awkward moment, they resumed their journey, turning left down Grassmarket.

In the prolonged silence, Drew stole sideways glances at Josselin, who looked strangely adorable in her floppy hat and her baggy trews. ’Twas hard to believe such a sweet-faced kitten had such sharp claws. He wondered if she possessed sinuous feline curves as well beneath that voluminous clothing.

Before long, the lass started biting nervously at her lip again, and Drew was struck with the most profoundly mad urge to kiss her fretful mouth. Indeed, he decided that if he weren’t sure she’d run him through, he’d be glad to distract her from her worries with a kiss. Seduction was the best diversion he knew.

Lord, what was he thinking? He was already taking far too many chances in escorting the lass. The wise thing would be to bid her a quick farewell at the inn and, considering the wicked bent of his thoughts, perhaps take himself to the nearest bawdyhouse.

In the meantime, he’d continue with the second best diversion he knew—conversation.

“Knife-fightin’, eh? I suppose ’tis a good skill for your three fathers to teach ye,” he said with a shrug, adding pointedly, “if they’re goin’ to let ye wander loose on your own.”

“Wander loose?” she echoed. “I’m not a bloody sheep. I’ll be damned if I need watchin’ o’er.”

“Ach, lass!” he said, wincing. “Did ye learn the filthy language from your fathers as well?”

She pierced him with a glare.

“Nae?” He shook his head, allowing a gleam of mischief to enter his eyes. “Well, I’ve never heard such words from a lass…at least not outside o’ the Canongate stews.”

Her eyes widened at his wicked suggestion, then closed to smoldering green slits. Apparently unable to think of a vile enough retort that wouldn’t further prove his point, she resorted to giving him a hearty punch in the arm.

Drew figured he deserved it. Josselin was no more a harlot than he was the Archbishop of St. Andrews. The way she whipped out her blade at the slightest provocation, ’twas surely a rare man who got within arm’s reach of her. And with three fathers hovering about, he doubted the lass had so much as been pecked upon the cheek.

He rubbed at the place she’d struck him. “Marry, ye’ve got a strong arm on ye, Jossy,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Maybe ye’re a caber-tosser then.”

She gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Aye, that’s it. So ye’d better beware, Highlander. One wrong move, and I’ll toss ye on your bloody arse.”

He clucked his tongue at her swearing. “Dreadful.”

The White Hart was just ahead. He almost regretted arriving so soon. No matter that she was Scottish, Josselin was surely the most refreshingly forthright and entertaining lass he’d met in a while. He’d almost be sorry to leave her.

“What about ye?” she asked. “Shepherd or cattle-thief?”

He chuckled. Lowlanders assumed all Highlanders were one or the other. “Neither.”

“Then what’s your trade?”

“I golf.”

“Golf?” she scoffed. “’Tisn’t a trade.”

“’Tis if ye win.”

They stopped below the sign of The White Hart—a green background with the head of a white deer painted on it.

“And I suppose ye win all the time?” she asked, freeing the tankard from her belt.

“Most o’ the time.”

“Good.” She pushed her way through the door of the inn. “Then ye can buy the beer.”