Chapter 7

The instant Josselin stepped inside, a sense of ease came over her. Though she’d never set foot in The White Hart before, everything was familiar: the dim, crowded room with a crackling fire on the hearth, the clatter of dice, the chatter of tipplers, the pungent aromas of strong ale, mutton pies, and aged leather.

She’d spent a good part of the last seven years working in Kate’s tavern. ’Twasn’t exactly the safest place for a young lass, but Will had always been a whistle away, and he’d taught her at an early age to defend herself from drunken patrons with straying hands.

Poor Will. She realized now that she’d broken all three of the promises she’d made to her loyal guardian.

She’d lost her temper.

She’d trafficked with a stranger.

And she was about to spend the afternoon in a tavern by herself.

No, she corrected, not by herself. The stranger had insisted on coming with her.

She didn’t mind too much. He was pleasant enough to look at, despite his dearth of Highland charm.

Besides, the truth was her purse had grown dangerously light. The cost of the inn where she was staying had been unexpectedly exorbitant, especially considering its absence of a level floor and proper shutters. She had just enough coin left to purchase one night of lodging, one loaf of bread, and one jack of ale for the trek home. As long as he was paying, she could use an extra pint to steady her nerves.

“Two beers,” the Highlander called out to the tavern wench, unhooking his own tankard and banging the two cups on the counter.

“Your finest!” Josselin amended as they headed toward a small table in the corner. “And don’t be waterin’ it down.”

The Highlander arched a brow at her.

“’Tis my trade,” she explained dryly, “between tossin’ cabers. I work at a tavern in Selkirk.”

“Ah.”

They took their seats, and when the beer arrived, Josselin took a cautious sip. ’Twasn’t bad. Not as good as Kate’s, of course, but passable. She wasn’t about to complain. The Highlander had paid for it, and she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She lifted her tankard in a salute and took one healthy swallow. Then another. And another. Once begun, she couldn’t stop. She hadn’t realized how badly the morn’s events had rattled her. The bracing drink seemed like a magic elixir.

“God’s bones!” the Highlander whispered in alarm. “Slow down, lass.”

With an embarrassed sniff, she set her half-empty tankard on the table, wrapping her hands around it possessively.

“Don’t ye want your wits about ye?” he asked.

Actually, she was tempted to drink herself into oblivion.

He shook his head, and one corner of his lip turned up in merriment. He reached into the small satchel at his waist, producing a linen handkerchief. He motioned her forward.

Wary of his intentions, she leaned tentatively toward him.

Before she could compose herself to resist, he captured her chin in one hand and, with the other, began dabbing with the handkerchief at her frothy upper lip.

Maybe ’twas the shock of the morning. Maybe ’twas the half-pint of ale she’d just quaffed. But instead of telling him to keep his hands to himself and blackening his eye, she let him attend to her.

His fingers were warm against her cheek, and his touch was surprisingly gentle. He was so close she could discern the stubble on his face and the half-amused, half-irritated glitter in his eyes.

“There,” he said, finishing and tucking the handkerchief away. “Ye don’t want to look like a mad dog, foamin’ at the mouth, when Mary’s man comes.”

Josselin glanced down at her beer, wishing more than ever she could gulp down the contents and order another. The prospect of meeting the queen’s secretary wasn’t half as unsettling as the notion that she’d allowed the Highlander to put his hands on her.

The Highlander. Lord, she didn’t even know the man’s name.

“Thank ye…” She glanced up expectantly.

“Drew.”

“Drew.”

He saluted her with his tankard and took a few swallows. “So tell me, Jossy, how is it ye come to have three fathers?”

She shrugged. “My real mother and father both died when I was a bairn. The three men who found me looked after me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She took a sip of beer and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t remember my parents, not at all.”

He stared into his beer, and an inscrutable sweet sorrow came into his eyes. “Maybe ’tis better that way.”

She wondered what had saddened him, but she didn’t ask. Her Da Alasdair had taught her ’twasn’t polite to pry. Besides, the man would likely be gone in an hour, and she’d never see him again, so what was the point?

Instead, she finished her drink, careful not to leave foam on her lip this time. Then she set the tankard down, tapping idly on its rim and eyeing the tavern wench.

“Can ye handle another?” Drew asked.

“Are ye buyin’?”

He smiled and summoned the maid.

Josselin knew she probably shouldn’t drink another. She’d had nothing for breakfast, and on an empty stomach, she’d soon be feeling the full effects of the beer.

But every time she relived the events of the morn and thought about their possible consequences, she felt like she needed a good swallow of something to wash away the taste of fear in her mouth.

What she’d told Drew was true. She’d never run in her life. She’d never let fear master her. And she didn’t intend to start now.

Still, another fortifying pint wouldn’t be unwelcome.

“Another ale for my friend here,” Drew told the tavern wench.

The maid smiled coyly, giving the Highlander a thorough perusal, then picked up Josselin’s empty tankard without sparing her a glance. If she had, she might have noticed that Josselin wasn’t the lad she appeared to be.

Instead, the wench sidled up to Drew and said in a silky voice, “We don’t get many o’ your kind here. I’ve oft wondered, what is it ye Highlanders wear under your plaid?”

“I assure ye, lass,” he said with a suggestive lift of his brow, “there’s nothin’ worn under my—”

“Ach!” Josselin spat in disgust, “If I hear that jest one more time…” She smirked at the maid. “Don’t ye have beer-pourin’ to do?”

The maid was so astonished, she almost dropped the tankard. Josselin waved her away.

Halfway through her second beer, Josselin began to feel its soothing effects as her shoulders relaxed and a pleasant buzzing filled her head. She gazed casually over the top of her cup at the Highlander, who was staring into the fire with a faraway frown.

He resembled some beautiful, dark, wild avenging angel that might grace the wall of a chapel. His hair was in need of taming, and his jaw was shaded where he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His nose was straight, broad, and strong, and his mouth had a sweet curve to it, as if he were on the verge of a grin. But his eyes were most remarkable. They were deep-set and intense, shaded by heavy brows that seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, and their color was as clear and pure as a bluebottle blossom.

She wondered what he was thinking about as he gazed into the flickering firelight. Was he imagining his Highland home? Plotting a cattle raid? Pining for some long-lost mistress?

His gaze never left the hearth as he told her flatly, “Ye shouldn’t stare, lass. ’Tis rude.”

She averted her eyes, which wasn’t easy, considering how languid they’d suddenly become. “I wasn’t starin’. I was…glancin’.”

He brought his gaze around. A twinkle lurked in his eyes. “Aye? And what were ye glancin’ at?”

“Nothin’. I was just…” Her glance caught on his tankard. “I was wonderin’ if ye were goin’ to drink the rest o’ that?”

“In time,” he said.

She tried to raise a brow in challenge, though, in her condition, it may have only given her a quizzical look. “I’d heard Highlanders could outdrink Lowlanders, three to one.”

“So they say. But do ye know why?”

“Why?”

He leaned toward her. She leaned toward him. His eyes danced with mirth.

“Highlanders can’t count for shite.”