Chapter 9

Drew sat back with feigned indifference, all the while watching Philipe de la Fontaine’s every move. He wished he’d chosen a closer table. Unable to hear over the rolling dice and cheering players, the best Drew could do was watch for trouble.

Why he should worry, he didn’t know. The lass might look as pretty and delicate as an English peach, but she was more lethal than a thistle tipped with poison. If Philipe made any wrong moves, she’d likely pull a blade on the poor fool.

Still, from what he’d seen of her so far, Josselin of Selkirk seemed to attract trouble, and this might prove to be more than she could handle alone.

They were talking rather animatedly, and so far Jossy was holding her own with the royal secretary rather than cowering in fear or misplaced humility.

But when the man pulled out a scroll of vellum and a quill from his penner and uncorked his inkhorn on the table, Drew straightened.

The secretary began writing something on the page while Jossy grimly looked on.

Still, the lass didn’t seem to be in distress. She didn’t try to garner Drew’s attention. She didn’t wave. She didn’t wink. She didn’t so much as glance his way.

Finally, the secretary reversed the page and handed her the pen, and Drew fought the urge to bolt forward and tear the vellum out of her hands.

What was she signing? A letter of apology? A writ of guilt? Her own death warrant?

He tried to read her face, but ’twas nigh impossible to read the face of a stranger. Was her expression calm stoicism? Resigned defeat? Silent dread? When she passed the paper back to the secretary, her countenance was as solemn as the grave.

The secretary fanned the ink to dry it, then rolled the document and slipped it inside his doublet. He scrawled something on another small scrap of paper and handed it to Jossy, who nodded and tucked it covertly into her knife sheath. Finally, to Drew’s astonishment, the secretary counted out several silver coins into her palm.

Drew decided the lass had an uncanny knack for relieving men of their riches.

The Frenchman rose to go then, sketching an elegant bow of farewell.

Drew’s instincts told him not to confront the man. If Philipe de la Fontaine intended to harm the lass, Drew reasoned, he wouldn’t be leaving her unguarded, nor would he have paid her silver. So as Philipe turned, Drew dropped his head onto his arms atop the table as if he’d passed out and began snoring loudly.

He didn’t look up again until the door closed behind Philipe. Then he cast a quick glance at Jossy, who sat deep in thought, staring at the age-warped planks of the floor.

He approached her, tempted to demand what the bloody hell she’d just signed. But knowing he’d catch no flies with vinegar, he summoned up his Highland charm.

“So,” he said with a wink, “the Frenchman didn’t come to drag ye off to gaol after all.”

She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Nae.” She gave him an evasive smile. “He only wished to convey the queen’s appreciation.”

“Appreciation?” he asked, lowering himself to the vacant chair.

“For my loyalty. For defendin’ her name.”

“Ah.”

He signaled the tavern wench for another beer. He hadn’t intended on staying, but now that the immediate danger was past, his curiosity got the best of him.

Jossy elaborated. “With John Knox and his ilk tarnishin’ her good name, the queen is grateful for loyal subjects.”

“Is that so?” He tapped a finger twice on the tabletop in front of her. “And was that a document of appreciation ye were signin’ then?”

His question rattled her, but she managed an answer. “’Twas a…’twas an invitation.” He noticed, however, she wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“An invitation from the queen,” he said with a low whistle of amazement. “To dinner?”

“Nae.”

“What then?”

He could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to come up with a suitable lie. In the end, she forfeited.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” she told him haughtily.

Drew’s beer arrived at that moment, and he was glad of the interruption, for it gave him time to ponder her words.

What would she have signed that she didn’t want him to know about? What kind of deal had she made with the devil? Had the man blackmailed her? Indentured her? Or worse? And what had he scribbled onto that scrap of paper?

Whatever he’d written, ’twas apparent that Philipe de la Fontaine wasn’t finished with the lass.

Drew had to get a look at that note.

Even while a small voice in his ear told him that he was a fool, that he should look after his own affairs and leave the lass to hers, he couldn’t shake off the fear that Jossy had somehow just signed away her life, that she’d trapped herself in some royal intrigue that was far more perilous than anything she’d encountered in the sleepy village of Selkirk, and that ’twas his fault.

Josselin’s head was spinning. She felt as if she were balancing at the edge of a cliff, peering down at the loch below, about to plunge into unfamiliar waters. The current might carry her safely, or she might drown in the murky depths. But now that she’d committed to the leap, everything was in the hands of fate.

Philipe had made her the most amazing, dangerous, exciting offer. As unbelievable as it seemed, he’d asked Josselin to serve as part of the queen’s network of spies. Philipe had told her that women were often employed in intelligence-gathering because they were least likely to arouse suspicion. Not even the queen herself would be aware that Josselin was her spy. Mary would simply believe that Philipe had found work for Josselin selling beer.

The secretary had already enlisted male spies in the field to infiltrate John Knox’s ranks and gather information about the Reformation uprising, but he had to have a secure method for collecting that information. He needed someone who appeared harmless, who could move easily in various circles, who could make contact with the queen’s agents beneath the noses of the most dangerous Reformers.

The men of Scotland, Philipe had told her, had two great passions—golf and beer. In Edinburgh, when there was a golf match afoot, every man with five pence in his purse would buy a pint with four pence and wager his last penny on the game. Peasant, noble, merchant, clergyman—it made no difference. When there was gambling to be done and beer to be drunk, all Scots partook equally.

In the diverse crowds that attended golf matches, clandestine contacts could be easily made. And a beer wagon set up beside the course was the perfect contrivance for the exchange of encrypted messages. The queen’s spies need only buy a pint of beer from Josselin to slip her their missive, which she could later deliver to Philipe at this very inn.

“Another pint to celebrate disaster averted?” offered the Highlander, proving Philipe’s point about Scots and their drink.

“What?” she said distractedly. “Oh, nae, thank ye.” There was much to do, and she had to order her thoughts.

“I’m buyin’,” he tempted.

“Nae, I’ve had quite enough.” With effort, she turned her pensive scowl into a wide-eyed smile. Philipe had warned her to do nothing to arouse suspicion.

“Somethin’ more to eat then?”

“Nae.” She needed to make several purchases. Philipe had said he’d provide a horsecart and driver for her, as well as taking care of her lodging here at the inn. But she’d have to buy provender and clothing—women’s clothing, and settle up with her current innkeeper. She also needed to find someone to carry a missive to Selkirk so her fathers wouldn’t fret over her. She couldn’t reveal many details, of course, but she’d tell them not to worry, that she’d secured a position in the queen’s service and was living safely in Edinburgh.

“At least let me walk ye to your lodgin’s,” the Highlander offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” she began, then realized her swift dismissal might seem suspicious. After all, the man had brought her to the inn, bought her food and drink, and offered to protect her. He’d expect a little gratitude. “I mean, ye’ve done so much already.”

“’Twas nothin’,” he assured her.

“Ye really needn’t trouble yourself.”

“’Tis no trouble.”

“I wouldn’t dream of askin’ ye to—”

“I insist.”

Somehow she’d known he’d say that. The Highlander seemed to enjoy insisting. First he’d insisted on escorting her to the inn. Then he’d insisted she finish his meal. Now he was insisting she let him accompany her to her lodgings. And that coy little wink of his didn’t make his insistence any less irritating.

“Fine,” she said. “But I don’t intend to dally.”

Taking her words to heart, he saluted her with his tankard, then upended it, guzzling the beer with all the untempered expedience she’d expect from a Highlander, and banging it down on the table. “Shall we?”

She shook her head, wondering if he’d make it to the inn before he passed out. The Highlanders’ reputation notwithstanding, the man clearly had no capacity for beer. She’d stolen a peek at him a moment ago, and he’d been slouched over the table, snoring into his tankard.