Chapter 11

Drew liked to think of himself as a lone wolf, roaming the woods of Scotland on his own, keeping to the shadows, never forming attachments, never staying in one place too long. At choice spots, he’d emerge to feed on the native prey, then return to the sanctuary of the forest.

So the fact that he’d been in Edinburgh long enough for the innkeeper at The Sheep Heid to start calling him by name and for the tavern wench to have memorized his favorite brew was completely against his usual conduct.

He’d lingered for two weeks after the queen’s procession, playing consecutive golf matches at Musselburgh, Berwick, Carnoustie, and St. Andrews, and winning most of them. To his chagrin, the wagering crowd was beginning to think of Drew MacAdam as a local favorite.

He justified his loitering, saying ’twas foolish to leave while he was on a winning streak.

He even half convinced himself that simple curiosity compelled him to remain until the date mentioned in the mysterious missive from Queen Mary’s secretary, particularly since the rendezvous was set for a location he knew so well.

Neither of these were the real reason he was still in Edinburgh. The real reason stood about twenty yards to his left at the edge of the Leith links, serving beer to thirsty Scotsmen.

He wouldn’t have seriously wagered on seeing Jossy again. Edinburgh was a big city. Jossy was a wee lass. She’d left the inn she was staying in, and no one knew where she’d gone. Probably home like a sensible lass. Even if she hadn’t gone home, Drew imagined the queen’s secretary had more important things to do tomorrow than keep a vague appointment with a lowly tavern wench from Selkirk.

But the improbable odds hadn’t kept him from loitering about till that date, watching for her on the streets of Edinburgh. And it hadn’t stopped his pulse from quickening at the sight of any wench with long blond tresses.

Less than an hour ago, he’d decided ’twas an unhealthy obsession, some imagined attraction based on the distorted memory of a kiss that had only seemed to move the earth.

He’d determined to leave Edinburgh tonight. Today he’d play and beat Leith’s champion, Campbell Muir. Then he’d return to the inn, pack his things, and head north.

’Twas for the best, he told himself. The lass had a curious effect on him, and he didn’t much like curious effects. They could interfere with his concentration and throw off his game.

But to his chagrin, no sooner had he vowed to leave than the lass suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the midst of the Leith course, hawking beer from a wagon to the wagerers at the match. In that instant, all of Drew’s well-laid plans went awry.

Faith, the lass looked even more beautiful in women’s clothing. She might be small-boned, less than voluptuous, and able to pass for a lad. But she wore no oversized man’s shirt today. Her snugly laced bodice accentuated the subtle curves she possessed. Muted green skirts flared over her gentle hips. And the soft puff of her white linen chemise floated atop her breasts. As he stole a glance, a breeze caught the edge of the sheer fabric, revealing a glimpse of tempting flesh that took his breath away.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she chatted with her customers. Her honey hair, peeking out from the linen coif perched on her head, gleamed in the morning sunlight. Her smile sparkled like a rippling stream. Her eyes shone with merriment and mischief. And his body responded with all the poise of a rutting deer.

Clenching his teeth against a wave of disconcerting lust, he turned his back, waiting for Muir to start the match.

The attraction he felt to her was inexplicable. Jossy wasn’t at all what he preferred in a woman. He could list several things that were wrong with her already, and he scarcely knew her.

First of all, she was Scottish, therefore his enemy.

Second, she was blond, and he generally favored brunettes.

Third, she was scrawny, and he liked his women pleasantly plump.

Fourth, she was headstrong, and everyone knew that headstrong lasses were trouble.

Fifth…

“MacAdam.”

Fifth…

“MacAdam!”

“Aye?” he murmured.

Muir had taken his swing. ’Twas Drew’s turn.

With a sobering shake of his head, Drew selected his club and placed his ball. But try as he might, he couldn’t focus on his swing. It had nothing to do with the boisterous shouts of encouragement and discouragement fired his way, the aggressive goading and cajoling, the cacophonous praise and insults, or the inevitable shoving that occurred in any crowd of drunks. He was distracted by the comely lass he could glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

Even his opponent’s secret weapon, the enormous hound Muir had trained to menace his opponents, was no match for Drew’s fixation. Though the dog snapped and barked and lunged at him in deadly threat, ’twasn’t the animal’s antics that interfered with Drew’s drive, but the fact that his gaze kept drifting to the beer wagon.

He desired the lass. That was all. Surely there was nothing more to his fascination. She was like a beautiful, mysterious, challenging course he had yet to play, a course that, once conquered, would no longer hold appeal for him.

’Twas simple then. All he need do to curb his obsession was to give in to it. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, played upon her field and learned the hazards and sweet spots of her particular landscape, he’d doubtless be cured of his lovesickness.

’Twas decided then. He’d court the lass.

He glanced over at the tempting maid, who was tying on her apron, preparing for the incoming onslaught of patrons. He wondered why she was still in Edinburgh, why she’d decided not to return to her sleepy village and her three fathers after all. Had she indeed indentured herself to the queen’s secretary? Was she working off a debt to the crown as a tavern wench?

While Muir lined up his next shot—his dog presently by his side, as docile as an orphaned lamb—Drew was able to study Jossy further from the refuge of the crowd.

The lass definitely knew her trade. Not only could she fill a tankard without spilling a drop, but she could take coin for one beer, tempt a man into buying a second, and dance out of a third’s grasp all at the same time.

“MacAdam, stop droolin’ o’er your next beer,” Muir scolded, “and get your head in the game!”

The crowd laughed, and at that very moment, Jossy spotted him.