Chapter 12

For an instant, time stood still as Josselin stared in disbelief. Then the tankard she was filling overflowed onto her hand.

“Bloody…” she exclaimed, handing the patron his brimming cup and wiping her hand on her apron. When she ventured a second glance, the Highlander had turned away and was making his way to the next hole.

Perhaps ’twas only her imagination. Perhaps the golfer had only borne an uncanny resemblance to that other man, she thought as she stared over the heads of the patrons clamoring for beer.

Nae, she decided, studying the man’s backside as he strode down the green. That was definitely the Highlander’s cocky swagger.

“Hurry up, wench,” a grizzled merchant grumbled. “They’re movin’ down the course.”

Josselin bit back a retort, hastily filling the man’s cup and pocketing his coin.

Tankards were shoved her way as the mob vied to get their cups filled before play resumed. She worked with the fluidity of habit, no sooner topping off one foamy cup before starting another and never dropping a penny as she collected payment.

Meanwhile, her brain raced in mad circles as she tried to imagine what had happened to cause the Highlander to cross paths with her again.

The crowd thinned as the onlookers, their cups replenished, scrambled off toward the action. Then a small, wiry man with swarthy skin and fierce, dark eyes came up and expectantly handed her his wooden tankard.

“Four pence,” she told him, taking the cup and preparing to place it under the tap. But as she turned, her glance snagged on the rim of the cup, into which three curious notches were carved.

He was her contact.

Philipe’s instructions had been clear. She was never to acknowledge the contacts by word or deed. She would not learn their names. And she’d do her best to forget their faces. They had the most dangerous tasks of all, and ’twas up to Josselin to protect them.

So without saying a word, while her back was turned, she reached under the hollowed bottom of the wooden cup. Just as she expected, a folded missive was lodged there, stuck fast to the cup with a blob of wax. She quickly popped the wax loose and tucked the note into the concealed pocket in the waist of her kirtle.

The missive would be written in some sort of secret code, the encryption of which was a closely guarded secret. It might give times and locations of Reformation meetings, provide bits of news about the movements of Knox’s followers, or establish lists of those loyal and disloyal to the queen.

But the note would appear to be a love letter, something sappy and innocuous that a tavern wench like Josselin might carry about, something that would arouse no suspicion should she be discovered with it.

Filling his cup from the tap, Josselin returned it to the man and took his coin, but avoided looking at him. ’Twas easier to forget a man’s face if his face wasn’t too familiar.

He walked away, and already she couldn’t recall the color of his eyes or what he’d been wearing.

His wasn’t like the face of the Highlander, which seemed burned into her memory, much to her dismay.

Damn! she thought, briskly swabbing the counter with her rag. She’d figured the Highlander was long gone, halfway to Aberdeen by now, and that she could forget about her lapse in judgment and slip of propriety and focus on her new work.

But Drew’s mocking grin, laughing eyes, and stormy brow seemed to haunt her at every turn.

She told herself ’twas because she’d been vulnerable when she’d met him—new to Edinburgh, fresh from her encounter with the queen, caught off-guard by his improper advances.

But that didn’t explain why she felt the way she did now, why her heart fluttered and her breath stopped at the sight of him, why her blood warmed under his gaze.

“Ah, ye couldn’t stay away from me, could ye, darlin’?”

Startled, she stared blankly into the unforgettable grinning face of the Highlander, who had materialized at the beer wagon as if by magic. A golf club was slung across his shoulder, his brow was beaded with sweat, and he was out of breath.

Hoping he couldn’t see the blush rising in her cheeks, she frowned, muttering, “What are ye doin’ here?”

“At a beer wagon?” He raised an amused brow as if ’twas obvious. “Well, unless ye’re sellin’ somethin’ besides beer…”

“Nae, I mean here, at the links?”

“I’m a golfer. Remember?”

Remember? Aye, she remembered. Her gaze caught on his lips, lips she remembered all too well, and she felt her blood warm dangerously at the memory. Lord, she had to get rid of the man before she made a wanton fool of herself.

She held her hand out brusquely. “Your cup.”

He unbuckled his tankard and placed it in her hand, but didn’t release it immediately, leaning forward to confide, “Ye know, Jossy, all dressed up like a lady, ye’re quite a distraction. Faith, ye’re ruinin’ my game.”

“Is that so?” She ignored his flattery, snatching his tankard away and raising her chin. “Well, your game might go a wee bit better if ye stayed on the course,” she told him, nodding toward the crowd. “’Tis how ’tis played, I’m told.”

He glanced over his shoulder as if gauging how much time he had left. “The truth is, darlin’, ye’re much more pleasin’ company.”

“I’m not your darlin’,” she said, wheeling away to fill his tankard before he could see how his words had rattled her.

In the distance, she heard cries of “MacAdam! MacAdam!”

“I think someone’s callin’ ye, MacAdam,” she told him over her shoulder. “Maybe that hound o’ Muir’s wants a bite o’ your Highland arse.”

“Ach, lass,” he teased, clapping a hand to his heart, “’tis flatterin’ to know ye’re lookin’ after my arse.”

She bristled. How did he always manage to twist her words against her? She turned back to him, a scathing oath on her lips, but he was already loping away.

“Your beer!” she yelled after him.

“I ne’er drink durin’ a match!” he called back.

She thumped the full tankard down on the counter, slopping foam over her hand. She might not have time for a biting retort, but her gaze nipped at his departing Highland arse all the way across the green.

She threw down her rag like a challenge. Who did the Highlander think he was? And what was he doing on her course, interfering with her work? He may suppose he had some stake in the links because he could push a wee ball about with a stick, but Josselin was here by royal decree.

Of course, she couldn’t tell him that. She was sworn to secrecy. Which made the situation unbearable.

She picked up her rag again and narrowed her eyes at the wicked scoundrel across the course. Ruining his game, was she? He must be a terrible golfer if he was so easily distracted.

She patted the pocket at her waist. She had the missive now. She could pack up the cart and return with the driver to The White Hart, deliver the missive, and have the casks refilled for her important assignment at Musselburgh tomorrow.

But the stubborn streak in her, bred of her father’s determination and her mother’s indomitable will, made her decide to stay till the match was over. Drew MacAdam had upset her, thrown her off-balance, and left her feeling like a tongue-tied fool. She rather relished the thought of seeing him humiliated by the Leith champion.

She picked up the brimming cup, saluted the irksome Highlander with a mock toast, then downed half the beer. Only when she wiped the foam from her mouth did she remember the tankard she’d put her lips all over was Drew’s.