Chapter 13

Now that he’d confronted the lass who’d been dogging his thoughts, now that the seeds of seduction had been planted, Drew could focus on his game. He was already behind by four strokes, and nervous gamblers who’d bet on him to win were starting to mutter about withdrawing their wagers. But if anyone could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, ’twas Drew MacAdam.

First he made quick work of Campbell Muir’s hound. Before his next drive, Drew turned and growled at the dog with such menace that the beast whimpered, tucked his tail betwixt his legs, and lay silent for the rest of the game.

As for his golfing, Muir might have grown up on the shores of Leith, but Drew knew the course like the back of his hand. Soon he was making up for lost strokes and hitting improbable drives that would be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns tonight.

’Twas only when they’d reversed their way through the course and climbed the shallow hill in its midst that Drew spied the beer wagon again. He’d half expected Jossy to be gone.

Courting a lass who pretended to despise him was going to be a challenge. Still, she’d told him herself she wasn’t the kind of woman to flee in fear. Nor was Drew the kind of man to walk away from a difficult course.

When he got close enough to detect the hostile cross of her arms, the smug tilt of her chin, and the haughty arch of her brow, he decided ’twas time to show the lass what he was made of, to reveal his talents and earn a place, both in her heart and in the important match tomorrow.

He shaded his eyes, pretending to study the distant hole. “Ach! I’ve spit farther than that!” he announced, loud enough for Jossy to hear. “That hardly warrants a longnose. I could make the distance in three strokes of a fairway club and sink it in four,” he bragged, setting off a flurry of fresh single-hole wagering.

“And would ye be backin’ that boast with coin o’ your own, MacAdam?” Muir challenged.

“Let’s make it a gentleman’s wager. If ye win, Muir, I’ll buy ye a beer.”

All parties seemed satisfied, and Drew crouched to dribble sand into a pile for his tee.

What Drew neglected to reveal was that he planned to lose the wager. And when he did, Muir would collect his brimming tankard of beer, gulp it down like any manly, self-respecting Scot, and move on to the next hole, where Drew would again overestimate his abilities, wager Muir a tankard of beer, and intentionally lose.

In three more holes, Muir would be as drunk as a mackerel, lucky to connect with the ball at all, and Drew, while losing his single-hole wagers, would make up the strokes on the last holes and win the match by a mile. Best of all, Josselin from Selkirk would see just who held court on the Leith links.

Josselin smiled to herself. All the Highlander’s bluster would only make his trouncing that much sweeter. She wondered how long his self-satisfied grin would last when he tasted bitter defeat.

She didn’t know much about golf, just that grown men with nothing more productive to do chased wooden balls with sticks through fields, trying to force them into rabbit holes. It seemed a ludicrous preoccupation. But the fervid wagering that accompanied the pointless game was even more inane. And now that the Highlander had made that incredible boast, the stakes had been whipped up to a ridiculous frenzy.

Drew’s club made a loud crack as it struck. The ball shot like a cannonball across the green. The crowd exclaimed in surprise.

Josselin shook her head. She might have known the Highlander was too ham-fisted for his own good. He’d probably send the ball into the firth with his next drive.

Muir clipped his ball, and it veered slightly to the left, quite short of the hole.

As he made his second drive, Muir belched, setting off an animated argument about whether the stroke should count. It did.

Drew’s second swing was less forceful than his first, and he managed to place his ball within a respectable distance of his target.

Muir swung again, and his ball rolled to a spot near the rough. Two short drives got him within putting range.

With careful control, in two more strokes, Drew also tapped his ball to within a few feet of the hole.

Muir scored in two putts.

Drew took two as well, which left him one point closer to Muir, but disappointed those who’d wagered on his single-hole boast, leaving them groaning.

Josselin shook her head. ’Twould teach the braggart. Now he’d disappointed his supporters, and he owed Muir a beer. And when Drew came loping up to buy that beer, she couldn’t resist pointing out his mistake.

“Ye were right,” she told him. “Highlanders can’t count for shite.”

“Are ye sure, love?” he asked, giving her a wink. “Seems to me I’m catchin’ up.”

“There’s a lot o’ catchin’ up and not much green left,” she said smartly. “Ye can’t do it, Highlander.”

She filled Muir’s tankard and handed it back, and he saluted her with it. “Watch me.”

As much as she wanted to resist, she couldn’t help but steal a glance as he lined up his shot at the tee.

Why watching Drew swing a stick at a wee ball held her interest, she didn’t know. ’Twas only a silly sport, after all, a silly sport played by uncouth ruffians.

Yet there was something about that particular uncouth ruffian that made her breath catch, something that made it nearly impossible to look away.

There was nothing terribly remarkable about the Highlander’s physique. He wasn’t particularly tall or short, fat or thin. He didn’t have the enormous shoulders of a caber-tosser or the agility of an acrobat.

But his concentration was astounding, and there was controlled strength and a sensual grace in his swing that made it seem he commanded the flight of the ball from the moment he addressed it on the grass.

Watching him was like watching a master swordsman do battle, Josselin realized. The intensity of his focus, the balance of his body, the elegance of his movement, the power of his stroke…

’Twas breathtaking. Observing such perfect form made her heart pound as if she were watching an expert dueler wield a blade, and her face flamed with mortification as she realized she was staring.

Drew MacAdam had a gift. There was no denying it. Too bad he couldn’t count.

He was already up to his self-destructive tricks again. No sooner had Muir downed his prize beer for the previous hole than Drew began making outrageous claims about the next one.

“Nobody can make it in six!” someone spat.

“It has never been done,” another verified.

“I can, and I will,” Drew stated.

He didn’t.

He made it in seven. But Muir took nine.

Josselin frowned in amazement. Drew seemed a damned fine golfer. So why was he intentionally making bets he knew he’d lose?

When he came trotting up to fill Muir’s tankard a second time, several other thirsty spectators joined him.

She pulled Drew aside and whispered, “What game are ye playin’ at?”

He smiled. “’Tis called golf, lass. I thought ye knew that.”

“Ye know what I mean.” She took the tankard and filled it again. “Ye could easily outplay Muir. Why are ye teasin’ him like a cat dabblin’ with a mouse?”

“Teasin’ him? Maybe ye hadn’t noticed,” he told her, tossing four pence on the counter as he left, “but I’m the one payin’ for the beers.”

The game moved on to the next hole, and the combatants became distant specks on the rolling rise. But Josselin could tell by the sound of the crowd that Drew was making another unbelievable claim, and once again the drunken fools were falling for it.

Suddenly the truth struck her like a bolt of lightning.

Drew was getting Campbell Muir drunk. The Highlander might be losing his wagers on the individual holes, but his overall score was improving, while Muir’s was getting steadily worse.

The sly devil was cheating!

She was prepared this time when he raced up to the beer wagon just before the last hole.

“I know what ye’re up to, Highlander,” she said, ignoring Muir’s tankard and folding her arms, “and I won’t be a party to it.”

“What are ye talkin’ about?” he asked.

“Ye’re tryin’ to get Muir drunk.”

“He plays much worse when he’s drunk,” he admitted.

“Well, I won’t take part in such cheatin’.”

“Cheatin’?” He chortled. “And where were ye when Muir’s hound was tryin’ to bite me off at the knees?”

“That’s…different.”

He shook his head. “Be a good lass and fill Muir’s tankard.”

She lifted her chin in refusal.

In the distance came Muir’s drunken cry of, “Where’s my pint, MacAdam?”

Drew wiggled his brows at her, his pale blue eyes all innocence.

Giving him a glare that would frost fire, Josselin muttered a curse, snatched the tankard, filled it, and shoved it back into his hand.

He flipped her a bawbee to pay for it, which she caught in mid-air. Before she could give him change, he nodded his head in farewell.

“I’ll be back for another after the game,” he called back.

She stuffed the coin into her purse. “Ye’ll need it,” she yelled. “I hear beer is good for drownin’ one’s sorrows.”

“Oh, I won’t be drownin’ my sorrows, love,” he promised. “’Twill be a victory pint.”

Victorious or not, she didn’t intend to loiter around to serve him beer, nor would she give him his change. The extra coin would be a gratuity for having to put up with his roguery.

Besides, she had much more important things to think about than who won a silly golf game. Tomorrow she was going to her appointment with Philipe at Musselburgh. After two weeks of patient waiting, Josselin would finally receive an official introduction to the queen and the Four Maries. Tonight she’d make sure that she had a bath, the beer wagon was in order, and all thoughts of that troublesome Highlander were as far from her head as possible.