Chapter 15

The sun dawned bright on the links at Musselburgh. The game wouldn’t begin for another half hour, but Josselin wanted to be prepared. This was a championship match. Only the best would be invited to play. Philipe had told her that the queen, who was a devotee of the game, wished to see how skilled the local players were, and this match had been secretly arranged for her benefit.

Indeed, ’twas the promise of this meeting that had convinced Josselin to sign the document for Philipe that first day. She would be introduced to Mary and her court. ’Twould be a day she’d never forget.

Her hands trembled as she counted out the stacks of coins she kept ready for change. This was her chance to repair the bad first impression she’d given the queen, and she didn’t want to make any mistakes.

She smoothed her skirts and tucked stray wisps of her hair under her freshly washed white linen coif, then took a deep breath and stared off across the green. ’Twas a fine day to be outdoors. The grass was jeweled with dew, and the fluffy clouds that outlined the crags of Ard-thir Suidhe in sharp relief promised to temper the warm September sun. The sea was calm, the wind was gentle, and she could already see a lone golfer in the distance, practicing his swing at the edge of the rough.

She narrowed her eyes. Something about the man’s stance, his stature, the fluidity of his swing…

“Nae,” she whispered.

It couldn’t be. Not here. Not at Musselburgh, where the queen would be arriving any moment. Not when Josselin had to be at her best, unperturbed by the perturbing winks of a cocksure Highlander.

This was not going to happen. She had to get rid of him.

“Hey!” she yelled.

Her voice was as jarring to the quiet morn as a dog barking in the middle of church. But he didn’t seem to hear her.

“Hey!” she tried again.

Nothing.

Then, to make matters worse, she began to hear the faint conversations of groups of golfers and spectators arriving at the course.

“MacAdam!” she tried.

Nothing.

“Drew!”

He calmly swung his club, waited to see where his ball landed, and finally turned toward her expectantly. He’d heard her all along. The cad had just chosen to ignore her.

“Come here!” She motioned to him.

With an intentionally languid stride, the Highlander made his way to the beer wagon.

“What the hell are ye doin’ here?” she demanded.

He lowered one brow. “Weren’t ye callin’ me?”

“Not here. Here. At Musselburgh.” Her gesture encompassed the course.

“Ah,” he said, casually laying his golf club atop the counter. “Playin’ golf.”

She pushed his club away. “Ach, nae, ye’re not.”

He winked. “Aye, I am.”

“Give me your damned tankard,” she said, thrusting out her hand.

He shook his head. “I told ye, darlin’, I don’t drink while I play.”

“Ye’re not goin’ to play. Give me your tankard.”

“If this is about the beer ye owe me, I’ll collect it after the game.”

“There isn’t goin’ to be a game,” she insisted. “Ye’re goin’ to hand me your tankard. I’ll fill it with beer. And then ye’re goin’ to take your big wood sticks and wee wood balls and go home.”

He chuckled. “Ach, lass, what is it ye have against golf?”

“Nothin’. But this is a very important game between the local champions. Ye have no right to be—”

“I am a local champion.”

“What?”

“I won the game yesterday. If ye hadn’t scampered away like a frightened rabbit, ye’d know that.”

That came as a surprise, but he had cheated after all. Still, it didn’t change anything. She wanted him gone—before Queen Mary showed up.

“Ye can’t play here,” she told him, handing him his club.

“Is that so?” He wrinkled his nose doubtfully and used the head of the club to scratch his back. “And just how are ye thinkin’ to prevent me?”

She bit the corner of her lip. A dozen options went through her head, most of them involving some form of hand-to-hand combat. But before she could suggest anything, a large group of golfers arrived on the course, and in their midst, she glimpsed Philipe.

There was no time to battle the Highlander. She had to get rid of him now before Mary showed up.

“Ach, very well,” she said, throwing up her arms. “Play your bloody game then. But do it over there,” she said, pointing to the furthest hole.

He looked at her quizzically, laying his club across his shoulders and arching his back in a lazy stretch. “Ye really don’t understand golf at all, love, do ye?”

“Nae, and one day ye can tell me all about it.” She eyed the approaching crowd. “But today ye’ve got to be on your way.”

She leaned across the counter and pushed at his chest, which only served to amuse him.

“If I didn’t know better, lass, I’d say ye were plannin’ some kind o’ clandestine engagement.”

His words startled her. ’Twas precisely what she was planning. Philipe had scrawled this location and date on the note he’d given her, the one that the Highlander had intercepted. Was that why Drew was here at this exact time and place? He’d claimed he couldn’t read, but what if that weren’t true? Had Josselin’s mission been compromised?

His next words put her fears to rest.

“But a tryst with the queen’s secretary himself!” he said, whistling. “What high aspirations ye have. Don’t worry, lass. I won’t get in the way o’ your courtin’.” Leaning toward her, he confided, “Though I suspect ye’ll discover I’m a far better kisser than that mincin’ twit.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, then heard Philipe drawing dangerously close as he extolled the virtues of the course at Musselburgh.

“Aye, that’s it,” she shot back, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I’ve an impendin’ tryst with Philipe. So if ye’ll leave us alone…”

He flashed her a sly grin and made a deep, submissive bow to her before turning to wave brazenly at the approaching entourage.

At her gasp of horror, he clasped his club to his chest and silently mouthed the words, “Far better.” Then, blessedly, he turned away and trekked back to his ball.

Josselin blushed at the reminder, nervously tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Thankfully, Philipe seemed to be engaged in conversation with a small group of noblemen and probably hadn’t spotted Drew.

’Twasn’t until the entourage arrived at her beer wagon that Josselin realized with disappointment that the queen was not among them. As usual, they were all men—some nobles, some soldiers, some servants, some commoners—and everyone was thirsty.

She filled cup after cup until one of the youths caught her eye. He looked strangely familiar. He was short and fair of face, and his hands seemed small on the tankard he handed her to fill. When he glanced up in thanks, Josselin took a second look at his wide brown eyes and glanced quickly away before the lad’s secret could get out.

The youth was one of the Four Maries. She was sure of it. In fact, after careful inspection, she spotted all four of the queen’s ladies in masculine garb, scattered among the men.

Philipe had told her that the queen liked Josselin’s attire. Had Josselin inspired the women to disguise themselves?

She smiled in wonder. Most of the group of golfers and gamblers had no idea that their ranks had been infiltrated by women, and none of them knew they stood among royalty.

Then she noticed the tall, handsome, gangly youth in the scuffed black doublet, baggy brown trews, and feathered cap, and her smile grew even wider.