Chapter 16

Drew couldn’t stop grinning as he strode across the green. ’Twas mad, he knew, but matching wits with the wee blonde with the reckless temper, flashing eyes, and wicked tongue was almost as exciting as matching strokes with opponents in golf. The beautiful spitfire gave as good as she got, and ’twas a pleasure to tangle with a woman who was so bright and full of fire.

He’d been right about the rendezvous at Musselburgh. Standing in the midst of the crowd, right on schedule, was Philipe de la Fontaine. But why was he meeting Jossy at the links? Certainly not for a tryst.

Retrieving his ball and clubs, Drew made his way to the start of the course, where the contestants and spectators were gathering.

Today Drew would face off against the champion of Carnoustie. The purse was sizeable, and there were sure to be scores of enthusiasts gambling on the outcome. Already the green teemed with a motley crowd—noblemen, servants, soldiers, apprentices, merchants, men young and old, rich and not so rich—all eager to increase their wealth.

’Twasn’t difficult to discern which man was his rival. Dressed in a dapper green doublet with slashed sleeves in the German style, his shock of white hair tucked under a black cap with a white feather, the man held court at the tee, regaling his slack-jawed admirers with legendary tales of his triumphs on the links. The man was a born storyteller, reenacting some of his swings with such enthusiasm that he nearly whacked several bystanders who wandered too close.

Indeed, ’twas one of those near misses that alerted Drew to the scrawny youth who gave a peculiar squeak as he dodged out of the club’s way.

Drew studied the young man as the fellow moved through the crowd, then stopped to talk to another youth. Something wasn’t quite right about him. In fact, neither of the lads looked right. Despite being full-grown, they had not a hint of a beard between them, and their faces were as pink and sweet as peaches. Their behavior was strange, too. Their glances were secretive and suspicious, as if they were up to mischief.

The truth finally smacked him in the forehead. They weren’t lads. They were lasses disguised as lads.

Marry, ’twas like a contagion!

Was there a shortage of proper gowns in Scotland? Were females infiltrating the men’s ranks to spy on them? Or was this a backlash to John Knox’s fashionable denigration of women? Maybe ’twas true what Drew’s uncles claimed—that the Scots sent lasses into battle—because they didn’t realize they were lasses.

Whatever the reason, Drew found it curious that no other men seemed to notice there were females among them.

Drew waited politely until his opponent finished demonstrating his dramatic final putt from yesterday’s game to approach and offer his hand. “Drew MacAdam.”

“Ronald Metz.”

The man had a firm handshake, a wide smile, and a gleam in his eye that said, I’d be delighted to pummel you.

Drew nodded in greeting, fairly confident he was not going to be pummeled today.

He was right. Metz was good. He was obviously a seasoned golfer. But Drew was better. He had youth on his side—a smooth, powerful swing that allowed him to place the ball precisely where he wanted it.

He also had a secret incentive. As childish as ’twas, Drew intended to make Jossy eat her words. She’d discounted him as a cheat. He’d prove otherwise. There was nothing like the prospect of gloating to inspire one’s performance. So he saved his most impressive shots for the green in front of the beer wagon, where Jossy would be sure to hear the gasps of disbelief and congratulatory cheers from the crowd.

At the seventh hole, the contestants took a break, and servants were sent to fetch beer for the thirsty spectators.

Meanwhile, Drew kept a watch on Philipe, who remained behind with the nobles. The secretary hadn’t yet openly acknowledged Jossy. Drew wondered what the man was up to, why he’d ordered this mysterious rendezvous if he was bent on ignoring the lass.

By the last hole, the game was close enough to generate a continuous cacophony of threats, bets, and cursing from gamblers, detractors, supporters, and drunks. Drew didn’t care. He’d learned from his training with a sword to block outside distractions, to go in for the kill.

When he gently nudged the ball into the hole with his putting cleek, half the crowd erupted in cheers, and half of them turned the air hot with their swearing.

He grinned. He’d won by a stroke.

And now Jossy owed him an apology.

“Victory for the Highlander!” somebody crowed.

“Brilliant, MacAdam!”

“Fine game, lad.”

Metz dispiritedly extended his hand. “Well played, MacAdam,” he grumbled.

Drew shook his hand and beamed with Highland charm. “’Twas an honor to play ye, Metz. Your golfin’ exploits are legendary.” ’Twasn’t entirely true, but Drew had been listening to them all morn, and his praise seemed to take the edge off of Metz’s disappointment.

“Sir, Ambrose Scott,” a tall lad in the crowd said by way of introduction, offering his hand to Drew. “I’d like to buy the champion a pint, if ye’ll allow me.”

If Drew was rattled by the youth’s offer, he wasn’t about to show it. And he knew better than to turn it down. After all, one didn’t refuse beer from the Queen of Scotland.