Chapter 19
Drew didn’t think he could have gotten himself into a bigger mess if he’d tried. God’s wounds, an Englishman playing golf with the Queen of Scotland? His uncles would never believe it. Even he was having trouble believing it, and he was standing beside the young royal.
He was using as much Highland charm as he could muster to keep up appearances, but ’twasn’t easy under the hostile watch of the Selkirk lass.
Jossy had no cause to be vexed with him. He’d done as she wished. Against his better judgment, he’d accepted the queen’s challenge.
He may have refused to let Mary win, but that was a matter of honor. No golfer worth his clubs would intentionally throw a match.
And if he’d been forced to take certain liberties with Jossy, ’twas only in the interest of maintaining a believable pretense. ’Twas only a kiss. ’Twasn’t his fault if her heart may have quickened or her breath caught or a strong wave of desire washed over her, and the world seemed to disappear around them.
Not that it had affected him. He was accustomed to ignoring distractions. Aye, his pulse raced, but surely not because of that kiss. His pulse raced because he was in the presence of his most powerful foe. He might as well have placed his English neck on the executioner’s block.
’Twas still a mystery to him, what role Jossy had been asked to play for the royals. If she was merely the beer wagon wench, then why the need for such secrecy? There was something suspect about this arrangement.
Jossy’s fierce glare told him ’twas no concern of his. But he still felt responsible for the Selkirk lass, who was completely out of her element in Edinburgh. Drew had seen what had happened to those close to King Henry. Royals might be dangerous enemies, but they could be even more dangerous allies. And if Drew had to play Jossy’s lover to find out what was going on, he was more than willing to make that sacrifice.
She’d certainly need instruction, however, if they were to carry out the ruse. At the moment, the lass looked nothing like an adoring mistress. She looked ready to carve him up like a Sunday roast.
The queen finished off her beer and secured her empty tankard to her belt, then dug in her coin pouch and pulled out a penny.
“Here’s what I owe ye, sir.” She flipped the coin up, and Drew caught it. “Ye can buy that pretty wench o’ yours a trinket.”
Drew reached across the counter and snagged Jossy by the waist, pulling her near. “What do ye fancy, darlin’? A ribbon for your hair? A bit o’ gingerbread? A kerchief?”
Jossy’s body went as rigid as a golf club, and the smile she gave him could have cracked glass. But she managed to answer him sweetly for the queen’s sake.
“Ach, I’d dearly love a new thimble,” she said, “so I can guard against pricks.”
He pretended not to notice her choice of words. “’Tis yours, love,” he promised, leaning in to give her a hearty smack on the lips.
The queen bid them farewell then, joining the crowd headed for Edinburgh. The taverns would be filled with Drew’s supporters tonight, who’d spend their winnings on drink and spin tales about the great match between Metz and the Highlander.
Jossy’s smile stayed fixed to her face until Mary was out of sight. Then she wrenched out of his grasp, giving him a great shove and a glare that would pierce armor.
“Why did ye do that?” she demanded.
“Do what?”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Kiss me.”
He laughed. “What would ye have me do? Ye’re the one who came skippin’ out to the green after me like some lovesick calf.”
Her jaw dropped. “Lovesick…” Then, at a loss for proper words, she growled and tore off her apron.
“If ye’re goin’ to make a habit o’ deceivin’ the queen, darlin’, ye’d best learn to do a better job of it.”
“I’m not…deceivin’ the queen,” she told him, though she wouldn’t look him in the eye to say the words.
“She thinks ye’re just the beer wagon wench,” he said. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Her blush was confirmation, even if she denied his claim. “Ye don’t know what ye’re jabberin’ about.”
“What contract did ye make with that secretary?” he pressed. “Has he indentured ye? Blackmailed ye? Made ye sign away your life?”
She threw her apron down on the counter. “’Tis no bloody business o’ yours.”
He grabbed her hand, and she gasped. “’Tis, if ye come to harm because of it.”
She tugged back in protest, but not hard enough, he noticed, to pull free.
“Ye needn’t worry about me,” she said sulkily. “I can manage on my own.”
“In Selkirk ye could manage on your own. But this is Edinburgh. Ye’re dealin’ with powerful, dangerous folk—folk who could have ye imprisoned for life or burned at the stake or torn, limb from limb, as a traitor.”
Damn! His assertion made him shudder. He should heed his own warning. If a wee lass from Selkirk was in danger, how much more at risk was an Englishman?
“I’m no traitor,” she assured him.
Her misplaced confidence was frustrating. “’Tisn’t the point. Royals are always negotiatin’ loyalty on a whim and inventin’ treason where there is none.”
“Not Mary.”
“Mary isn’t a power unto herself. She’s beholden to lairds and clerics and kings in faraway lands. She’s likely not even privy to the details o’ your arrangement with Philipe.”
Philipe might be working for the queen, but he probably wouldn’t hesitate to manipulate any negotiations to his own benefit.
“We have no arrangement,” she insisted, pulling her hand free, “other than his offer of employment.”
He didn’t believe her for a moment. Nobody coerced a tavern wench to sign a document for work.
“Employment,” she continued, “I’m grateful to have. Not many can say they’ve served beer to a queen.”
“Neither can ye,” he pointed out, “not without revealin’ her identity. Is that what ye signed? An oath o’ secrecy?”
“’Tisn’t your affair what I signed,” she snapped, though she seemed more anxious than angry. “We have no further business, ye and me. I’m goin’ to keep hawkin’ beer, and ye can run along and do your golfin’ elsewhere.”
Lord, she was a tyrant. “I’ll do my golfin’ where I please, darlin’,” he said with a laugh.
“Well, ye’d better stay clear o’ my beer wagon.”
He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Ye’re a bossy minx. And an ungrateful wench.”
“And just what should I be grateful for, knave? That ye grabbed me and had your way with me?”
“Had my way with ye?” He chuckled, which made her blush. “If I’d had my way with ye, love,” he murmured ruefully, pinning her with a smoky gaze, “ye’d be flat on your back beside that last hole.”