Chapter 22

Josselin’s hands were still shaking as she surreptitiously retrieved the note from her bosom. She never read the missives. The less she knew, the safer she was.

But the Highlander had taken a good, long look at this one. If he’d been able to decipher anything…

“My dearest Josselin,” it began. She quickly skimmed the contents. ’Twas the sort of sugary prose a lover might write to his mistress, and ’twas signed, “your worshipful Duncan,” which was, of course, a fictitious name.

Josselin knew there was some type of code encrypted into the letter. She didn’t know what ’twas. She didn’t want to know. But she certainly didn’t want anyone else to find out. ’Twas her responsibility to make sure the missive didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

She studied the note a moment more. Then, satisfied ’twas a convincing love letter, no more, she put it away.

If only she could put away her thoughts so easily.

They kept straying to Drew MacAdam, and the more she thought about him, the more uneasy she became.

This time, ’twas more than his sky blue eyes and sly grin that worried her, more than his startling embraces and troubling kisses that set her heart to pounding.

This time, she began to think deeply about her relationship with the Highlander.

Was it mere coincidence that they kept showing up at the same places? Or could it be he was following her?

He’d seemed very concerned about the document she’d signed with Philipe. Was it possible he wasn’t interested in her welfare so much as her activities?

He’d intercepted two of her missives now and had ample time to look them over. He insisted he couldn’t read, but what if he was lying? What if he’d known exactly what he was looking at?

It suddenly seemed very plausible that the Highlander might be a spy for Walsingham.

The thought sent a sobering shiver up her spine. The man had stood within a blade’s reach of the queen yesterday, knowing full well who she was. He could have assassinated her.

Worse, Josselin herself had led him to her. She’d insisted he play against the queen, practically shoving him onto the green. And when he’d used Josselin for cover, she’d gone along with his ruse, pretending she was his mistress. Bloody hell, she’d kissed the traitor.

She brought trembling fingers to her lips. How could she have allowed him, allowed an enemy spy, to get so close to her?

Philipe had warned her that agents were usually those who aroused the least suspicion—tavern wenches, stable lads, even monks. She supposed a golfer from the Highlands was as unlikely a spy as there could be.

She wiped sweaty palms on her apron. What should she do now?

Josselin was accustomed to fighting duels, where one faced one’s enemy openly with a sword. Subterfuge was not in her nature. Perhaps she should stay out of this particular fight. Perhaps she should alert Philipe to the peril and let him do what he thought best.

Then she smiled ruefully. Walk away from a fight? ’Twas unthinkable.

Josselin was her mother’s daughter. She’d no more refuse a challenge than she’d refuse a thirsty patron with a purse full of silver.

Besides, going to Philipe and admitting her error in judgment would be unwise. How would she explain that she’d let Drew see those two missives? How would she assure Philipe that she was a competent agent when she’d been seen consorting with the enemy? And did she even have enough solid evidence to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Drew MacAdam was a spy?

Nae, she couldn’t say anything to Philipe, not until she had more proof.

As distasteful as the prospect was, if she wanted to unmask him, Josselin had to get closer to the Highlander, persuade him to trust her, compel him to expose his secrets.

’Twas the same cat-and-mouse game her Da Angus had taught her in swordfighting. By drawing the enemy in and feigning helplessness, she’d lull him into complacency. Then, when he least expected it, she’d strike at his heart.

Her own heart quivered at the thought. ’Twas a dangerous game. If she became impatient and lost her self-control, she might strike too soon. If she misjudged the distance and drew too close, she’d leave herself vulnerable to attack. Worst of all, she might finally strike at him with all her might, only to discover that she was the unwitting victim in his game of cat-and-mouse.

She shivered, then mentally scolded herself for such nonsense. She wasn’t talking about a swordfight, after all, though she was sure she could best the golfer in a duel with one hand bound behind her back. ’Twas only a harmless flirtation she planned, nothing that might leave a scar.

Still, when she thought about intentionally ingratiating herself to the Highlander, courting his affections, encouraging his intimacy…

Marry, her belly didn’t flutter half as much when she was preparing to do battle with a blade.

Josselin took a determined breath and tossed her apron down on the counter. She was no coward. She was fully prepared in mind and body to put herself in harm’s way for her country, for her queen, for the memory of her mother. If only her racing heart would believe that…

Drew was disgusted with himself. He’d let emotion get in the way of his game. As a consequence, he’d lost. Badly. ’Twas a good thing he’d been battling with a golf club and not a sword, for such inattention might have cost him an arm or a leg instead of only his pride.

Long after the victorious Barrie had left the field on the shoulders of his cheering companions, Drew was still sulking at the last hole, sitting on the sod with his chin in his fist, staring pensively out toward the shifting sea.

“Hey! Highlander!”

He turned to see Jossy heading toward him, carrying two tankards in her hand. The sunlight burnished her hair to a gleaming gold, and the soft breeze ruffled the linen across her breasts, reminding him of what would never belong to him, of what belonged to the insidious Duncan.

“Here’s the pint I owe ye,” she said, offering him one of the tankards, then plopping artlessly down onto the grass beside him with the other.

He shook his head, amused. The lass was certainly unpredictable. He raised his tankard in thanks, and she clanked her cup to his. They both took a sip, then resumed gazing silently at the sea.

“I lost,” he finally admitted, taking another consoling swig.

“I’d say ’twas more like slaughter.”

He nearly choked on his beer. “Well, don’t be waterin’ it down, lass. Give it to me straight.”

“’Tis true,” she said with a shrug. “At least ’tis what they were sayin’ at the beer wagon.”

He clucked his tongue. “And ye came all the way o’er here to tell me so?”

She acted hurt. “O’ course not.”

“Then why did ye come?”

“I told ye, I owed ye a beer.”

“A beer,” he said doubtfully. “And that’s it?”

She frowned guiltily into her cup. “And perhaps an apology.”

“An apology. For what?”

“For snappin’ at ye, after ye helped me and all. My da says I’ve got a temper as short as a lamb’s tail.”

He smiled. He rather liked her temper. ’Twas so easy to ruffle her feathers, to set her off-balance, and once she was off-balance…

His smile faded. He dared not go down that road. “’Tis perfectly understandable. Ye didn’t want me perusin’ your private note.”

“Aye, but ye did say ye couldn’t read.”

“I did,” he said carefully.

“So I suppose there was no harm done. Indeed, I owe ye thanks for its return.”

His smile was forced this time. He wondered if the mawkish note was still tucked between her lovely breasts.

Then he furrowed his brow. Where was her elusive suitor anyway? Everyone had left the links. Where had he gone? Surely Jossy wouldn’t dally on the course with Drew when “your worshipful Duncan” was waiting.

“Well, ye’ve thanked me,” he assured her. “There’s no need to tarry.”

“Are ye sendin’ me away?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps.” Then he cocked his head at her. “I’m guessin’ that letter might be another invitation from your French friend?”

“Philipe? Oh, nae. The letter? ’Twas nothin’ really, just a wee note from an admirer.”

He was surprised she was telling him the truth. “An admirer?”

“Aye,” she said shyly.

Drew cast his glance around the course. “And won’t this admirer be displeased to see ye sittin’ here with me?”

“What?” She froze for an instant, like a startled deer, then licked her lips and said, “Oh, nae. ’Tisn’t the way of it at all.”

“Indeed?” He took a long pull of his beer, contemplating her cagey manner. The lass might be telling the truth, but she was definitely hiding part of it. “Well, I’d be jealous if ye were my lover.”

“Lover? Oh, nae, he’s not my lover,” she said in a rush. “Nae, nae, not at all. He’s only… He’s…” She paused to collect herself. “Duncan…”

“Duncan?” Faith, she really was telling him the truth. He was impressed.

“Duncan is more of a…a devotee than a suitor.”

“Hm.”

Drew took another long drink to conceal his pleasure at hearing this news. Perhaps he’d delay his departure from Edinburgh after all.