Chapter 23

Josselin suddenly realized it was going to be hard to woo Drew’s affections while she was constantly receiving love letters from Duncan. She supposed she should have thought things out more carefully.

She feigned a casual shrug. “He’s really nobody,” she said, which was oddly the truth.

For once Drew didn’t reply, but sat quietly, sipping his beer and watching a flock of gulls circling over the distant waves.

’Twas obvious she’d have to take stronger measures if she wanted to loosen the Highlander’s tongue.

“Do ye know The Sheep Heid Inn?” she asked.

“’Tis where I’m stayin’.”

“Indeed?” She supposed ’twas no surprise. The Sheep Heid was the nearest inn to the Musselburgh course. But that bit of information might be useful. “Well, I’ve got an hour or so before the next golfers arrive, and the wagon will be safe enough with Davey, the driver. Come sup with me. I owe ye supper.”

He looked over at her, one eye squinting against the sun. “I can’t have ye payin’ for my supper, lass.”

“Why not? I’m earnin’ wages now, and ’tis the least I can do to thank ye. If ’tweren’t for ye, I’d have no work at all.”

“But ’tis only a tavern wench’s wages,” he pointed out.

“Hmph!” she scoffed. “I wager I earned more silver today than ye did.”

He winced. “True.” He shook his head. “Ach, ye drive the dagger deep, lass.”

She scrambled to her feet and waited while he gathered his clubs and balls and slung the bag over his shoulder. Then she walked with him to the inn.

Entering under the sign of the ram’s head, they were welcomed by the smells of mutton stew bubbling over the fire and free-flowing ale. Unfortunately, half a dozen of the Musselburgh regulars had commandeered the largest table, and they recognized Drew, so their progress was delayed by greetings and condolences on his game. But Josselin managed to secure a small spot in a dark corner where they could converse in private. She ordered two trenchers of stew and two pints of the tavern’s best ale. A couple of the strong brews and she was sure to have the spy singing like a sparrow.

Drew pushed back his empty trencher and gazed in amusement at the adorable lass across the table. She was breathtaking. She was relentless. And she was drunk off her arse.

Of course, she wasn’t aware of that. Nor was he about to enlighten her to the fact. He continued to chat with her as if nothing was awry, patiently answering her slurred interrogation, satisfying his appetite, and enjoying the view.

“Where’d ye say ye’re from?” she asked him for the second time.

“Tintclachan.”

“Tint. Clach. An.” She said it slowly, as if to memorize it. “An’ how long’ve ye been travelin’ the Lowlands?”

“Three years or so.”

“Three years.” She paused to take another incautious swig of her third ale. “An’ ye’re stayin’ here at this inn?”

“At the moment,” he told her, adding in a whisper, “up the stairs, third door on the right.”

She nodded as if digesting all this. Then she raised a skeptical brow. “Are ye certain all ye do t’earn your keep’s golfin’?”

He laughed. “I assure ye I usually play better than I did today.” He studied her face, lingering on her enchanting eyes and her enticing lips. “My attention wasn’t on the game.”

“Huh.” She leaned forward, like a barrister gravely questioning a convict. “An’ what was your attention on then?”

Drew flashed her a lazy grin. He might be able to hold his ale better than the lass, but there was still a pleasant buzzing in his head that made him speak impulsively. “I had my eye on a short-tempered blond lass.”

She frowned.

He added, “One with fiery green eyes?”

She continued to frown.

“And a honey-sweet mouth?” he suggested.

She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she gasped. “’S’me.”

He saluted her with his tankard.

“But I’m nobody,” she argued. “’M jus’ a lass from Selk-, Selkirk. Why would ye want to spy—” She stopped suddenly, biting her lip as if she’d said too much.

His gaze was drawn to those succulent lips. He might be feeling the effects of the ale, but ’twasn’t the ale that made him want to taste her again. Nor was it intoxication that awakened the beast slumbering below his belt.

“Oh,” she breathed, finally understanding. Then a glint of interest flashed in her eyes, and she leaned forward to rest her chin in the cup of her hand. “Ohhh.”

Drew clenched his jaw. At this angle, mere inches apart, he could see the sweet shadow between her lovely breasts, could too easily imagine how silky her flesh was there, too vividly envision resting his head upon her soft, warm…

He grabbed his tankard and took a large gulp of ale, a gulp he definitely didn’t need and shouldn’t have taken.

She arched her brow seductively above smoldering green eyes. “An’ am I distractin’ ye now?”

He smiled in self-mockery. “Ye know ye are.”

The lass might be half-drunk, but she knew damned well what she was doing. The wee minx was riling him up like a lad poking at a hornet’s nest. Shite, another ale, and she’d have him by the ballocks.

Josselin returned his smile, then hiccoughed. Things were going quite well, she thought, even if she had drunk a wee bit more than she’d intended. So far in her inquisition of Drew MacAdam she’d learned he’d been in the field for three years, he was staying at this inn—up the stairs, third door on the right, and he was born in…what was it again? Tint. Clach. An.

She creased her brow. What an odd word. Sometimes she wondered if Highlanders named their burghs by clearing their throats. Tintclachan. She’d have to write that down as soon as she had pen and parchment.

Meanwhile, Drew had definitely taken an interest in her. Her plan to get closer to him was working. Soon she’d have the besotted Highlander eating out of her fingers and spilling all his secrets.

Marry, she must have some talent as a spy after all. ’Twasn’t as difficult as she’d imagined, nor as unpleasant. Indeed, sitting in the cozy tavern with a full belly by the warm fire, watching the way the light danced over his hair and flickered in his smoky blue eyes and kissed his curving lips…

Her chin slipped suddenly off her palm.

She blinked. Perhaps she shouldn’t have ordered that last ale. She’d meant to get the Highlander drunk, but at the moment he didn’t look half as addled as she felt.

In fact, he looked amazing.

In the firelight, his skin was golden, and his eyes were the deep color of the sea. Where his hair hung in jagged locks, shadows played across his cheek, flirting with the upturned corners of his lips and sweeping over his angular jaw, already shaded by a day’s growth of dark beard.

She remembered how it felt—that short stubble—rough against her cheek, in contrast to the gentle pressure of his mouth, and the memory sent a delicious shiver through her bones.

’Twasn’t that she wanted to kiss him again. God knew ’twas not a sensation she cared to repeat—that blood-simmering dizziness that left her speechless and breathless and witless and weak.

On the other hand, if ’twould further her progress toward uncovering his secrets, she supposed ’twas a wee sacrifice she must make for queen and country.

Of course, she’d keep the tightest rein on her affections. She didn’t intend to bed the man, after all. ’Twas only a kiss. And they’d kissed before. Thrice.

Aye, she resolved, she’d do it.

No sooner did she make that decision than, moving her tankard out of the way, she rose from her chair and bent toward him. She captured the back of his shaggy head with one hand, clasped his suddenly slack jaw with the other, and molded her lips to his.