Chapter 25

Two ales. That was Josselin’s new limit. Faith, she’d almost exposed herself and endangered her mission by imbibing too freely yesterday. True, a bit of the ale’s fortification had expedited her progress somewhat. But from now on, she’d avoid walking that narrow precipice between tipsy and sloshed.

If the Highlander came to the links today—and the odds were in favor of it, seeing as how a number of his supporters were demanding to win their coin back and knew he could prevail against the visiting golfer—she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

So she believed, until Drew arrived on the course at dawn, gazing at her with his seductive blue eyes, tempting her with his sweet, wicked grin. Then she suddenly longed for a cold pint in which to douse her lust.

She told herself over and over that he was only a target. There was no true affection between them. ’Twas all a ruse. If he was a spy, as she suspected, they were probably playing at the same game. Any romantic overtures were cool, calculated manipulations on both their parts.

That was what she told herself.

Her heart, however, told her something entirely different. It leapt as he came toward the beer wagon. It fluttered as he flashed her a contrite smile. It pounded as she recalled the warmth of his lips pressed to hers.

“Good mornin’,” he said.

“Mornin’.” Marry, was she blushing? She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Ye’re here early.”

“I’ve got somethin’ for ye.” He dug in his pouch, enclosing something in his palm. “Hold out your hand.”

She did. He slowly uncurled his fingers on her palm, sending an uninvited shiver up her arm and leaving behind a tiny metal bauble.

She smiled. “A thimble.”

“To guard against pricks,” he told her with a wink.

“Ye didn’t have to.”

“Oh, aye, lass.” He leaned in closer, confiding, “’Twas at the queen’s command, after all.”

She placed it on her finger, admiring it as if ’twere a priceless ring of gold, which made Drew chuckle. Then she tucked the thimble into her pocket and casually asked, “So…do ye think she’ll ever challenge ye again—the queen?”

Drew’s reply could be important. If he was a spy, and he’d scheduled a match with Mary, Philipe would surely want to know about it so he could make certain the queen was well-defended.

But Drew only grinned. “Not unless she’s lookin’ to drain the royal coffers.”

“Faugh!” Josselin bristled at the slight to her queen. “Mary’s said to be an exceptional golfer. She was likely only havin’ a bad day. Ye said yourself ’twasn’t fair to challenge her when she’d ne’er played the course before.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s a fine player,” he said with a cocky tilt of his brow. “’Tis only that I’m better.”

“Hmph. How much skill can it take to knock a ball about on the grass?”

His jaw dropped at her insult, and he shook his head.

“That’s it, lass,” he said with a grim smile, glaring at her in feigned threat and grabbing her wrist. “I’ve heard enough out o’ ye about the dubious merits o’ my sport.”

He tugged her out from behind the counter.

“What are ye…” she stuttered. “Where are ye tak-… I can’t leave the beer-wa—”

“Davey!” he called, startling the driver, who was napping atop his perch. “Keep an eye on the wagon. Jossy will be back in half an hour.”

Davey gave him a vague wave.

She pulled back, panicked. “But what are ye—”

“Ye’re goin’ to learn to golf.”

“But I can’t just…I’m supposed to stay at—”

“Don’t fret, love,” he said, tugging her forward again. “Ye’ll get no business at this hour.”

She went along reluctantly. She hated to leave her post, but what he said was true. ’Twould be an hour before the crowd would even arrive. Besides, she was supposed to be forming a closer bond with the spy, wasn’t she? And what better way to bond with him than to share his passion?

Those words hadn’t come out quite right in her mind, but ’twas too late now. The Highlander was already dragging her across the green and lecturing her on the finer points of his silly game.

“The club’s too long for ye,” he said, sizing it up against her as he bent to scoop a handful of sand out of the first hole to form a mound. “But ye can slide your hands down the shaft a bit.”

She clenched her fists around the club.

He laughed, rising to stand behind her. “Ye don’t want to throttle the thing, darlin’. Here.”

When he suddenly enveloped her, folding his arms over hers, she jerked reflexively.

He immediately let go. “Wait,” he said, spinning her around to face him. “Let’s get rid o’ this.” He unbuckled her belt, lowering it—and more significantly, her dagger—to the ground. “There.”

He turned her back around and resumed his intimate position, which was so unnerving that she actually glanced about the course to check for witnesses. Thankfully, they were alone.

“Place your hands so,” he said, guiding her hands with his own, “and hold it like ye would your dagger—not too tight, not too loose. Aye, that’s it. Now spread your legs and bend your knees a wee bit, centerin’ yourself. Good balance is the key.”

Josselin was having a hard time listening. His body practically surrounded hers. His arms were warm and sure, his chest felt like a wall of muscle at her back, and below that…

“Most importantly, keep your head down. There’s no need to be watchin’ where the ball goes. ’Twill take care of itself. Ye need to focus on gettin’ your swing right, and the rest will follow. Do ye want to try then?”

She nodded.

With his hands over hers, he slowly swung the club back and up behind her head, then forward and up again in a great arc. ’Twas not unlike the exercises she did with a sword.

“That’s it. Now try again. Keep your leadin’ arm straight, and just tickle the blades o’ grass with the club.”

They swung together a second time, a third, a fourth.

She closed her eyes. Every inch of her skin felt charged, and swinging their limbs together created a pleasing sensual friction. His voice was low and seductive against her ear, and the way he was pressed against her backside made her feel faint.

“Ye’re a bit stiff,” he said.

She had to bite her lip at that, for she wasn’t the only one who was a bit stiff.

“Keep your knees bent and your head down. Aye, better.”

She swallowed hard and tried to focus. She could learn this. If Queen Mary could do it, she could do it.

“That’s it,” he said, easing back away from her. “Now try it on your own.”

Relieved of his proximity, she relaxed and tried several more swings. Soon the movement began to feel natural.

“’Tis like wieldin’ a sword,” she remarked.

“Aye,” he said with a laugh, “though I’m not goin’ to ask how ye know that.”

She made a dozen more swings. “Are ye goin’ to let me hit the ball, or am I supposed to swing at empty air all day?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Are ye plannin’ to hit it true?” he said with mock gravity. “Because I don’t have that many balls, and I can’t afford to lose one in the firth.”

She glared at him.

He broke into a grin. “Come here then,” he said, motioning to her. “Watch me. Ye address the ball like so.” He spread his legs slightly to form an uneven triangle with the ball, which perched on the mound of sand. He moved aside then, inviting her to stand in his place.

She imitated his stance and placed the head of the club behind the ball.

“That’s right,” he said. “Now look down the green until ye see the hole.”

“Where?”

He placed his head beside hers and pointed it out. “Do ye see it?”

His hair was soft against her cheek, and his breath was warm and stirring. She couldn’t see the air in front of her, much less the hole.

“Aye,” she lied.

“Your feet should line up with the hole, but after that, ye don’t want to look at it. Ye want to keep your eye on the ball.”

She nodded, and he took a large step backward for safety’s sake. Keeping her gaze locked on the elm ball, she reared back and slashed forward with all her might, finishing the swing above her head.

The ball hadn’t budged. She frowned.

He snickered. “Well, that’s one way to make sure ye don’t lose the ball.”

“What did I do?”

“Ye tried too hard. Don’t chop at the thing. Swing through it.”

She squared up to the ball again.

“Bend your knees.”

She did.

“Find your balance.”

She did.

“Keep your eye on the target, and take a smooth, even swing.”

Josselin realized his instructions sounded very familiar. ’Twas the same advice her fathers gave her for swordfighting. Maybe golfing wasn’t that different from dueling. Perhaps if she imagined the wooden ball was the head of an Englishman…

She hit the target this time with a crack, and she felt the shiver of the club all the way up her arm. When she looked up, the ball was rolling gently across the green.

“Well done!” Drew said, applauding.

She shrugged, though she had to admit there was something satisfying about knocking a ball about with a stick. “Now what?”

“Ye go find it and hit it again.”

She did. It took her nearly twenty strokes and a few different clubs, but she finally got the ball within close range of the hole.

“Now ye’re ready for the puttin’ cleek,” he said. “Ye just need a light tap. Some like to kneel to putt, but I prefer to stand.”

She smiled. Of course the proud Highlander preferred to stand. Then so would she. “I’ll stand.”

He nodded. With amazing dexterity, he hooked his boot under the grip of his putting cleek as it lay on the ground, flipped the club up smartly into his hand, gave it a twirl, and handed it to her with a cocky flourish. Then he came behind her again to guide her swing.

Perhaps ’twas the exertion of the game or the heat of the sun, which was fully above the sea now, or just her proximity to a man who might be a dangerous spy, but Josselin felt suddenly warm as Drew placed his arms around hers once more and whispered against her hair.

“We’ll try a few swings without the ball. Line your feet up with the hole, find your balance, and keep your head down.”

He’d pushed up his sleeves now, and the touch of his bare flesh on hers was heavenly.

“Here’s the secret,” he confided. “Take a few deep breaths.”

They breathed together.

“Now let out all your air, give one smooth swing, and push the ball into the hole.”

They practiced three more times, then Drew backed away and pronounced her ready to address the ball.

She took three breaths and let out the third, easing the club forward, and swept the ball straight into the hole.

Then she let out a whoop and turned to grin at Drew.

“I did it!”

His eyes sparkled, his teeth flashed in the morning sun, and before Josselin even knew what she was doing, she rushed forward to give him a hug of victory.

Laughing, he picked her up and swung her around. She squealed, clinging to him, and for a moment she felt like a child again.

Then his circling slowed, and his grin faded, and she grew aware that they were not children, not at all. His body felt powerful and masculine against hers. His mouth looked delicious and inviting. The spice of his damp skin was heady. And the smoldering lust in his gaze…

“MacAdam!”

Ballocks.

She staggered back, stunned, and Drew steadied her, then scowled, nodding to acknowledge the interloper on the course, his opponent, Michael Cochrane.

“I thought that was ye!” the man shouted, trotting over to greet him. He was a burly fellow with bushy brows and a long beard, and there was a satchel of golf clubs slung over his broad shoulder.

“Cochrane,” Drew called out. “Ye’re early.”

Cochrane shook his head. “Nae. There’s already a line at the beer wagon. So how’ve ye been, MacAdam? I hear ye beat the trews off o’ Metz. And ye’ve been makin’ a name for…”

Josselin didn’t hear anything else. A line at the beer wagon? Damn, where had the time gone? She had to get back. What if she missed her contact?

With her heart in her throat, she picked up her skirts and fairly flew across the green.