Chapter 26

Josselin decided she must be the worst spy ever. Not only had she misplaced missives, abandoned her post, drunk herself into a stupor, and grown dangerously fond of a man who might be an enemy of the queen, but she didn’t have anything to show for all her efforts.

Fortunately, she hadn’t missed her contact. He came midway through the afternoon, and his note was now safe with her.

But what was she going to do about the Highlander?

He’d done something to her this morn. Playing golf with him had made her feel alive, the way she did when she perfected a new move with her sword. The two of them seemed to be kindred spirits, delighting in the same small triumphs and cursing over the same disappointments. But kindred spirits didn’t begin to describe the closeness she felt to Drew when he wrapped his arms about her or whispered against her cheek or pressed against her backside…

She fanned herself with a rag.

This was insufferable. Drew MacAdam was an enigma. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him.

She had to find out whether he was a spy, here and now. If he was, she’d know for certain that his flirtation was only a ruse to get information from her. But if he wasn’t…

Her heart flipped over at the possibilities, but she put her head firmly in charge.

If he wasn’t a spy, she could move on to another target, knowing Drew was harmless.

Drew and Cochrane were back on the far side of the course, battling it out for the second time today after tying their first match and taking a break for the crowd to visit the beer wagon. All their tankards were full now. They wouldn’t return for a while. Josselin could leave Davey in charge and steal away to The Sheep Heid.

’Twould take half an hour at most. Josselin could make her way to the inn, sneak into Drew’s room, rifle through his things, and be back at the beer wagon before the Highlander was done for the day.

Then she’d know for sure where they stood.

Aye, she decided, untying her apron and leaving it on the counter. By sunset, she’d know if Drew was friend or foe.

The tavern wench at The Sheep Heid gave her a curious perusal when she walked in, but Josselin recalled her Da Will’s advice about hiding a weak defense with a strong offense. She gave the maid an arrogant scowl, holding her head high as she made her way up the stairs.

Fortunately, nobody locked doors in a small village like Musselburgh. She pushed her way through the third door and closed it quickly behind her.

The room was dim. The shutters were closed, and the fire was banked. Pausing a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, she spotted a candle. She took it to the hearth and stirred the coals just enough to light the wick.

These were definitely his quarters. An array of golf clubs leaned against one wall, and two saffron shirts were hung on a cupboard near the fire to dry. A pitcher and basin sat on a small table in the corner, and beside them were his personal items.

She walked around the bed, giving it an anxious glance. She could too easily imagine the handsome Highlander stretched out naked upon it.

Setting the candle down, she inspected his belongings. There was a razor, tooth powder, and a mirror case, nothing suspicious. She picked up the chunk of wool-fat soap and sniffed it. It smelled like Drew—clean and manly, with a subtle hint of clove. There was also a wooden comb that probably didn’t get much use.

Next she searched the cupboard. The top shelf was filled with hose and linen rags, a few belts and leather gloves, and other odds and ends of clothing.

Cutlery and tools occupied the second shelf, along with small bottles of what seemed to be either spices or medicines.

The bottom shelf held a small wooden chest, and Josselin’s heart raced at the sight. If any evidence existed to prove Drew was a spy, ’twould probably be in that chest.

She carefully slid it from the shelf. ’Twas surprisingly heavy for its size, and she swiftly set it on the bed.

Gazing down at the simply carved box, she hesitated. Truthfully, she didn’t want to find proof that Drew was a spy. As uncomfortable as ’twas to confess, she…

She…liked…the Highlander.

There was absolutely no good reason for it. He was rude and crude and cocky. He teased her and smirked at her and kissed her without leave. He was everything Lowlanders despised about Highlanders.

But there was something in his eyes and his smile that told her there was sunken treasure to be found beneath his turbulent sea, and Josselin was curious enough to want to delve under those waves.

Still, she dared not let her heart have its way until her head was satisfied with the man’s innocence and all suspicions were put to rest.

So, taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted the lid of the chest and brought the candle near. To her surprise, bright coins gleamed up at her in the candlelight—a veritable fortune. She’d never seen so much silver in one place. ’Twas true what he’d said then—one could make a living, knocking a ball around in the grass.

She let a few coins trickle through her fingers, making sure there were no secret documents hidden in their midst. Then she closed the lid and returned the chest to the cupboard.

He seemed to have no other possessions. Still, a good spy would cache incriminating evidence in the least conspicuous places. So she searched the cracks in the walls, the stones of the hearth, beneath his pillow, under his bed. There was nothing.

One spot remained. Behind the door, a heavy woolen plaid hung from a peg on the wall, draped over a pair of tall boots. She ran her fingers over the folds of the plaid and found something rigid. Moving the cloth out of the way, she exposed a finely tooled leather scabbard. One end of it rested in one of the boots, and propped against the wall was the silver hilt of the sword within it.

Biting her lip, she tipped the weapon toward herself and ran her fingers over the wrapped leather grip. ’Twas of excellent craftsmanship, the kind of blade a swordmaster might own. What was a golfer doing with it?

She angled her head to examine the graceful arcs of the swept hilt. Where had Drew gotten such a fine sword? Had he stolen it? Taken it in payment of a golfing debt? Killed someone for it?

Unable to resist taking a peek at such a beautiful weapon, she began to slide the sword gently from its sheath. She smiled. The blade was of fine steel, probably Spanish. ’Twas brilliant, flawless, and sharp enough to split a hair. What she wouldn’t give to own a sword like…

A thump on the stair startled her. Someone was coming. She blew out the candle, dropped the sword back into its scabbard, scrambled behind the plaid and froze.