Chapter 31

For once, Josselin had no trouble ignoring the man who came to her with the notched tankard. In fact, she almost forgot to retrieve the note cached beneath his cup. This morn, she only had eyes for Drew MacAdam, who was teeing off in the distance. Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, his strong arms, his fine arse. The memory of how he’d used them in her bed the last three nights made her fan her face with her coif.

She understood now why the bards wrote sonnets to love, why troubadours sang of little else. ’Twas a proper obsession—a sport as addictive as swordplay, a passion as moving as a prayer.

And yet ’twas more than that. In the forging of their bodies, she’d felt a forging of their hearts. There was something deeper betwixt them—shared laughter, shared loyalty, shared…love.

Love?

The word brought a flash of heat to her cheeks. Surely she didn’t know the Highlander well enough to love him. She was only confusing love with lust.

But that didn’t ring true. As Kate had oft told her, the heart knew better than the head in matters of love. She’d assured Josselin that when her time came to choose a husband, ’twould be best to listen to her instincts.

At the time, Josselin had only rolled her eyes. She’d had no intention of choosing a husband. ’Twas her ambition to follow in her mother’s footsteps and devote herself to battle.

But that was before she’d met Drew. And ’twas before she’d tasted the glorious rewards of bedding a man who lavished her with adoration.

She shivered at the memory, then glanced crossly at the sun, which was moving as slow as treacle across the sky today. Drew had promised to buy her a midday meal at The Sheep Heid. She smiled to herself. ’Twas more than pottage she hungered for.

After what seemed an eternity, Drew finally came loping up to the beer wagon. As usual, her heart leaped at the sight of him, until she saw that he wore a frown.

“I can’t sup with ye today,” he sighed.

Her heart sank.

He reached out and took her hand. “’Tisn’t that I don’t want to, darlin’.” He pulled her close, whispering, “Shite, I’m as hard as a niblick for ye and hungrier than a wolf.”

His lusty words sent a thrill through her.

He glanced over his shoulder and waved to a young lad across the green.

“’Tis a messenger from some high and mighty clan chieftain,” he explained with a grimace. “He wants to meet me in the woods.”

“In the woods?” There was a prickling along the back of her neck. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he wants a second for a foursome. Or maybe he’s just lookin’ to place a wager. Some nobles are secretive about their vices. They’d rather not have it bandied about that they’re gamblin’ on such a…a vulgar game.”

“Cods,” she said with a pout.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go.” He hurriedly patted her hand, adjusted the clubs on his shoulder, and turned to leave. “I’ll make it up to ye at supper,” he called back, giving her a wink, “I swear.”

What compelled Josselin to follow him, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d simply gotten into the habit of spying. Maybe she worried he might come to mischief, meeting with some conniving clan chief. Or maybe she feared he’d already tired of her and might be off for a tryst in the woods with some new lass.

Of course, she didn’t dare nip at his heels. She watched him carefully to see where he went, then had Davey tend to the wagon while she followed Drew at a distance, keeping a cautious hand on her dagger.

By the time she reached the forest, he was nowhere to be seen. But Will had taught her how to track and how to look for signs of passage. A path of freshly flattened grass led through the trees, and she took it, disappearing into the soft-shadowed green. From Angus, she’d learned how to move silently through the woods, and she did so now. Her progress was slow and stealthy, and though she listened for the sound of Drew’s passage, all she heard were twittering sparrows and the occasional scuffling of a lizard.

Hell. Where had he gone?

She stopped in the shade of a sycamore, scanning the brilliant green leaves and ferns and moss around her for signs of movement. A single squirrel scampered up an oak, but that was all.

Just as she was about to continue along the path, she heard a distant shout. She froze, listening intently. There was another shout, and another. The shouts were too far away to distinguish, but it sounded like a pack of men.

She took a tentative step forward.

A loud bellow rang through the woods, and she knew at once ’twas Drew.

“Shite!” she hissed.

Her heart plummeted. She unsheathed, her fist clamped tight around her dagger, and charged forward.

It must be thieves, she thought. The woods were crawling with them. She only prayed ’twas thieves and not murderers.

She tore down the path now, not caring that she kicked up leaves and startled a bevy of quail. She was too alarmed to use stealth, too desperate to consider she might be outnumbered. Drew was in danger, and she had to save him.

She followed the sounds of shouting. As she ran, her heart felt like a sharp stick poking her in the side, prodding her to hurry, hurry before ’twas too late. The yelling quickly subsided, but she could still hear a scuffling further ahead, off the path.

Finally she managed to locate the culprits. She broke through a thick grove of aspens beside the path into a clearing. There she found Drew lying face-down on the ground, his clubs scattered amid the leaves.

There were three men holding him down. They whipped around when she burst upon them, their eyes wide with surprise.

She quickly calculated her fighting odds. They looked as old as her fathers, so she had youth on her side. One of the men, who seemed vaguely familiar, was leaning on a walking staff, but he and his two accomplices—one burly, the other tall and broad-shouldered—wore swords.

She was at a disadvantage. But she wasn’t about to let them know that. ’Twas time for a strong offense.

“Unhand him, ye villains!” she barked, snapping her skirts out of the way and wielding her dagger before her in threat.

“What the—”

“Ye heard me! Let him go!” She tossed her head and flared her nostrils, searing the ruffians with a glare. “Now!”

Her bravado wasn’t working. They only frowned up at her.

“Jossy!” Drew’s cry was muffled in the leaf fall.

“’Tis his Scottish mistress,” the man with the staff explained to the others.

“With a blade.” The burly man shook his head. “Of course.”

“Come, my lady,” coaxed the tall man, in the foreign accent she knew all too well. “Put down your weapon. We won’t hurt you if you’ll—”

“Bloody hell. Ye’re English!” she spat. All at once, the old rage she felt about her mother’s murder and the newfound protectiveness she felt for Drew surged to the surface like lava in a volcano, and she exploded.

She charged the men, careless of the fact they had swords, with no other thought but to slash their despicable throats.

To her amazement, they didn’t draw their weapons, but stood to face her barehanded.

She froze, her dagger raised.

Ballocks! Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t slay them in cold blood. Aye, they were English, but chivalry was chivalry.

Frustrated, she lowered her dagger. Then she realized she could still use their error to her benefit. They’d had to let go of Drew to deal with her.

“Run, Drew!” she shouted. “Run!”

He pushed up from the ground and flopped onto his back, then rose up on his elbows. But he didn’t even try to escape.

Maybe he couldn’t, she thought. Maybe he was hurt.

“Bastards!” she yelled at the men. “English cowards!”

They winced, likely fearful her cries might draw others.

“Lass!” Drew said in warning.

“Are ye afraid to fight me, ye pig-swivin’ poltroons?” she challenged. “Are your English ballocks so shriveled ye can’t even stand up to a wee Scots lass?” She waved her dagger in menace, but none of them would answer her. “God’s bones, ye’re nothin’ but a bunch o’ bloody lobcocks.”

“She’s got a mouth on her,” the burly one finally said in wonder.

“Lass,” Drew said.

“Come on!” she taunted, brandishing her blade. “Who’s to know? What’s to stop ye? Ye attacked an unarmed Highlander. Why not me?”

“What? Him?” The burly man jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

To her astonishment, the three men laughed grimly and shook their heads.

“He’s no Highlander,” the man with the staff growled. “He’s as English as we are.”