Chapter 34

For two frustrating days, Josselin endured the company of the Englishmen, who she finally learned were Drew’s uncles, as they traveled south through the thick Scottish woods, avoiding the main roads. They supped on oatcakes, hard cheese, and berries they found in the forest and never crossed paths with a single Scot. She was beginning to despair of ever getting an opportunity to escape.

Drew kept her shackled to him almost constantly. On the first day, he’d gagged her as well. But the linen had sucked all the moisture from her mouth and left her insufferably thirsty. So she promised she wouldn’t cry out, and though the others chided Drew for trusting a Scotswoman, he took her at her word and removed the gag.

Of course, she would have broken her word and screamed her bloody head off if they’d ever run into another single soul.

But on the third day, they crossed the border, and with each mile farther from Scotland they traveled, Josselin grew more ill at ease.

All she knew of England was that ’twas filled with bloodthirsty villains who burned and pillaged the homes and churches of good Scots, stole cattle, razed crops, and cut down women in battle.

Even if she somehow managed to escape, she wouldn’t live long without Drew’s protection. This was the land of her enemy. Once ’twas discovered she was Scots, the English would no doubt descend upon her like wolves cornering a lamb.

They’d probably take turns on her first.

Then they’d rough her up, blacken her eye, break a few bones.

Maybe they’d beat her to death. Or maybe they’d make an example of her, burning her at the stake or hanging her in a public square.

She shuddered.

She’d never been afraid of death. But then she’d always imagined death would come in glorious battle. After all, ’twas how her mother had died. She had no intention of leaving herself at the mercy of her enemy to be raped, tortured, and executed.

Of course, the answer crouched like a patient hound in the darkest corner of her mind, waiting for her to summon it from the shadows.

For a while she pretended to have forgotten ’twas there. But occasionally throughout the day, it reared its ugly head, reminding Josselin that it waited for her. And the farther into enemy land she traveled, the more restless it grew. Finally, when the lengthening shade of evening stretched over a landscape that was becoming increasingly foreign and menacing, she called the animal forth.

She’d signed that oath to Philipe de la Fontaine and to the queen, vowing that if she fell into enemy hands, she’d kill herself before she’d surrender any information. ’Twas her duty to honor that promise. And she might not have as clear a chance later.

How she’d do it, she wasn’t certain. She was shackled to Drew, and he’d confiscated her only weapon. But after three days together, he wasn’t as watchful as he’d once been. She probably couldn’t overpower him, but she might be able to steal his dagger and inflict a mortal wound upon herself before he could stop her.

’Twas nightfall when her opportunity came. She lay awake beneath the full moon, waiting, her heart pounding, while the men drifted off to deep sleep. After a long while, Drew at last rolled away from her, leaving the dagger he wore on his hip within her reach. She took a breath to steady her nerves and mouthed a silent prayer.

Then, in one swift, bold move, she jostled him forcefully with her shackled hand. Half-awake and distracted by her rough handling, he never noticed that she simultaneously slipped the dagger from his sheath with her free hand.

“What is it?” he mumbled, rolling toward her.

“I need to use the bushes,” she whispered.

He sighed, then struggled up to his elbows and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear it. “All right.”

She tried to avoid looking at him, reminding herself that he was her foe. But ’twas nearly impossible. When he raked back his tousled hair, she remembered how soft it had been upon her bosom. When he yawned, she remembered his hungry mouth claiming hers. When he stretched his arms, she remembered how sweetly he’d held her in the aftermath of their passion.

Tears started in her eyes, and she blinked them back. For what she was about to do, she needed courage, not mawkish reminiscing.

He unearthed the shackle key and helped her to her feet, then swept up Simon’s sword, and they left the clearing.

She dared not risk waking the others, so, concealing the dagger in the folds of her skirts, she led Drew a considerable distance before she finally stopped beside a large shrub.

Drew gave her that sleepy one-sided grin she’d once loved. “Faith, Jossy, I’ve spent less time shopping for a golf club,” he teased. “Are you sure this will do?”

A knot jammed in her throat, and it took all her will not to—damn her vow and damn their past—rush into his arms.

Tucking the sword under his arm, he lifted her shackled wrist. She hoped he couldn’t see how her hand trembled as he unlocked the manacle.

Then she was free.

Swallowing hard, she stepped away from him and pretended to rummage beneath her skirts. She peered at him from beneath her lashes, watching till he politely averted his gaze.

She stared at the naked dagger in her damp palm. The blade looked so cold and gray and forbidding in the moonlight. She turned the weapon in her hand until it pointed toward her and placed the sharp tip under her ribs, praying she had the strength to plunge it into her heart.

The cold reality of death made the blood drain from her face, and she broke out into an icy sweat. Her stomach clenched, and her mouth watered with nausea. If she waited much longer, she thought she might be sick.

So she closed her eyes, held her breath, and counted silently.

One…

Two…