Chapter 35

While he waited, Drew whistled softly and absently twirled the point of Simon’s sword in the dirt. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long. After their inconvenient trek through the wilds of north England, he could use a good night’s rest. Impatient, he stole a fleeting glance at Jossy.

He froze mid-whistle. Even under the pale light of the moon, he could see she’d turned as white as parchment. Her lips were compressed into a thin line, and her chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. Sweat popped out at her brow, and she looked like she was about to lose her supper.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut, swaying ever so slightly, and he turned to watch her, frowning in concern. Misgiving suddenly pricked the back of his neck. What the…?

He clapped a hand to his sheath.

’Twas empty.

His heart in his throat, he dropped his sword and lunged forward, knocking the dagger from her hand with his fist, using such force that the weapon sailed across the clearing.

She went limp, and he caught her awkwardly with his left arm and half of his body, staggering under her dead weight. At first he thought she’d fainted, but she was conscious, just half-aware, as if she’d just awakened from a strange dream.

His heart stabbed at his ribs as a maelstrom of emotions coursed through him—despair, panic, hurt, and then brutal, inexplicable rage.

“Nay!” he bellowed, shaking her roughly. “Nay!”

She had no reaction to his violence, just looked at him quizzically. “Am I…dead?”

“Nay!” he snarled. “Nay, you’re not dead! And you’re not going to die. Do you hear me?” He shook her again, his anger rapidly growing out of control. “I won’t let you die! I won’t let you die like my…”

He stumbled back a step.

God’s blood. ’Twasn’t Josselin he was yelling at, he realized. ’Twas his father.

That long-buried pain had risen to the surface. He suddenly recalled in vivid detail the anguish of seeing his father’s body swaying from the rafters, the hollow grief of watching his uncles bury him, his devastation as he realized his father had left him…forever.

He never spoke of his father’s death. His uncles had forbidden it. When anyone asked, they were simply told that Edward Armstrong died in battle. All these years, Drew had had to live with a lie and suffer in silence.

No more.

For years he’d blamed himself. He’d been the last one to see his father alive, and he’d agonized over that. Was there something he could have said, something he could have done, to prevent his death? As young as he’d been, he’d still felt like he could have stopped his father if he’d only known.

And if Josselin thought for one moment he’d allow her to snuff out her life the way his father had, to have another death on his conscience…

“I’m supposed to be dead,” she whispered. Her face crumpled in despair. “Damn you!” she wailed, beating on his chest with her fists. “Damn you! I’m supposed to be dead! I’m supposed to be—”

“Nay! Nay. You’re not,” he said firmly, gripping her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. You’re young and beautiful. You have your whole life in front of you. You’ll marry. And you’ll have children. And you’ll be there for those children. You’ll be there, do you hear me?”

Tears filled Josselin’s eyes. She couldn’t stop trembling. Indeed, if ’tweren’t for Drew holding her up, she’d likely have collapsed. But if he thought she was grateful he’d saved her life, if he thought his passionate words would convince her to live, he was wrong.

She’d been mentally prepared to die. She was supposed to die. Drew had dragged her from the grave. And ruined everything.

Now she was condemned to die at the hands of her enemy—a wretched, ghastly, dishonorable death.

She attempted to wrench herself out of his arms, to no avail, then hissed, “Why couldn’t ye have just let me die in peace? ’Tis what I wanted.”

He flinched, incredulous. “In peace?” he snarled. “Oh, aye, ’twould have been peaceful for you. But you intended to kill yourself on my blade! God’s blood, did you never think of what that might have done to me?”

Truthfully, she hadn’t. She guiltily lowered her gaze. “’Twas the only way.”

“The only way to what? Take the craven way out?” He shook his head. “And ye told me ye were no coward.”

His insult stung. “Ye don’t understand,” she said bitterly. “I’m dead already. Ye killed me when ye brought me to England.”

“I had to bring you here. You know that. I couldn’t let you turn my uncles in.”

“And now they’ll turn me in.” She didn’t add that even if they didn’t, she was obligated by her service to the queen to take her own life.

He cupped her jaw in his hand. “Jossy, I won’t let harm come to you. I love you. I don’t care whether you’re Scottish or English or…or from the moon. No matter what else you believe of me, believe this. I love you.”

She gave him a brittle smile. He didn’t understand. “If ye truly loved me, ye would have let me die. Don’t ye see? They’ll torture me. Once they find out I have connections to Mary, they’ll break every bone in my body to—”

“I won’t let them have you,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “I swear.”

He seemed so sure. He spoke with such intensity. ’Twas so tempting to believe him. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to forget that he was English, that she was a spy, that her mother’s murder demanded vengeance. She wanted to escape to that heavenly place the two of them had gone, when their bodies were joined and the rest of the world disappeared.

His eyes lowered to her lips, and for one suspenseful moment, she feared he might kiss her, hoped he might kiss her.

Then the moment passed.

“Listen, Jossy. I had to get my uncles out of Scotland for their own sake, and they wouldn’t have come without me. I’ll see them home safe, but I don’t mean to stay in England.” He let out a rueful chuckle. “How could I live in a country that doesn’t have golf?”

He took her hand. “I promise I’ll keep you out of harm’s way. I won’t let anyone take you from me. And if they try…” Using the same trick he’d shown her on the golf course, he flipped up the haft of the dropped sword with his foot, caught it, and twirled the blade in his hand. “They’ll have to come through me.”

After Jossy and the Englishman left, Will remained crouched in the moonlit bushes for a long while, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

He knew he should report back to Angus and Alasdair, who waited a quarter mile behind the abductors’ makeshift encampment. But after what he’d just seen, he wasn’t sure what to tell them.

He’d left his companions slumbering there, exhausted after their two-day journey. But Will’s worry for Jossy wouldn’t let him sleep, and curiosity had gotten the best of him. So sometime near midnight he’d stolen into the enemy camp, as luck would have it, just as Jossy was rising to leave.

He followed her with utmost stealth as she led her captor a great distance away from the others, and he glimpsed the glint of a blade hidden in her skirts. Perhaps she planned to kill the man and make her escape before his accomplices could catch her. Will unsheathed, prepared to lend a hand if she needed it.

Once he learned she’d gone to answer the call of nature, he’d been abashed and did his best to avert his gaze.

But something wasn’t right with the lass. He detected it in her pale face as she closed her eyes with a strange expression of defeat. She wasn’t going to kill the man, he suddenly realized in horror. She was going to kill herself.

After that, everything happened so fast, Will scarcely knew what transpired.

The man clouted Jossy’s hand, sending the dagger across the clearing to land inches from Will’s hiding place, and Jossy collapsed into the man’s arms.

Will’s heart dropped to the pit of his belly, and he would have cried out to her, but his gasp was smothered by the man’s furious shouts. And once Will heard the raw and angry concern in the man’s voice—a rage that echoed Will’s own—he decided Jossy was safe enough in the man’s care. Will settled back weakly on his haunches, glad the fellow was strong enough to give her the stern reprimand she deserved, and watched until his heart could return to a reasonable pace.

’Twas immediately obvious from his accent that the man wasn’t a Highlander at all, but from England, which made Will’s blood boil, particularly since the brute had his filthy English hands all over Jossy.

But Will reined in his rage. The man had saved Jossy’s life, after all. Whatever else he was, he was clearly concerned for her welfare.

Once they lowered their voices, Will could no longer hear them. But at one moment as the couple gazed into one another’s eyes, they seemed about to kiss, and Will knew that if they did, he couldn’t be responsible for what he might do. Fortunately, his restraint wasn’t tested. They drew apart, the man clapped a manacle around Jossy’s wrist, and they returned to their camp.

Now ’twas up to Will to decide how to explain it all to Jossy’s other fathers.

Back at their camp, it took him several attempts with numerous interruptions, but he finally got the news across to Angus and Alasdair.

“I say we rush in now with our swords swingin’,” Angus ground out, “murder them all, and take Jossy home where she belongs.”

“Now, Angus, be reasonable,” Will whispered. “I told ye, Jossy tried to kill herself. ’Tis a delicate situation. She’s fragile, and as much as it rubs against our grain, she obviously has feelin’s for the one man. No matter how it upsets us, care has to be taken not to upset her.”

Alasdair stroked his chin. “What if we were to work out an equitable trade for the lass? Men o’ their sort can be bought off with enough silver.”

Angus growled, “The English would as soon lop off a Scotsman’s head as let him speak. Ye wouldn’t get a word out.”

Will had to agree. “Our best approach is a cautious, prepared one. But we’re in enemy country now. We can’t wait till they lead us to a village full of Englishmen. We have to act soon.”

“Here,” Angus suggested. “At first light.”

Will nodded. “We’ll wake up the other three with our swords at their necks. Jossy is shackled to the fourth, but I don’t think he’ll hurt her. We’ll let them live if he gives us Jossy. If not…”

Angus puffed up his chest, remembering the long-ago bravery of his youth, and the three of them settled back down on their plaids, their swords in hand, dreaming of the heroic rescue to come.

The plan would have worked brilliantly if they’d wakened before dawn. In their younger days, Will thought in disgust, they would have. But by the time the three road-weary Scots finally stirred themselves, the Englishmen had already left with Jossy.