Chapter 38

“Jossy!”

Drew’s eyes flew open at the distant sound of someone shouting. In the dim light of dawn, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Then the naked leg draped possessively over his thigh brought a river of memories racing back, and he smiled.

Jossy was still asleep. Her lashes lay softly on her cheek. Her hair rested like a golden halo upon the pillow. Her lips looked as sweet as berries. And she was snoring like a mastiff.

He must have been dreaming. He thought he’d heard someone calling for…

“Jossy!”

That time Jossy stirred. “What?” she croaked, still half-asleep.

Drew sat up. His heart pounded.

’Twas a man calling her, and ’twas coming from downstairs. Who could it be? Not his uncles. But who else knew her by name? Who else knew she was here? The innkeeper! Had he pocketed their generous coin and sent for the authorities anyway?

“Jossy!” ’Twas insistent this time.

She sat up abruptly, scrubbing at her eyes, and opened her mouth to answer.

He clapped a hand over her mouth and pushed her back down to the pillow.

She reacted as he expected, twisting and thrashing against him, her eyes wide with outrage.

“Jossy!” the voice bellowed. “Come down!”

“Who is that?” Drew whispered, more to himself than to Jossy.

She answered him with a bite.

He swore and yanked back his injured palm. But when she took a breath to yell, he stuffed the first thing he could find into her mouth, and she got a face full of coverlet.

“Shh, Jossy!” he said. “It might be someone looking to hurt you.”

She squirmed under his weight and, as much as she was able, shook her head as if to say nay.

“Do you know who ’tis?”

She nodded.

“Jossy!” came the shout. This time ’twas several men’s voices.

He cursed under his breath. God’s blood! Was the whole Scots army downstairs?

Jossy began struggling in earnest.

“You know them?” he asked again.

She nodded furiously.

He frowned at her, trying to deduce who could possibly know Jossy was here. Then he realized she was fighting him, not in fear, but in rage. She wasn’t afraid of whoever was downstairs.

Nay, it couldn’t be, he thought, refusing the first thought that sprang to mind. ’Twas impossible. They couldn’t have followed her all the way from Selkirk. Nonetheless, he had to ask. “’Tisn’t your fathers, is it?”

Her uncertain hesitation gave her away.

“Ah, shite.”

He wasn’t sure what was worse—one vexed innkeeper with a handful of local authorities or three angry fathers.

Before he could decide, he heard heavy footfalls going past the door and charging down the steps. ’Twas his uncles, he was sure, awakened by the bellows of rage. And they’d probably like nothing better this morn than to spill Scots blood.

Jossy chose that moment to drive her knee up into his belly, and he wheezed in pain. But he wasn’t about to let her go. The last thing she needed was to get herself trapped between a bunch of old fools’ blades.

“I’m sorry, Jossy,” he rasped, “but ’tis for your own good. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt them. I swear.”

Then, as much as he regretted having to do it, he unlocked his manacle and secured her to the bottom leg of the bed, then gagged her with torn bedsheets. ’Twas as challenging as wrestling a wildcat, and he had the scratches and bites to prove it.

The sound of indistinct shouting floated up the stairs. Drew quickly shrugged into his shirt. He had no sword. He’d given it back to Simon. But a fairway club would do in a pinch. He selected his sturdiest from the satchel, tested it against his palm, and sent Jossy one last reassuring look.

She gave him such a scorching glare that he felt the burn of it on his skin. When the ring of steel on steel began belowstairs, she rattled her shackles with unfettered rage and screamed in fury behind the gag.

Drew gently closed the door on her.

’Twasn’t quite the bloodbath he was expecting. The six men appeared to be equally matched. And equally rusty. Meanwhile, the enraged innkeeper was hastily stashing his breakables under the counter.

As soon as Drew appeared on the stairs, a burly, bearded Scotsman called him out.

“That one’s mine!” the man shouted, heading up the steps.

Drew met him on the stairs and easily deflected the man’s first wild slashes with his golf club.

“What have ye done with her?” the man snarled. “What have ye done with my Jossy?”

“She’s safe,” Drew told him.

The old man jabbed forward, and Drew knocked his blade aside.

“Then let her go,” he growled.

“Nay, not now,” Drew said, dodging slashes and holding his place on the stairs. “I’m not about to open that door.” He glanced around the inn. “Not while…this…is going on.”

The man hesitated in his attack and glanced toward the room where Jossy was. Drew was certain if Jossy’s da had followed her all the way from Selkirk, he must love her very much. And the man doubtless knew how reckless and impulsive Jossy could be.

“I trust we understand each other?” Drew asked him.

The man pursed angry lips, but gave him a curt nod. “But if ye’ve touched one hair on the lass’s head…”

Drew didn’t know how to answer that. He’d touched far more than one hair. “I haven’t hurt her. I can promise you that.”

The man didn’t look pleased, but at least the murderous intent was gone from his eyes.

“Now if we’re agreed,” Drew said, “I think we should go downstairs before somebody draws blood. My poor lame uncle’s getting a fair walloping from your man there, and the innkeeper looks ready to dismember someone.”

The man nodded, and they joined the melee, which for Drew was an exercise in strategy as he tried to make sure no one came to harm on either side.

The old men fatigued rapidly, and Drew hoped ’twould not be much longer till they could end the fight and maybe even talk things out like reasonable gentlemen.

Josselin narrowed her eyes to cold slits. If that son of an English doxy thought he’d leave her trussed up, helpless, while he did battle with her three fathers, he’d sadly underestimated her. He might have sworn not to harm them, but his bloodthirsty uncles had made no such promise. And she’d be damned if she’d sit back and wait for her fathers to be slaughtered.

It took patience, persistence, and strength, but she managed to escape. She dropped to the floor and squeezed beneath the heavy oak bed frame, levering it up with her shoulder and lifting the leg of the bed just high enough off the floor to free the shackle.

After that, ’twas quick work to untie her gag and reclaim her weapon from among Drew’s things. Wishing that she had a proper sword instead of a dagger, she nonetheless stormed out the door and rushed down the stairs, eager for battle.

The tavern was a mess of overturned tables and broken chairs. Fists flew, blades whistled, and crockery smashed against the wall. The air was thick with grunts and groans, battle cries and vile oaths.

Thankfully her fathers were alive and well. Angus was the first one to spot her, and when he saw she had no sword, he tossed his weapon to her.

“Here, lass!” he shouted above the din. “Take my blade! Avenge your mother!”

She tossed her dagger to her shackled hand and caught the sword in her right. All at once, ’twas as if Angus’s words had imbued the blade with otherworldly power, a power that seeped from the hilt into her veins, giving her the heart of her warrior mother and firing her blood with a thirst for vengeance.

Pumped full of the rage she was born to, Josselin raised her blade high. “For my mother! For the Maid of Ancrum Moor!”

She brought the sword down with a mighty sweep between Angus and Simon, intending to take over for Angus. But Simon instantly stopped fighting. He looked at her in horror and dropped his weapon to the ground.

“Coward!” she spat, turning in disgust to take on Robert, who had been battling Will. But Robert, too, was only staring at her with his jaw slack, and he tossed away his sword as if ’twere a poisonous snake.

“Come on!” she yelled. “Fight me!”

She looked over at Thomas, who’d been dueling with Alasdair. He stood frozen, his blade lowered. At her glare, he blinked and let the weapon fall.

“Have ye all lost your ballocks?” she cried.

The room fell silent. The English stood with their mouths agape. Her fathers frowned in confusion. And Drew, who was gripping his golf club with white knuckles, was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.