Chapter 39

A hard lump lodged in the pit of Drew’s stomach, and he felt sick.

Surely he’d heard wrong. Surely she hadn’t said Ancrum.

But the pieces fit. She was the right age. She came from the right place. The history was undeniable.

He longed to stop everything here and now, to silence them all forever, to keep the horrible truth from unraveling. He wanted to whisk Jossy out of the tavern and run away with her, away from his uncles, away from her fathers, away from the past.

Instead, he could only watch helplessly, mutely, unable to move, as the inevitable chaos and betrayal unfolded around him.

The bearded Scot scowled. “Bloody hell, what ails the lot o’ ye?”

Simon, pale as parchment, answered. “We don’t fight…with women.”

“Not since…” Robert said, breaking off to glance at Jossy.

Thomas narrowed his eyes at the lass. “Did you say…Ancrum?”

The bearded one pushed his way forward and set the point of his blade under Thomas’s chin. “What do ye know about Ancrum?”

“You realize I’m unarmed,” Thomas pointed out.

The man muttered into his beard and lowered his weapon. “Well?”

“We fought there, the three of us,” Thomas said, “at Ancrum Moor, in ’45.”

The Scots gasped.

“Ye fought there?” the bearded man breathed. “Ye fought at the Battle of Ancrum Moor?”

“Aye.”

The bearded man stepped forward until he was nose to nose with Thomas. “So did we.”

Simon sneered, “So you’re the cowardly bastards who sent women into battle.”

The burly Scotsman gestured with his sword. “And ye’re the cowardly bastards who slew them.”

“I see you’re still sending women to fight your battles,” Robert said, glaring at Jossy.

“Nobody sent me,” Jossy said through her teeth, her eyes fierce, “and nobody sent my mother. But I fight to avenge her, because she was brutally murdered at Ancrum. And ye seem to have her blood on your hands.”

“That may be,” Thomas said, “but you’ll find no combatants here. If you want us dead, you’ll have to kill us in cold blood.”

“After Ancrum Moor,” Simon added, “we took an oath on our brother’s grave.”

Robert snorted. “We don’t fight women.”

Drew could see this was going to end badly. Jossy was primed for battle. She’d probably been raised on a thirst for vengeance. She’d probably been looking forward to this moment her entire life. She’d probably dreamed of the day she’d face those who’d left her an orphan.

He knew exactly how she felt. His father may have killed her mother. But in a sense, her mother had killed his father.

Jossy, however, was impetuous and passionate. She might well take Thomas’s suggestion and murder them all while they were unarmed.

Blood would be spilled, and nothing would be solved.

If she wanted a fight, he’d give it to her, but not at the risk of her soul and not with innocent men who would never have allowed her mother on a battlefield in the first place.

“I took no such oath,” he said quietly, facing her. “Fight me.”

She furrowed her brow. “But ye weren’t at Ancrum. Ye couldn’t have been more than a lad.”

“I’m the one you want,” he told her. “The one who killed the maid at Ancrum? Who slew your mother?” He leveled her with a grave stare. “’Twas my father.”

Josselin felt the world slide sideways as she gaped at Drew. It didn’t seem possible.

She’d imagined this confrontation a hundred times—the moment where she’d meet her mother’s murderer. He was always brutish and ugly, an evil sneer twisting his face. She’d practiced the curses she’d lay upon his head and envisioned killing him the way he had her mother, with cruel gashes that would make him bleed to death slowly.

’Twasn’t supposed to be like this, where death had already claimed the culprit and where the only one on whom she might exact revenge was…a man with whom she’d fallen in love.

She suddenly felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. ’Twas bad enough that Drew was an Englishman, but the son of her mother’s murderer…

God help her, she’d kissed him. She’d touched him. She’d given him her virginity. And he’d utterly betrayed her.

How long had he known? Had he planned this from the beginning? Was it some kind of game to him—seducing and abducting the daughter of the Maid of Ancrum Moor? Was she the prize in his twisted play of vengeance?

She trembled with hurt, with sickness, with rage.

“Andrew!” Simon barked. “Put down your weapon. Have you learned nothing from your father?”

Drew’s eyes never left Josselin. “I’m not my father.”

“She’s a lass, Andrew,” Robert scolded. “She doesn’t know—”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Drew said.

“But if you wound her,” Thomas said, “if you kill her…”

“If she steps onto this battlefield,” Drew said to her, “she’d better know what the stakes are.”

Josselin straightened grimly. Now he was speaking a language she understood. It didn’t matter what her heart said, what her emotions had been. Her mother’s blood demanded retribution. Her fathers had trained her for this. ’Twas what they expected, what her mother expected, what she expected of herself. So she turned a blind eye to the handsome Highlander she’d made love to only days before and faced her English enemy with a raised blade and a curt nod.

Simon addressed the Scots. “Andrew’s right. This is their battle. It should be between the two of them.”

Will reluctantly sheathed his blade and nodded to Alasdair to do the same. Drew exchanged his golf club for Simon’s sword, and Josselin cast aside her dagger, so they’d be evenly matched. Then everyone moved back to give them room.

Josselin met Drew’s eyes and swallowed hard, trying to blot everything from her mind but the duel. She tried to forget his smile, his kiss, his touch. She tried to forget that he was the man who’d saved her life. She tried to think of him as nothing more than her betrayer, the son of the man who’d killed her mother.

’Twas the most difficult thing she’d ever done.

But Alasdair had trained her to shut down distractions, to focus on the fight at hand.

She wasn’t afraid. Fear was something she’d conquered long ago. Angus had assured her that even someone of her size always had advantages.

And Will had cautioned her to keep a cool head, for her temper was her greatest failing.

She would win this match. Her opponent was bigger and stronger, but Josselin was quick and clever. She’d spent hours every day honing her talents, and though Drew might be handy with a fairway club, he’d likely let his skills with a sword lapse.

She was about to find out.

She widened her stance and tossed the hair away from her face. “Do your worst,” she dared him.

Never losing eye contact, he tested his blade, bringing it whistling down with a flick of his wrist. Then he flexed his knees and lifted the point of the sword, inviting her with a beckoning wave to make the first move.

She frowned. For someone who preferred golf to warfare, he seemed surprisingly comfortable with a sword. But she had the power of vengeance on her side.

Her fathers began to yell directives, giving her advice and encouragements. Josselin was deaf to everything but the hot blood of battle rushing in her ears.

With a rage-filled cry, she thrust forward.

He immediately caught her blade with his own, turning it aside.

She attacked again, this time with a diagonal slash.

He blocked the blow with a simple sweep of his arm.

She advanced with a series of quick, short strikes.

Which he glanced aside as if he were swatting flies.

She growled in fury and redoubled her efforts, spinning and slashing and thrusting with her sword, trying to inflict damage anywhere.

But without moving his feet an inch, he managed to deflect every blow.

Damn the cocky rogue! He was toying with her.

Despite her best intentions, she felt her temper rising. She hated Andrew Armstrong. Hated him for being English. Hated him for taunting her. And most of all hated him for making her fall in love with him.