Chapter 40

It had been a long time since Drew had battled with a sword, but he’d trained for so many years that it came as naturally to him as breathing.

Josselin, too, was skilled. But she didn’t have his discipline, and she definitely didn’t have the coldblooded temperament required to be a master swordfighter.

Instead, he saw burning hatred in her eyes as she struck out wildly at him.

She was quick, but he was quicker. She was clever, but her intent was easy to read. She was agile, but she was wearing herself out.

He needed to keep her attacks at bay just long enough to tire her, to drain her strength and her rage. Then, and only then, could he try to use reason.

He fought defensively at first, blocking her blows, glancing her thrusts aside. But gradually he advanced on her, carefully and strategically backing her into a corner.

Her men shouted out warnings as panic widened her eyes.

He had her now. There was nowhere she could go. She was tired. She was defenseless. At last maybe he could talk some sense into her.

“I don’t want to do this,” he told her. “I’ve no wish to fight you. There’s no point in opening an old wound, and—”

He hadn’t counted on her swinging her left hand around and knocking him in the side of the head with the manacle.

He staggered back, stunned, and in his moment of disorientation, she managed to slip out of his reach.

He winced as his head began to throb, cursing his own inattention. But he shook off the pain and advanced on her again, charging with aggressive blows to drive her back against the door of the inn. This time he seized the shackle, immobilizing her hand, and came across with his sword hand to knock the blade from her grip.

As her weapon clattered on the floor, there was a loud gasp from the onlookers. But Josselin stood firm as he placed the edge of his sword against her neck.

He was impressed. Most men would cower in her place.

He leaned forward to whisper to her. “Jossy, listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you. This isn’t our fight. We can’t be—”

She drove her knee up between his legs so fast he never saw it coming. All the air left his lungs, and he doubled over as his abused ballocks began to ache. He barely had the presence of mind to withdraw his blade so he wouldn’t cut her.

She escaped him again, scooping up her sword as she fled toward the hearth.

He gasped, trying to catch his breath. As he glanced at his audience, he saw they were all wincing in empathy, even the Scots.

Limping in pain, he nevertheless managed to engage her again. He struck her blade with blows heavy enough to jar her bones. She fell back, inch by inch, until her back was to the fire.

Then her heel caught on on uneven plank, and her arms cartwheeled back as she lost her balance.

He seized her around the waist, hauling her forward against him so she wouldn’t fall into the flames.

Though she struggled against him, he held her tightly in his grasp and rasped out, “We can’t be responsible for the actions of our parents. What your mother did, what my father did, ’twas a lifetime ago.”

“He murdered her,” she spat.

“Nay,” he said. ’Twas time she learned the truth. “’Twas an act of mercy.”

She squirmed in frustration against him.

“She was already dying,” he murmured, remembering his father’s last words, scrawled on the note he’d left behind. “She asked him to slay her. She asked him to end her suffering.”

Her fathers gasped, and she paused for a moment, taken aback by this information. Then she began pounding on his shoulder with the pommel of her sword. “Why should I believe ye? Ye’re nothin’ but a bloody English—”

“I told ye my father died in battle,” he said, ignoring her blows. “That was a lie. My father took his own life.” His uncles started to protest, but he didn’t give a damn what they thought. He’d hidden the truth long enough. “When he came home from Ancrum, he sent me off to fetch my uncles. By the time we returned, he’d written out his confession and hanged himself.”

“As he deserved,” she breathed.

He flinched at her cruelty. But when he looked closer into her eyes, he saw that she was in anguish. What he was telling her was counter to everything she’d ever believed. All her life, she thought her mother had been tortured to death. She didn’t know that the one who’d ended her life had done so out of kindness and that he’d paid for his sin with his own life. She’d expended so much energy believing in the injustice of her mother’s death that she probably didn’t want to hear the real story.

But he was going to make her listen anyway.

“Do you know why he killed himself?” he asked.

She wrenched at his arms, trying to get free.

“Remorse,” he said. “Even though he’d killed a woman out of compassion, he was burdened with horrible guilt over it.”

Her eyes were filling with moisture, though she still fought him with what remained of her strength.

“You see, my father had no killer instinct,” he explained, “and no appetite for war.” Then, silently praying he wasn’t making a fatal mistake, he dropped his sword to the floor and let her go. “And neither do I.”

Set free, Jossy raised her blade, and for one awful instant, Drew feared she meant to behead him then and there. But the sword wavered in her grip, her chin trembled, and a tear spilled down her cheek.

Josselin had the advantage now. Her sword was poised above his head. She could kill him. With one slash she could exact the vengeance she was born to, and be free of the curse of her bloodline.

But what if he was speaking the truth? What if his father had been the one English soldier at Ancrum with the heart to end her mother’s agony?

He stood before her now—unarmed, vulnerable. He’d left his life in her hands. He trusted her. How could she not show him the same trust?

He spoke softly. “My father already paid for your mother’s death. There’s no more revenge to be had.” He held his palms up in surrender. “You can kill me. But if you do, where will the vengeance end? When all our kin are dead?”

He was right. The burden of hate she’d carried for so long was only an empty cask after all. Suddenly, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Tears spilled over her lashes, and she sniffed them back angrily. Bloody hell! She hated to cry, especially in front of her fathers. She lowered her sword and swiped brusquely at her eyes with the back of her shackled hand.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the witnesses.

Drew lowered his hands to his sides and asked, “Jossy, can you forgive me?”

She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. She knew what he meant. He’d lied to her. Kidnapped her. Bedded her. But he’d also lied for her. Loved her. And saved her life.

She nodded.

“Can you…” he asked, raising hopeful brows, “love me?”

Will stepped forward with a growl. “Over my dead body.”

Simon agreed. “Oh, nay, you don’t, lad.”

“’Tis time we went home, lass,” Angus hastily added.

“Aye,” Robert said, “’tis time we all went home.”

Thomas said, “’Tis settled then.”

Alasdair chimed in, “We’re all agreed.”

Josselin rounded on them with her sword, making them step back a pace. “Nae, we’re not agreed,” she snapped, glad of an excuse to turn her weeping into ire. “In case ye old fools hadn’t noticed, the two of us are full-grown. I think we can bloody well decide our own destiny. It may not be an easy road. But we’re strong and brave. The blood o’ heroes runs in our veins. Together we have the cods to face whatever fate hands us, and by God’s Cross, we’ll kick the arses of anyone who stands in our way.”

Everyone grumbled at that, everyone except Drew, who grinned proudly, then turned to tip up her chin and plant a sweet kiss on her lips.

There was a unanimous groan from the old men, but Josselin didn’t care. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the taste of Drew. Her bones seemed to melt as he wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She sighed into his mouth as he slipped his hand into her hair and kissed her thoroughly. At some point, her sword hit the floor, but she hardly noticed. All she knew was that she was right where she belonged.

Without a word, Drew swept her off her feet and carried her up the stairs. The last she heard of the old men was their disgusted muttering.

“I can’t believe you let a lass curse like that.”

“I can’t believe ye let your nephew golf.”

Then Drew slammed the chamber door behind them.