Chapter 41

The heat of battle still raged in Josselin as she attacked Drew, tearing his shirt half off and scrabbling at the laces of his trews.

He countered with just as much passion, heaving her onto the bed and tossing up her skirts.

Their mouths met, and they fed on each other, gorging like half-starved beasts.

Her hands roamed over his body, delving into the thick mass of his hair, rounding the solid muscle of his shoulder, stroking the sculpted planes of his chest.

He explored her just as thoroughly, stroking her bare arms, ensnaring his hand in her tresses, grazing the flesh over her ribs.

She arched up toward him, breathless with desire, and he pushed her down into the mattress, grinding against her hips.

Impatient, she shoved her hand boldly down the loose top of his trews to find the full treasure within.

He groaned, but his revenge was swift. He nuzzled aside her chemise and feasted at her breast while his fingers searched beneath her skirts and found that hot, hungry spot betwixt her legs.

She moaned in pleasure, squeezing her eyes closed as a wave of lust washed over her.

He growled in approval as she circled her hands around his back, sliding his trews down to knead the solid muscle of his buttocks.

Aching with need, she pulled him inside her with a cry of delight.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, overcome with lust, taking a moment to enjoy her warmth. After a moment, he moved against her, initiating the sweet friction that would spark the sensual fire between them.

His flesh was hot against hers, and she burrowed her head against his neck, alternately nipping at his throat and soothing him with her tongue as her head swam in a glorious sea of sensation.

From deep within, she felt the familiar turbulence begin, a small rumbling at first. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, grounding herself for what was to come. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in gasps as the thunder within her rolled closer and closer to the surface. And then, in one magnificent flash, lightning struck, blinding in its brilliance, and she felt shocked to life.

As she shook with violent tremors, he, too, found his release, roaring with the power of it, thrusting until he could thrust no more, emptied of his seed and drained of his will.

Wary of crushing her, he rolled to the side, taking her with him. Then, with what little strength he had left, he showered the top of her head with grateful kisses.

She laughed in exhausted delight and nestled her face in the hollow of his shoulder. They lay there until their pulses slowed and their breath came in long, contented sighs.

“Do ye think they’re gone?” she finally murmured.

“Who—the peevish old men? I hope so.”

She smiled and traced a path down his chest with her fingertip. “My fathers meant well.”

“Oh, aye. So did my uncles. They just don’t understand me any more than they understood my father. They expected me to serve in King Henry’s army, to use my sword,” he said mockingly, “in the glorious war with Scotland.” He arched a sardonic brow. “Well, I went to Scotland. But I chose to wage my battles with a golf club.”

“’Tis no use fightin’ against your nature.”

He pulled his head back to gaze down at her. “And what about your nature, my wee warrior?”

“I suppose ’tis what I was born to, bein’ the daughter o’ the Maid of Ancrum Moor.”

He nodded, then grew pensive. “’Twas a tragedy,” he breathed, “what happened to her.”

She furrowed her brow. “My mother knew what she was doin’ the moment she stepped onto that battlefield. I’ll always believe that. The real tragedy was what happened to your father.”

He smiled ruefully, coiling a lock of her hair around his finger. “If I’d done what my father did—killed an innocent who was suffering—I wouldn’t have hanged myself. I don’t believe he was weak, but I think he was wrong to feel guilty. My uncles taught me that in war there are no rules.” He quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Which is why I prefer golf.”

She shook her head in amusement. “Ye truly prefer golf to war?” ’Twas hard to imagine for Josselin, who’d been raised with a blade in her hand and a legacy to her name.

“Oh, aye.” He let his fingers drift down her throat and trace a path between her breasts. “’Tis a bloodless battle,” he said, “aside from the occasional brawl on the links.”

Josselin quivered beneath his touch. “And ’tis profitable,” she admitted.

He dragged his knuckles gently beneath her breast, awakening the flesh there. “More profitable to drain an enemy’s coffers than their blood.”

“No rules,” she mused, biting her lip. “I’ve heard the same thing said about love.” She gazed at him with languid eyes. “Do ye prefer golf to that as well?”

He brushed a thumb across her nipple, eliciting a gasp from her, and his irresistible blue eyes twinkled wickedly. “Why don’t you get a good grip on my fairway club, and we’ll see?”

’Twas late in the day when they fell back on the mattress for the third time, breathless and satiated. Their clothes—what few of them remained—were in a hopeless tangle, as were their limbs and—Josselin feared—their hearts.

“Ye know this is mad,” she murmured.

“Aye,” he breathed. “We should have chosen a chamber with a quieter bed.”

She smiled and halfheartedly punched his arm. “Ye know what I mean. Our queens are enemies.” She rested her forearm across her brow. “If this were a battlefield, we’d be at each other’s throats.”

He rolled lazily toward her. “Is that what you want, lass? You want me at your throat?” With mock ferocity, he lunged at her, playfully biting the side of her neck, making her shiver.

She reluctantly pushed him away, then sat up, pulling up the neck of her chemise in modesty. “I’m serious, Drew. Ye know I have to go back to Edinburgh.” She began repairing the damage to her attire and tried to lend some semblance of order to her hair. “If I don’t report to Philipe, if I don’t deliver the last missive…”

Drew rocked forward, pulling up his trews. “He’ll suspect you’ve either been compromised or you’ve betrayed the queen.”

“Exactly.”

He shrugged, as if the answer were simple. “So we’ll go back.” He ran a finger lightly down her cheek and spoke in his Highland brogue. “Unless ye find ye prefer English swordsmen to Highland golfers.”

She was still deciding when they finished dressing and prepared for the journey home.

Fortunately, his uncles had left a small purse of silver at their door, and Josselin’s fathers had paid for the damages to the inn. Their guardians might not have approved of their consorting with the enemy, but the old fools apparently hadn’t killed one another, and the innkeeper reported that they’d departed peacefully in opposite directions.