Chapter 43

As Josselin continued to stare in confusion at the innkeeper behind the counter of The Sheep Heid, her smile grew brittle. “What do ye mean, he’s gone?”

He shrugged. “Sorry, lass. He left late last night.”

Her heart began hammering in her breast, but she refused to panic. “But his things are still here?”

“Nae. He packed up, settled his account, and set off.”

She tried to make sense of what the innkeeper was saying, which wasn’t easy when she could scarcely breathe. “Did he say where he was goin’?”

The innkeeper made a strange grimace, as if he knew, but was reluctant to tell her. Which, if he’d known Josselin better, he would never have done.

She seized him by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward across the counter, drawing her dagger to press against his throat.

“Listen, ye hound-swiver! If ye know where he is, ye’d better tell me now, or ye’ll be whistlin’ out o’ your bloody throat for the rest o’ your miserable life.”

“T-tinkle… Tank…” he stammered. “Tinklake…”

“Tintclachan?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

She released him, furrowing her brow in thought.

There was no such town. Drew had admitted as much to her. He’d invented it. So where had he really gone?

“Did he say when he’d return?”

The innkeeper swallowed hard, loath to say, but wary of her blade. “In a year.”

“A year!”

“Or so.”

Josselin blinked. What the devil was going on? Why would Drew leave so suddenly? Had D.S. caught up to him? Had he been forced to flee?

“Did he say anythin’ else, anythin’ at all?” she demanded. “Did he say why he was leavin’?”

The innkeeper backed away a step, out of her range. “He may have said he wanted to keep movin’.”

“Keep movin’?”

“And somethin’ about…women…wantin’ to put him in a cage.”

“Women? What women?”

The innkeeper gave her a fleeting glance and a guilty shrug.

“Me?”

She didn’t believe that for an instant. Cage Drew? She’d never given him cause to think that. She’d made no demands of him. She’d never mentioned marriage. In fact, she’d given him her virginity freely, never asking for anything in return. There was no need to cage him—he was bound to her by love and respect and trust.

Only last night Drew had held her in his arms and murmured to her that—for better or worse, no matter their bloodlines, no matter what the future held—their destinies were intertwined. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d meant every word.

Which meant he’d lied to the innkeeper. But why?

He must have had good reason. And if he’d fled Edinburgh, he must have had good cause to do that as well. They were allies now—she and Drew. She might not know his exact intentions, but she must do all she could to uphold the story he’d concocted.

The innkeeper was watching her expectantly, as if he’d never before seen a woman scorned. She supposed she’d better not disappoint him.

With a roar of rage, she stabbed her dagger into the oak counter. “That son of a bitch!”

One by one, she picked up the half-dozen clay flagons lined up along the counter, punctuating her oaths by flinging the cups to the floor, where they burst with satisfying crashes.

“That cuckoldin’ varlet! That miserable cur! That sheep-swivin’ dastard! That bloody, good-for-nothin’, philanderin’ rogue!”

She wrenched her dagger from the counter and shoved it back into its sheath, then skewered the innkeeper with a fierce glare, spitting forcefully into the rushes. “A curse on your sex!”

Whipping around in an angry swirl of skirts, she stalked out of the inn, slamming the door behind her.

Drew huddled over his table in the shadowy corner of The White Hart, pushing the candle away and tugging the hood of his cloak farther forward. He adjusted the telltale scarf that swathed the lower half of his face and marked him as a pox victim.

He must truly love Jossy. Why else would he plant himself in an inn thick with Scots spies? Or forgo golfing indefinitely? Or take on the guise of a pox-riddled old man with a bent back and a pronounced hobble?

It hadn’t been easy, secretly following Jossy for the last several hours. But unbeknownst to the lass, she was in mortal danger. Someone had to keep a close watch on her, and it couldn’t be Drew MacAdam.

He hadn’t wanted to frighten Jossy by revealing just how much peril she was in. But frankly, the fact that the Highland golfer had been marked as a suspicious character and that Josselin, a spy for the queen, had gone away with him for several days, did not bode well for her.

If she’d disappeared for good, Philipe would have assumed that either her secrecy had been compromised or that she’d double-crossed him. He would have had her hunted down and killed. Indeed, Drew suspected Jossy’s suicide attempt might have been part of her spy’s oath—a necessary precaution when dealing with the consequences of falling into the hands of the enemy.

There was no question—Jossy needed to return to Edinburgh to prove her loyalty. As for Drew MacAdam, he must appear to have fled to his distant Highland home, far from royal scrutiny. To all concerned, ’twould seem that the tie between Drew and Jossy had been severed. But someone would have to watch over the lass, and it couldn’t be Drew.

That someone else was currently staying at The White Hart, in the chamber next to Jossy’s. Jossy hardly seemed to notice the hunched old man with the masked face and the gnarled walking staff who’d followed her to Musselburgh this morn. But Drew was content with that. As she’d told him once, the less she knew, the safer she was.

Drew didn’t know how long he’d need to protect her. Hopefully, once D.S. learned Drew MacAdam had gone to Tintclachan, he’d give up the hunt, report his fruitless search to Philipe, and Jossy’s name would be cleared.

On the other hand, if D.S. had followed them into the woods that day and seen Jossy, a royal spy, abducted by Englishmen, ’twas surely a death sentence for her. After all, Philipe had no way of knowing what traitorous secrets she’d spilled under enemy coercion.

It should be clear in a matter of days where Jossy stood with Philipe. Until then, Drew dared not reveal himself to her. But he’d never be more than a dozen yards away, his sword hidden under his cloak, ready to defend her to the death.

He peered at Jossy over the top of his tankard of beer. ’Twas the worst sort of torture, being so close to her, yet unable to speak to her, to reassure her, to touch her. It crushed him to think she believed he’d forsaken her. He wanted to go to her, tear off his mask, and declare his unwavering love.

He watched as she pushed away her half-eaten pottage and tossed back her beer, then made her way up the stairs. He ached to sweep her off her feet and carry her there, to kiss away her sorrow and make sweet, tender love to her.

He sighed. The poor lass’s heart must have broken into a million pieces when she learned he’d left her. Drew hoped when all this was over he could repair the damage he’d done. He prayed she’d forgive him and take him back. Love conquered all, the bards said. He hoped they were right.

Josselin stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, waiting. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. The hunched man with the masked face and the hooded cloak had been dogging her all day, and once he noticed she’d retired upstairs, he’d no doubt follow at her heels. When he did, she’d be ready for him.

There was a telltale squeak on the stair. The instant he stepped into the shadows of the landing, she pushed him up against the wall, intending to silence any protest with a forceful kiss. Instead she got a mouthful of linen.

While she was spitting out the scarf, he took her by the shoulders and pinned her against the opposite wall.

“What are ye doin’?” he hissed behind the mask.

She smiled. “What do ye think I’m doin’?”

He released one of her shoulders to tear away the scarf. “How did ye know ’twas me?” he whispered.

“Oh, I didn’t,” she teased, reaching up to play with his ear. “I just have an affinity for poxy men.”

He swore softly, then seized her roaming fingers, enclosing them in his hand, and repeated, “How did ye know?”

She chuckled. “Why, love, did ye think I hadn’t memorized every inch o’ ye? After all…” She leaned close to whisper in his ear, “I’ve crossed swords with ye.” She took a deep breath of his intoxicating scent. “I’ve kissed ye.” She turned her head until their lips nearly touched and murmured against his mouth, “I’ve made love to ye.”

His shuddering breath grazed her cheek.

“I know ye…intimately,” she told him, freeing her hand to draw back his hood and run her fingers through his hair. “From your wild mane…” She wrapped her leg around his and slid her heel sensuously down the back of his calf. “To your scuffed boots.” She let her hand drift down his neck and beneath his shirt, stroking the thick muscles of his chest and arms. “From your broad shoulders…” Her other hand stole around his waist and lower to squeeze his buttocks. “To your firm arse.”

She was rewarded with a groan of desire, but ’twas clear Drew had weightier matters on his mind.

“Oh, lass,” he whispered brokenly, pushing her away and staggering backward. “We can’t. We mustn’t be seen together.”

“Ye’re right,” she said, clasping his hand and tugging. “Come. We’ll hide in my chamber.”

He resisted her pull. “Now, lass, ye know that isn’t what I… We can’t…” He extricated his hand from hers. “Damn it, lass, I have to keep ye safe.”

“Safe?”

“Aye.”

“So ye’re guardin’ me?”

“Aye.”

“Well, what better way to guard me than to sleep at the foot o’ my bed?”

“I’m not goin’ to—”

“Shh,” she warned, placing her finger over his lips and frowning at some imagined noise. “Hurry.”

She wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Taking his hand again, she pushed open the door and half-dragged him in.

In the end, ’twas Josselin who slept at the foot of the bed, but only because they made such a chaotic mess of the linens that ’twas impossible to tell which end was which.