Chapter 49

If anyone had told Drew he’d be golfing with the Queen of Scotland for a second time at Musselburgh, he would have told them they must be drunk.

Yet here he stood on this bright September morn, teeing off against Mary, accompanied by the queen’s four faithful companions, two cadets, and a small crowd that had gathered for the impromptu match.

Drew had to give Jossy credit. She’d come up with a brilliant plan…as long as it worked. If it didn’t, the two of them would likely be drawn and quartered for treason by the end of the day.

Face to face, Jossy had insisted. Nothing could be more direct than an Englishman and a rogue spy confronting the Queen of Scotland in the full light of day.

Jossy had sent a missive by way of Davey the beer wagon driver to be delivered directly to Mary at Holyrood. ’Twas a challenge from Drew MacAdam—Highland golfer and friend of Ambrose Scott—to a game of golf at Musselburgh.

The queen, amused by the boldness of the letter and rabid for the game, had responded at once, accepting the challenge. This morn she’d managed to evade her watchful guards and set aside the responsibilities of the crown long enough to meet him secretly on the course.

“So what’s to be the wager, MacAdam?” the queen asked as they stood at the first tee. Loath to attract attention, she was dressed in relatively modest attire of subdued colors. Her glorious hair was hidden, tucked under a French hood, and she wore only a simple Cross on a chain about her neck. Her brown eyes twinkled as she said, “I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ a piece o’ land? Maybe the lairdship o’… Where did ye say ye were from?”

He froze for an instant, mortified, then managed to choke out, “Tintclachan.”

A crease touched her pale brow. “Ne’er heard of it. I can see I shall have to do more travelin’ if I’m to reign o’er this vast country.”

Jossy stepped forward and bowed her head in reverence. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I’d like to name the wager.”

Mary studied her, then grinned. “Ye’re the beer wagon wench.”

“Aye.”

“I’m guessin’ ye’ll want more than a thimble this time?”

Jossy smiled, obviously pleased that the queen remembered her. “If Drew wins the match, Your Majesty, I’d very much like your blessin’…on our marriage.”

The Four Maries gasped unanimously in delight, then sighed in pleasure. Drew smirked. They were definitely French.

The queen looked just as pleased. “So there’s to be a weddin’, is there?”

“If ye’ll allow it,” Jossy said.

The queen smiled, then nodded.

The Four Maries clapped in approval.

“And if I win?” Mary inquired.

“What’s your pleasure, Your Majesty?” Drew asked.

She thought for a moment, then replied, “I’d like to journey to your home in the Highlands. If I win, ye’ll accompany me to Tintclachan.”

Despite the horrible sinking in his chest, Drew managed a weak smile. “As ye wish.”

Hell, he thought, giving Jossy a worried glance, he’d better win this match.

The wagers made, they began the game. The queen made the first drive, and as before, Drew was impressed with her skill. She’d obviously mastered the sport in France, and her well-trained cadets rushed to build her tees and hand her the proper clubs for each shot.

Halfway through the course, Drew was winning by three strokes, and the crowd had grown to unwieldy proportions as word rapidly spread that the young queen was playing at Musselburgh.

’Twas while they were teeing off at the Whin Hole that disaster struck.

Stalking across the green with murder in his eyes, his dark cloak swirling with each angry stride, came Philipe, finally alerted to the queen’s mad escapade and no doubt on a mission to put an end to it.

Drew shot a meaningful glance at Jossy, who lingered at the back of the crowd. She’d seen Philipe as well, and she gave Drew a somber nod of acknowledgment.

A cadet placed the queen’s ball upon the tee, and she lined up her club behind it.

“Your Majesty!” Philipe called, loping up in a froth, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “Wait!”

The queen, displeased she’d been found out, sighed and twisted to frown at him. “I’m about to tee off, Philipe. What is it?”

The onlookers scowled at him in disapproval.

“I need to talk to you, Your Majesty,” he said sternly.

“’Twill have to wait,” she told him.

“But I…I…” Philipe sputtered in frustration.

As he scanned the crowd, he suddenly spotted Jossy. He shot her a glare of menace, which she returned with a brow arched in silent challenge.

“Your Majesty,” Philip insisted, biting out each word, “I must speak with you now.”

“Not when I’m in the middle o’—”

“It is most urgent,” he hissed.

The queen, clearly annoyed, withdrew her club and turned to face him. “What is it, Philipe?”

Philipe straightened and gave her a pointed look. “I fear for your safety, Your Majesty.”

“I see. Well, put away your fears. ’Tis only a game o’ golf, not a duel to the death.”

The bystanders chuckled, and Philipe flushed in anger. “I believe,” he announced over their laugher, “there is a traitor in our midst.”

The crowd’s levity turned to mumbles of surprise, and the queen crossed her arms atop her club. “Indeed? And which one o’ these loyal Scots lads would that be?”

“Not a lad.” Drew froze as Philipe pointed one bony finger of accusation at Jossy. “Her.”

To Drew’s amazement, Jossy stood firm, far more confident of the queen’s affections than he was.

“The beer wagon wench?” Mary exclaimed with a laugh. “I see. And what proof do ye offer o’ her treason?”

Philipe drew himself up proudly. “She has been consorting with him.” He turned his stabbing finger on Drew.

“O’ course she’s been consortin’ with him,” Mary said. “They plan to wed. In fact, if MacAdam here wins the game, I’ve promised him my blessin’ on the match.”

Philipe’s eyes widened in horror.

“Now,” the queen stated regally, “stand aside, secretary, or I’ll put ye to work, searchin’ for balls in the rough.”

That silenced Philipe, but it didn’t keep him from imposing his threatening presence upon them all, and when Drew next looked up from play, the secretary was standing close to Jossy—too close, eyeing her with a cold, calculated air of menace. As Drew lowered his gaze, he could see that in one hand, Philipe covertly gripped Jossy’s arm, and in the other, he clutched a small dirk, which was pressed against her ribs.

Drew always prided himself on being able to ignore distractions when he golfed. The crowd could yell and scream, wave their arms and stamp their feet. Hell, they could set their dogs on him, and he’d not bat an eye. He knew how to shut out everything but the swing before him, to focus solely on placing the ball where he wanted it to go.

But when he saw Philipe looming over Jossy like that, his composure faltered, and his concentration dissolved like mist.

What did the man intend? Was he trying to frighten Jossy into a confession? Did he hope to intimidate Drew into throwing the match? Or would he use the protection of the crowd to plunge that lethal blade into her heart?

Drew felt sick. Jossy stood mere yards away, yet there was nothing he could do to protect her, not without raising suspicion and ensuring they both swung from the gallows.

His playing suffered—his arms trembled, his swings went wild—and no matter how many times he looked over to make sure Jossy was safe, he kept thinking about how quickly Philipe could end her life with the single thrust of that dirk.

Three-quarters of the way through the game, the score was tied. By the time they were teeing off at the last hole, Drew had fallen behind by two strokes.

Bloody hell. He was going to lose. Which meant he’d lose Jossy. Forever.

Without the queen’s blessing on their union, nothing would stand between Philipe and his desire to dispatch the rogue spy and expose the counterfeit Highlander.

Josselin had had enough of Philipe’s tiresome menace. She’d allowed him to take and hold her hostage, mostly because she hadn’t wanted to interrupt Mary’s play with the feeble complaint that her meddling secretary was poking his pointy knife at her belly.

But now the match had come down to life or death, and Drew was behind by two strokes. He had to stop blundering about and start playing a serious game. And she intended to tell him so.

So as they stood waiting for the players to tee off at the last hole, Josselin surreptitiously lifted her booted heel and brought it down with crushing strength, grinding atop Philipe’s sensitive toes as if she were extinguishing live coals.

He yelped and withdrew the dirk long enough for her to wrench free and make her escape. He dared not pursue her now for fear of making a spectacle and incurring the queen’s wrath. She rushed forward through the crowd to seize Drew’s arm.

Drew turned, and instantly his bleak countenance brightened. “Jossy.”

“Listen to me, Highlander,” she whispered while Mary’s cadets were mounding sand into a tee for her. “Ye’d better not be tryin’ to weasel out of our marriage. I fought bloody hard for ye, and I’m not goin’ to let ye go so easily.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him no chance to reply. “Now I know ye can play better,” she murmured. “Ye’ve beat Mary before. So stop muckin’ about and focus on the game.”

As she advised him, she went quickly through the motions herself, the way her fathers did when they showed her how to fight. “Find your balance. Bend your knees. Keep your grip firm, but not too tight. And for God’s sake, keep your eye on the target.”

She suddenly noticed the crowd had gone silent and was watching her.

Mary was grinning. “MacAdam, ye ought to make the lass your cadet. She knows almost as much about the game as ye do.”

Drew’s heart filled with pride as he gazed at the lass he meant to make his bride. He’d forgotten how strong she was, how determined, how feisty. Hell, she could probably wrestle Philipe to the ground with one arm tied behind her back.

With her honey curls and her wide green eyes, Jossy might look soft and vulnerable, but she was clever and willful and full of spirit. She might be as tender as new grass, but she could also be as prickly as a Scots thistle. She could purr like a kitten one moment and roar like a lion the next. And damned if she wasn’t the kind of woman worth fighting for.

’Twas exactly what he intended to do.

Moments later, when his ball rolled smoothly into the final hole, a great cheer went up, and he couldn’t stifle his own grin of relief. Even Mary didn’t seem disappointed when he won by one stroke. But then ’twas the mark of a true golfer. For the queen, ’twasn’t the score, but the love of the game that kept her coming back to the course.

Still, for once, Drew had to admit that he was glad of his winnings. And when Jossy nearly bowled him over with her enthusiastic embrace, he’d never felt so elated.

Until Philipe’s stern voice floated over the crowd. “They cannot be wed, Your Majesty,” he intoned, pushing his way through the onlookers toward the queen.

“And why is that, Philipe?”

“Because,” he said, lifting a smug brow to make the shocking announcement, “Drew MacAdam is an Englishman.”

The crowd silenced in uncertainty.

“An Englishman,” the queen echoed.

Drew’s heart stopped, and the silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

Then Mary suddenly burst into laughter, and the rest of the crowd joined her while Philipe glowered in outrage.

The queen stacked her hands atop her golf club as if ’twere a royal scepter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Philipe,” she said with a regal air of command. “The English don’t know a niblick from a fairway club. Besides, do ye truly believe that the Queen o’ Scotland could be bested at the game o’ golf…by an Englishman?”