Chapter 3

SEPTEMBER 2

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

Drew grumbled under his breath. He didn’t know why he’d come. He usually avoided crowds like the pox. Already he’d been jostled by drunks, elbowed by peddlers, pushed aside by filthy urchins trying to get a better view, and aye, even patted on the arse by a wench looking for a bit of business.

But he was currently staying in Edinburgh, and the whole city seemed to be in a feverish fervor over their new monarch, Queen Mary. He hadn’t been able to persuade any golfers to play today, even with the offer of weighting the game in their favor. So he’d decided, since the links were deserted, and since he’d missed the coronation of his own Queen Elizabeth three years ago, perhaps he’d venture down to the Royal Mile to see what the clamor was about.

So far, Queen Mary had been nothing but an inconvenience to him. Her early arrival at Leith Harbor had interrupted one perfectly good golf game, and her homecoming festivities today prevented another. True, he’d been paid handsomely for the forfeit of his match with Ian Horn. But lately, he was driven as much by his love of the sport as by coin.

He frowned, beginning to regret his decision to come. The hubbub was inescapable. The crowd was packed in at Lawnmarket as tightly as herring in a barrel. People were cheering and singing and shouting and laughing in a deafening commotion. And the queen hadn’t even arrived yet.

He scanned the crowd with an uneasy scowl, wondering how quickly the Scots would string him up if they found out he was English. Fortunately, he’d played the part long enough to be fairly certain he could convince even the most dubious Lowlander that he’d been born and bred in the Highlands. And the rare Highlander who ventured this far south had never heard of his hometown of Tintclachan—which was no surprise, since Drew had invented the village and placed it in a vague, remote part of the country.

’Twas a necessary deception. Traveling as a Highlander along the eastern coast of Scotland, he could steal from the purses of those who’d stolen his father from him, exacting a fitting but bloodless revenge.

His uncles, of course, would have preferred he join the English army and kill every Scot in sight. Drew had considerable skill with a blade, thanks to his uncles’ training. But like his father, he’d never had the heart for violence. Besides, with King Henry dead and Queen Elizabeth on the throne, battles along the Borders were rare. Still, to keep his uncles content, Drew let them believe the coin he earned was won on the English tournament circuit with a sword rather than on the Scots links with a golf club.

He thought his disguise was reasonably convincing. He’d let his hair grow a bit shaggier than was fashionable, and he usually went a day or two without a shave. He owned a pair of sturdy knee-high boots and a long, belted saffron shirt with a short leather doublet’H, beneath which he wore dark tartan trews, even in summer, for he’d never quite accustomed himself to the Highland habit of going bare-arsed. When the weather grew cold, he tossed a Scots plaid over one shoulder.

He’d spoken so long with a brogue that he could hardly remember how to speak proper English. After three years of living the lie, he almost believed it himself.

“And ye have the ballocks to call yourself a Scotsman!” cried the lad beside him unexpectedly.

Drew stiffened.

But the lad was yelling at someone else, a half-drunk redbearded fellow who was carrying on about the new queen in a loud bellow. “I’m more Scots than some Catholic tart who’s been livin’ in France all her life!”

The lad gasped, then spat, “Ye take that back!”

“I won’t!” snorted the redbeard.

The lad gave him a hard push.

The man stumbled back a step, spilling a few drops of his ale, but continued his tirade. “What gives the wench the right to sail into my harbor and tell me how to say my prayers?”

The youth raised a puny fist and spoke through his teeth. “Ye’d better say your prayers.”

The redbeard was too drunk to recognize the threat. “I won’t be takin’ orders from ye, nor from that French trull.”

The lad growled a warning.

Drew groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in a brawl. This wasn’t his fight. He wasn’t Scots. And he didn’t care a whit about the queen. He was already having a miserable day. He didn’t need to make it worse.

But the lad was half the redbeard’s size. A strong wind would blow him over. Drew couldn’t just stand by and watch the young pup get his arse kicked. He laid a restraining palm on the lad’s shoulder. “Easy, half-pint.”

“He’s right!” a third man chimed in from Drew’s other side, suddenly placing Drew squarely in the middle of the battle. “No Scot should have to kiss the derriere of a French wench.”

The lad shrugged off Drew’s hand. “Mary was born here, ye lobcocks!” he insisted, his voice breaking with his vehemence. “She knows our history. She speaks our tongue.”

“Ye’re a daft grig!” the redbeard crowed, raising his cup of ale. “No sensible Scotsman would let a hen rule the roost, eh, lads? Even John Knox says so!”

Drew grimaced as the surrounding men cheered in accord.

He could practically feel the heat rising off of the angry youth beside him as the lad ground out, “John Knox is a bloody blockhead.”

Drew had heard the preachings of John Knox, who was an infamous misogynist, and he had to agree with the lad. But he couldn’t afford to be trapped in the midst of a rabid pack of battling Scots. He leaned down to murmur a few words of friendly advice to the reckless youth. “Careful, lad. Ye’re outnumbered.”

The lad whipped his head around, facing Drew directly, and answered him with all the fearless passion of youth. “I’ll gladly fight them all in Mary’s defense.”

Drew recoiled, not from the youth’s bold boast, but from a startling revelation, a revelation that the men surrounding him had not yet had.

All at once, the crowd began cheering wildly, and the debate was forgotten as everyone turned toward the road. The procession had arrived at last. People clapped and shouted and waved their arms. Some chanted—whether in welcome or mockery, Drew couldn’t tell.

Nor did he much care. He was far more interested in his new discovery. HeeHe stepped back a pace and let his gaze course down the back of the youth beside him. ’Twas hard to tell with the ill-fitting shirt and the oversized hat, but Drew would have wagered his putting cleek that the brazen half-pint standing beside him, making bold threats and swearing like a sailor, was a lass.