Seduced by Destiny (11 page)

There was no time to battle the Highlander. She had to get rid of him now before Mary showed up.

“Ach, very well,” she said, throwing up her arms. “Play your bloody game then. But do it over there,” she said, pointing to
the furthest hole.

He looked at her quizzically, laying his club across his shoulders and arching his back in a lazy stretch. “Ye really don’t
understand golf at all, love, do ye?”

“Nae, and one day ye can tell me all about it.” She eyed the approaching crowd. “But today ye’ve got to be on your way.”

She leaned across the counter and pushed at his chest, which only served to amuse him.

“If I didn’t know better, lass, I’d say ye were plannin’ some kind o’ clandestine engagement.”

His words startled her. ’Twas precisely what she was planning. Philipe had scrawled this location and date on the note he’d
given her, the one that the Highlander had intercepted. Was that why Drew was here at this exact time and place? He’d claimed
he couldn’t read, but what if that weren’t true? Had Josselin’s mission been compromised?

His next words put her fears to rest.

“But a tryst with the queen’s secretary himself!” he said, whistling. “What high aspirations ye have. Don’t worry, lass. I
won’t get in the way o’ your courtin’.” Leaning toward her, he confided, “Though I suspect ye’ll discover I’m a far better
kisser than that mincin’ twit.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, then heard Philipe drawing dangerously close as he extolled the virtues of the course
at Musselburgh.

“Aye, that’s it,” she shot back, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I’ve an impendin’ tryst with Philipe. So if ye’ll leave us
alone…”

He flashed her a sly grin and made a deep, submissive bow to her before turning to wave brazenly at the approaching entourage.

At her gasp of horror, he clasped his club to his chest and silently mouthed the words, “Far better.” Then, blessedly, he
turned away and trekked back to his ball.

Josselin blushed at the reminder, nervously tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Thankfully, Philipe seemed to be
engaged in conversation with a small group of noblemen and probably hadn’t spotted Drew.

’Twasn’t until the entourage arrived at her beer wagon that Josselin realized with disappointment that the queen was not among
them. As usual, they were all men—some nobles, some soldiers, some servants, some commoners—and everyone was thirsty.

She filled cup after cup until one of the youths caught her eye. He looked strangely familiar. He was short and fair of face,
and his hands seemed small on the tankard he handed her to fill. When he glanced up in thanks, Josselin took a second look
at his wide brown eyes and glanced quickly away before the lad’s secret could get out.

The youth was one of the Four Maries. She was sure of it. In fact, after careful inspection, she spotted all four of the queen’s
ladies in masculine garb, scattered among the men.

Philipe had told her that the queen liked Josselin’s
attire. Had Josselin inspired the women to disguise themselves?

She smiled in wonder. Most of the group of golfers and gamblers had no idea that their ranks had been infiltrated by women,
and none of them knew they stood among royalty.

Then she noticed the tall, handsome, gangly youth in the scuffed black doublet, baggy brown trews, and feathered cap, and
her smile grew even wider.

D
rew couldn’t stop grinning as he strode across the green. ’Twas mad, he knew, but matching wits with the wee blonde with the
reckless temper, flashing eyes, and wicked tongue was almost as exciting as matching strokes with opponents in golf. The beautiful
spitfire gave as good as she got, and ’twas a pleasure to tangle with a woman who was so bright and full of fire.

He’d been right about the rendezvous at Musselburgh. Standing in the midst of the crowd, right on schedule, was Philipe de
la Fontaine. But why was he meeting Jossy at the links? Certainly not for a tryst.

Retrieving his ball and clubs, Drew made his way to the start of the course, where the contestants and spectators were gathering.

Today Drew would face off against the champion of Carnoustie. The purse was sizable, and there were sure to be scores of enthusiasts
gambling on the outcome. Already the green teemed with a motley crowd—noblemen, servants, soldiers, apprentices, merchants,
men young and old, rich and not so rich—all eager to increase their wealth.

’Twasn’t difficult to discern which man was his rival. Dressed in a dapper green doublet with slashed sleeves in the German
style, his shock of white hair tucked under a black cap with a white feather, the man held court at the tee, regaling his
slack-jawed admirers with legendary tales of his triumphs on the links. The man was a born storyteller, reenacting some of
his swings with such enthusiasm that he nearly whacked several bystanders who wandered too close.

Indeed, ’twas one of those near misses that alerted Drew to the scrawny youth who gave a peculiar squeak as he dodged out
of the club’s way.

Drew studied the young man as the fellow moved through the crowd, then stopped to talk to another youth. Something wasn’t
quite right about him. In fact, neither of the lads looked right. Despite being full-grown, they had not a hint of a beard
between them, and their faces were as pink and sweet as peaches. Their behavior was strange, too. Their glances were secretive
and suspicious, as if they were up to mischief.

The truth finally smacked him in the forehead. They weren’t lads. They were lasses disguised as lads.

Marry, ’twas like a contagion!

Was there a shortage of proper gowns in Scotland? Were females infiltrating the men’s ranks to spy on them? Or was this a
backlash to John Knox’s fashionable denigration of women? Maybe ’twas true what Drew’s uncles claimed—that the Scots sent
lasses into battle—because they didn’t realize they were lasses.

Whatever the reason, Drew found it curious that no other men seemed to notice there were females among them.

Drew waited politely until his opponent finished demonstrating his dramatic final putt from yesterday’s game to approach and
offer his hand. “Drew MacAdam.”

“Ronald Metz.”

The man had a firm handshake, a wide smile, and a gleam in his eye that said, I’d be delighted to pummel you.

Drew nodded in greeting, fairly confident he was not going to be pummeled today.

He was right. Metz was good. He was obviously a seasoned golfer. But Drew was better. He had youth on his side—a smooth, powerful
swing that allowed him to place the ball precisely where he wanted it.

He also had a secret incentive. As childish as ’twas, Drew intended to make Jossy eat her words. She’d discounted him as a
cheat. He’d prove otherwise. There was nothing like the prospect of gloating to inspire one’s performance. So he saved his
most impressive shots for the green in front of the beer wagon, where Jossy would be sure to hear the gasps of disbelief and
congratulatory cheers from the crowd.

At the seventh hole, the contestants took a break, and servants were sent to fetch beer for the thirsty spectators.

Meanwhile, Drew kept a watch on Philipe, who remained behind with the nobles. The secretary hadn’t yet openly acknowledged
Jossy. Drew wondered what the man was up to, why he’d ordered this mysterious rendezvous if he was bent on ignoring the lass.

By the last hole, the game was close enough to generate a continuous cacophony of threats, bets, and cursing from gamblers,
detractors, supporters, and drunks. Drew didn’t care. He’d learned from his training with a sword to block outside distractions,
to go in for the kill.

When he gently nudged the ball into the hole with his putting cleek, half the crowd erupted in cheers, and half of them turned
the air hot with their swearing.

He grinned. He’d won by a stroke.

And now Jossy owed him an apology.

“Victory for the Highlander!” somebody crowed.

“Brilliant, MacAdam!”

“Fine game, lad.”

Metz dispiritedly extended his hand. “Well played, MacAdam,” he grumbled.

Drew shook his hand and beamed with Highland charm. “ ’Twas an honor to play ye, Metz. Your golfin’ exploits are legendary.”’ Twasn’t
entirely true, but Drew
had
been listening to them all morn, and his praise seemed to take the edge off of Metz’s disappointment.

“Sir, Ambrose Scott,” a tall lad in the crowd said by way of introduction, offering his hand to Drew. “I’d like to buy the
champion a pint, if ye’ll allow me.”

If Drew was rattled by the youth’s offer, he wasn’t about to show it. And he knew better than to turn it down. After all,
one didn’t refuse beer from the Queen of Scotland.

N
ae,” Josselin whispered in horror. Her heart thudded like a mallet on an empty beer cask as the crowd swarmed toward her.
“Nae.”

That was
not
the Highlander approaching with a smug, I-just-won-the-championship grin on his face. And that was
not
Queen Mary walking beside him.

“Bloody hell.”

Curse Drew MacAdam! He was going to ruin everything. She’d told Philipe that the Highlander meant nothing to her. If Drew
started flapping his jaws about his acquaintance with Josselin, Philipe would think she’d violated his trust. And if the lout
said anything unseemly to the queen …

Ballocks. Drew probably didn’t even know she was the queen. Nobody seemed to recognize her. There was no telling what secrets
he’d let slip.

This was going to be disastrous.

Wiping her palms anxiously on her apron, she searched for Philipe. Perhaps she should tell him the truth about her acquaintance
with the Highlander and warn Philipe before Drew could do any harm.

But the secretary was walking in the opposite direction, highly distracted, conversing with another nobleman.

She was on her own.

It took a great deal of her willpower not to address the queen as Your Majesty, not to reveal that she knew Mary’s secret,
to treat her simply as one of the townfolk. It took the rest of her willpower not to wallop Drew MacAdam as he came smiling
up to the beer wagon, clearly basking in his victory.

Josselin did her best to ignore Drew, but ’twas nearly impossible, especially when the queen issued a startling request.

In a throaty voice with a flawless Scots accent, Mary told her, “I’d like to buy a pint for the champion.” She held out a
hand to Drew for his tankard.

Josselin felt like all the air had been sucked from her lungs. The queen wished to buy Drew a beer?

Appalled, she glanced at Drew, who grinned as he surrendered his cup.

Josselin knew very well who that gloating grin was for, and she longed to smack it right off his face. But she didn’t dare
deny the queen, who held out Drew’s tankard to be filled.

“O’ course,” she said between clenched teeth, taking the cup.

As she filled it, Josselin forced herself to take several calming breaths. ’Twould not do for the queen to see how upset she
was. But she had to think of some way to get Drew away from her before he said something foolish.

“So, Ambrose, are ye a golfer?” Drew asked Mary.

Like that.

Josselin stiffened. The queen, a golfer? ’Twas a stupid
question, like asking King Henry VIII if he’d ever been married.

“I’ve been known to toddle about a course now and then,” the queen said.

’Twas an understatement. Everyone knew Mary was an avid sportswoman. She played tennis, hunted, rode, golfed. Faith, she could
probably best the Highlander in a caber toss.

“Indeed?” Drew asked.

Josselin didn’t like the speculative tone of his voice.

“Aye,” Mary replied. “But I’ve never played such a marvelous course.”

“Playin’ Musselburgh is like wooin’ a fair maid,” he confided. “It requires a firm hand, but a gentle touch.”

“Wooin’ a maid? Then I should do quite well,” Mary asserted, which sent her disguised ladies into fits of suppressed giggling.
“In fact, sir, I wager I could conquer just about any hole with my great club,” she boasted suggestively, “and in fewer strokes
than ye.”

Josselin nearly dropped Drew’s tankard as laughter erupted over Ambrose’s ribald remark.

“Could ye now?” Drew replied with a chuckle.

“Aye, and if ye’re willin’, I’d like the chance to prove it, here and now. Let’s play the Hollow Hole, ye and me.”

“Now?” Drew asked in surprise. “But ’twould hardly be fair. Ye’ve never played here, and—”

“No matter. We’ll make it a gentleman’s bet, a penny to the winner. What say ye?”

The crowd was already chattering in excitement, placing their own wagers on the spontaneous match.

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully, shaking his head. “I really can’t…”

Josselin turned on him with wordless fury. Was he going to refuse? Refuse the queen? How dared he?

She shoved his beer at his chest and shot him a glare as fierce, pointed, and powerful as lightning.

Drew frowned, disconcerted. When he tried to take the tankard from Jossy, she wouldn’t let go. He watched her, trying to discern
the ferocious message she was sending with her gaze.

He deepened his frown until she finally gave him an infinitesimal nod. She obviously wanted him to agree to the challenge.

“Can’t? Or won’t?” the queen asked slyly, setting off a deluge of taunts and dares from the spectators, who were already neck-deep
in wagering.

Drew looked quizzically at Jossy. Didn’t she realize the young man was Queen Mary? Surely she didn’t want an uncouth Highlander
tangling with her beloved sovereign.

But the determined glint in Jossy’s eyes told him ’twas exactly what she wanted.

’Twas mad, he knew, but he let Jossy win. He smirked in surrender, and she let him have the tankard.

He raised his cup to the crowd. “I meant to say I really can’t,” he amended, “
turn down
such a temptin’ offer.”

The crowd cheered, and Jossy sighed in relief.

Drew shook his head and set his beer down on the counter.