Seduced by Destiny (17 page)

She let a few coins trickle through her fingers, making sure there were no secret documents hidden in their midst. Then she
closed the lid and returned the chest to the cupboard.

He seemed to have no other possessions. Still, a good spy would cache incriminating evidence in the least conspicuous places.
So she searched the cracks in the walls, the stones of the hearth, beneath his pillow, under his bed. There was nothing.

One spot remained. Behind the door, a heavy woolen plaid hung from a peg on the wall, draped over a pair of tall boots. She
ran her fingers over the folds of the plaid and found something rigid. Moving the cloth out of the way, she exposed a finely
tooled leather scabbard. One end of it rested in one of the boots, and propped against the wall was the silver hilt of the
sword within it.

Biting her lip, she tipped the weapon toward herself and ran her fingers over the wrapped leather grip. ’Twas of excellent
craftsmanship, the kind of blade a swordmaster might own. What was a golfer doing with it?

She angled her head to examine the graceful arcs of the swept hilt. Where had Drew gotten such a fine sword? Had he stolen
it? Taken it in payment of a golfing debt? Killed someone for it?

Unable to resist taking a peek at such a beautiful weapon, she began to slide the sword gently from its sheath. She smiled.
The blade was of fine steel, probably Spanish. ’Twas brilliant, flawless, and sharp enough to split a hair. What she wouldn’t
give to own a sword like…

A thump on the stair startled her. Someone was coming. She blew out the candle, dropped the sword back into its scabbard,
scrambled behind the plaid, and froze.

D
espite the lack of light, Drew knew the instant he walked into the room that he wasn’t alone. ’Twas almost impossible to see
into the shadows, but the waxy scent of a freshly extinguished candle hung in the air, and he could sense… a presence.

For once, he wished he’d worn his sword. With a blade in his hand, he always felt invincible.

He supposed he could back out of the room and save himself the trouble of an altercation. But he had valuable golf clubs inside,
not to mention his earnings, and he wasn’t about to let a common thief get the better of him.

Closing the door behind him as if nothing was wrong, he slipped the satchel of clubs off his shoulder, sliding out the jagged-edged
niblick he’d just broken on a sand shot.

Reason told him that the intruder had probably slithered under his bed. ’Twas the only place in the room to hide. If so, the
man was essentially trapped and helpless. Still, Drew would feel more comfortable facing the rascal with his sword in hand.

Listening in the direction of the bed for sudden movement and firmly gripping the niblick in his left hand, he
sidled casually toward the plaid hung on the wall and fumbled beneath the fabric for his scabbard.

The instant his fingers contacted flesh, his instincts took over, and he reacted with lightning speed. He might not have his
blade at hand, but any weapon would do in a pinch.

He gripped the niblick in both hands, planning to trap the intruder against the wall.

But the scoundrel slipped out from beneath his plaid and skittered along the wall like a startled cricket.

Drew pursued, following the sound of panicked breathing. Twice his fingers contacted cloth, but each time, the slippery villain
managed to skip out of his grasp.

Finally he cornered the intruder. With a growl of victory, Drew advanced slowly forward, raising his niblick horizontally
to force the fellow back. Then he slammed him against the wall, pinning him there with his body and pressing the shaft of
the niblick across the man’s scrawny throat.

One moment more, and Josselin might have been able to unsheathe that magnificent sword and defend herself against her assailant.
But he’d entered too quickly, found her too soon, and cornered her with the speed of a hunting hound.

Whoever had sneaked into Drew’s room knew what he was doing. Maybe he was a master thief. Or a Reformer contact. Or an assassin.
Whoever he was, he’d been trained in mortal combat. And whatever weapon he pressed against her throat was threatening to close
her windpipe. If she didn’t act now, within a few heartbeats she’d run out of air.

Fortunately, she always carried her dagger. Wincing
against the bruising pressure at her throat, she drew her knife and drove her hand forward toward the man’s belly.

Which suddenly wasn’t there.

He’d dodged out of the way.

She tried again, but her dagger swished through empty air. Somehow his weapon pushed tighter against her neck, and the dark
room began to fill with bright spots of light.

She clawed at his forearm with her left hand and slashed once more, this time aiming for his left arm. At the last instant,
as if he’d read her intent, he pulled that arm out of reach, which made him loosen his stranglehold on her slightly.

Thank God Angus had taught her a few dirty fighting tricks. Forgetting about her dagger, she cocked her leg and brought it
up hard to drive her knee into his crotch.

And missed.

He’d apparently guessed ’twould be her next move.

Luckily, his dodge had made him drop whatever he’d been holding against her throat, and it clattered to the floor.

She sucked in a welcome breath and swung her knife forward in a wide circular arc, hoping to find a target. But the blade
whistled through the air. Stepping forward, she tried again. And again.

Where had he gone? She squinted into the shadows and listened for sounds of movement.

Without warning, she was seized low about the knees and upended. She gasped, expecting to hit the floor and crack her skull.

But she didn’t. She fell headlong onto the bed, and before she could recover from the shock of her soft landing, she was crushed
into the bedding by the weight of her assailant.

He pried the dagger from her fingers, then seized her
wrists, securing them with one fist above her head and trapping her beneath him.

She struggled against him to no avail, and for several moments there was only the sound of their labored breathing.

“Well, now,” her attacker finally grunted, his Highland brogue unmistakable, “let’s see what we have here.”

Josselin stiffened. ’Twas Drew. But how could that be? He was a golfer, not a fighter. Wasn’t he?

A dozen questions fired through her brain in the span of an instant.

What was he doing back so soon from the course?

Did he not realize ’twas her? Or had he followed her here?

Where had he learned to fight like that?

Was he a spy? Or wasn’t he?

She’d found nothing incriminating in his room. But that didn’t necessarily mean Drew
wasn’t
a spy. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of spy who gathered information or passed encrypted missives. Maybe he was the kind of spy
who killed those who got in the way.

With his free hand, Drew used a golf club to reach the hearth, stirring the coals. They flared enough to afford a small bit
of light, enough for Drew to see who she was and for Josselin to glimpse the horrified look on his face when he
saw
who she was.

“Jossy?”

He immediately released her wrists and levered himself off of her chest, still straddling her.

So that answered one of her questions. He hadn’t known ’twas she when he attacked. But several other questions remained.

If Drew was only a golfer, why did he have that sword?

How had he known someone was in the room?

And where the bloody hell had he learned to fight like that?

Now that she was discovered and he’d released her, should she feign innocence? Did he mean her no harm? Or was she still in
danger?

“Jossy?” he repeated, blinking in disbelief.

Josselin compressed her lips. Her da’s had taught her to err on the side of caution. Self-protection was paramount.

So, searching the mattress with the flat of her hand, she located her dagger, closed her fingers around the grip, and swept
it up to the point of his chin.

His eyes widened. “What the…? Jossy, ’tis me.”

She hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed, but unwilling to let down her guard.

“Jossy, lass,” he said, raising his palms in surrender, “I didn’t mean to hurt ye. If I’d known ’twas ye…”

He shifted his weight as if to climb off of her. She stopped him with a poke of her blade.

He flinched. “Whoa, lass, I was only goin’ to move off o’ ye.”

“Why are ye back so early from the links?”

He narrowed his eyes, surprised by her question. She jabbed again at his chin to hurry his answer.

He sucked a sharp breath between his teeth. “I broke my niblick.”

“And?”

His soft blue eyes were growing darker by the moment. “I came to fetch another,” he bit out. “Now I have a question o’ my
own, lass.”

Josselin held her breath.

“What the devil are ye doin’ in my room?”

J
osselin’s mind went blank. What could she tell him? That she suspected he was a spy? That she’d rifled through his things
to see for herself?

At her hesitation, Drew acted swiftly. Before she could squeak out a reply, he easily batted away her dagger hand, pried the
blade from her grip, and set the point at her throat. The sudden shift in power was breathtaking.

“I said it before,” he smugly reminded her. “If ye’ve got the cods to enter the field o’ battle, then ye’d better have the
cods to lose.”

Breathtaking and infuriating.

“Now, lass, I’ll repeat my question. What are ye doin’ in my room?”

Her brain worked furiously, trying to come up with a plausible excuse, which wasn’t easy, considering there was a blade at
her throat and a Highlander straddling her.

“Let me take a wild guess,” he said. “Did ye come to rob me?”

“Nae!”

He clucked his tongue. “The wages I’ve earned in the
last week alone would make a handsome prize for a tavern wench from Selkirk.”

“I’m not a thief!” she retorted so vehemently she almost impaled herself on her own dagger.

“Nae?”

“Nae!” Suddenly inspired, she challenged him with a steely glare. “But what about
ye
? Maybe
ye’re
a thief.”

He smirked. “Me?”

She arched a sly brow. “If ye’re not a thief, then what’s a golfer doin’ with a sword?”

Drew’s stomach plummeted. Damn! The meddlesome lass had found his sword. How was he going to explain that?

He frowned. He had to do something fast, and he’d learned from battling with a blade that a strong offense could hide a weak
defense.

“What!” he barked, shaking his head in disgust. “Ye went snoopin’ through my things? Marry, lass, didn’t your da’s teach ye
’tisn’t right to go pokin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong?” He muttered an oath. “Here I was thinkin’ ye were a forthright
lass. But ye’re not, are ye? Once my back is turned—”

“I
am
forthright,” she insisted.

“Ye couldn’t wait to rob me blind,” he said, sadly realizing that he might be right. “Ye knew where my room was. Ye waited
till I was in the middle of a match. Then ye sneaked past the innkeeper. Didn’t ye?”

She caught her lying lip under her teeth. Drew could tell he was hitting the ball square off the tee, and it depressed him,
probably more than it should have, for he’d spent a merry morn with Jossy on the links, and he’d
begun not only to desire the lass, but also to genuinely adore her.

He let out an unhappy sigh, wishing he’d left the room while he had the chance. He might have found himself short a few coins,
but at least he’d not have been so miserably disappointed.

“I… I wasn’t goin’ to take anythin’, I swear.”

“O’ course ye weren’t. Ye were only takin’ a wee promenade about my room.”

“Maybe.”

He snorted. “Ye expect me to believe that?”

“ ’Tis the truth.”

He leaned in close enough to brush her cheek with his whisper. “Then why, darlin’, didn’t ye wait for me to give ye the tour?”

“I…” She faltered. “I wanted to surprise ye.”

He lifted a brow. “Well, that ye did.”

“Nae. I mean… I wanted to…” She reached up one tentative hand and touched his throat. She swallowed hard, and her fingers
trembled as they slipped lower to his chest, edging beneath the fabric of his shirt to contact his skin. “Surprise ye,” she
breathed.

He stiffened and cocked his head, suspicious. “Surprise me?” But already his body was responding to her feminine overtures.
Already he was prepared to believe her.

She nodded. She lifted her left hand as well and caught the open edges of his doublet.

The dagger wavered in his grip. Could it be true? Could she have come for… him?

She curled her fists in his doublet and pulled him toward her. She was staring at his mouth, her lips parted in anticipation.

He shouldn’t trust her. A woman with a knife at her throat would do or say anything. And a Scotswoman was about as trustworthy
as the North Sea.

But he didn’t want to believe Jossy was a thief. And he didn’t want to believe she’d lie to him. What she was doing to him
now—pulling him close for a kiss to show him how much she desired him—
that
he wanted to believe.

Against his better judgment and cursing himself for a lusty fool, he succumbed to her wishes, withdrawing the blade and lowering
his head to hers.

Of course, he wasn’t a complete simpleton. He tossed the dagger well out of her reach. But ’twasn’t the only weapon in her
arsenal, and he left himself dangerously vulnerable to the most powerful weapon a woman could wield.

“Well, darlin’,” he murmured, “what kind o’ surprise did ye have in—”

Josselin shut him up with a kiss, pulling him close and grinding her mouth against his with artless abandon.

She had no idea what she was doing. In one moment she’d been at the mercy of a possible thief-spy-assassin, and in the next
she’d managed to disarm him with the impulsive promise of…