Seduced by Destiny (26 page)

He spoke softly. “My father already paid for your mother’s death. There’s no more revenge to be had.” He held his palms up
in surrender. “You can kill me. But if you do, where will the vengeance end? When all our kin are dead?”

He was right. The burden of hate she’d carried for so long was only an empty cask after all. Suddenly, she felt as if a great
weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Tears spilled over her lashes, and she sniffed them back angrily. Bloody hell! She hated to cry, especially in front of her
da’s. She lowered her sword and swiped brusquely at her eyes with the back of her shackled hand.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the witnesses.

Drew lowered his hands to his sides and asked, “Jossy, can you forgive me?”

She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. She knew what he meant. He’d lied to her. Kidnapped her. Bedded her. But he’d
also lied
for
her. Loved her. And saved her life.

She nodded.

“Can you…” he asked, raising hopeful brows, “love me?”

Will stepped forward with a growl. “Over my dead body.”

Simon agreed. “Oh, nay, you don’t, lad.”

“ ’Tis time we went home, lass,” Angus hastily added.

“Aye,” Robert said, “ ’tis time we all went home.”

Thomas said, “ ’Tis settled then.”

Alasdair chimed in, “We’re all agreed.”

Josselin rounded on them with her sword, making them step back a pace. “Nae, we’re not agreed,” she snapped, glad of an excuse
to turn her weeping into ire. “In case ye old fools hadn’t noticed, the two of us are full-grown. I think we can bloody well
decide our own destiny. It may not be an easy road. But we’re strong and brave. The blood o’ heroes runs in our veins. Together
we have the cods to face whatever fate hands us, and by God’s Cross, we’ll kick the arses of anyone who stands in our way.”

Everyone grumbled at that, everyone except Drew, who grinned proudly, then turned to tip up her chin and plant a sweet kiss
on her lips.

There was a unanimous groan from the old men, but Josselin didn’t care. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the taste
of Drew. Her bones seemed to melt as he wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She sighed into his mouth as
he slipped his hand into her hair and kissed her thoroughly. At some point, her sword hit the floor, but she hardly noticed.
All she knew was that she was right where she belonged.

Without a word, Drew swept her off her feet and carried her up the stairs. The last she heard of the old men was their disgusted
muttering.

“I can’t believe you let a lass curse like that.”

“I can’t believe ye let your nephew golf.”

Then Drew slammed the chamber door behind them.

T
he heat of battle still raged in Josselin as she attacked Drew, tearing his shirt half off and scrabbling at the laces of
his trews.

He countered with just as much passion, heaving her onto the bed and tossing up her skirts.

Their mouths met, and they fed on each other, licking and sucking and feasting like half-starved beasts.

Her hands roamed over his body, delving into the thick mass of his hair, rounding the solid muscle of his shoulder, stroking
the sculpted planes of his chest.

He explored her just as thoroughly, stroking her bare arms, ensnaring his hand in her tresses, grazing the flesh over her
ribs.

She arched up toward him, breathless with desire, and he pushed her down into the mattress, grinding against her hips.

Impatient, she shoved her hand boldly down the loose top of his trews to find the full treasure within.

He groaned, but his revenge was swift. He nuzzled aside her chemise and suckled at her breast while his
fingers searched beneath her skirts and found that hot, hungry spot betwixt her legs.

She moaned in pleasure, squeezing her eyes closed as a wave of lust washed over her. Then she circled her hands around his
back, sliding his trews down to knead the solid muscle of his buttocks.

He growled in approval, gently lifting her knee up and out to prepare her for his swollen staff.

Aching with need, wet with desire, she grasped his buttocks and pulled them toward her, impaling herself on his thick cock
with a cry of delight.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, overcome with lust, taking a moment to enjoy her warmth. After a moment, he moved against
her, initiating the sweet friction that would spark the sensual fire between them.

His flesh was hot against hers, and she burrowed her head against his neck, alternately nipping at his throat and soothing
him with her tongue.

She squeezed his buttocks, urging him, guiding him as he plunged into her again and again, ultimately wrapping her legs around
him to drive him with her heels. Her head swam in a glorious sea of sensation as she writhed on the pillow.

From deep within, she felt the familiar turbulence begin, a small rumbling at first. She dug her fingers into his shoulders,
grounding herself for what was to come. Her heart pounded, and her breath came in gasps as the thunder within her rolled closer
and closer to the surface. And then, in one magnificent flash, lightning struck, blinding in its brilliance, and she felt
shocked to life.

As she shook with violent tremors, he, too, found his release, roaring with the power of it, thrusting until he
could thrust no more, emptied of his seed and drained of his will.

Wary of crushing her, he rolled to the side, taking her with him. Then, with what little strength he had left, he showered
the top of her head with grateful kisses.

She laughed in exhausted delight and nestled her face in the hollow of his shoulder. They lay there until their pulses slowed
and their breath came in long, contented sighs.

“Do ye think they’re gone?” she finally murmured.

“Who—the peevish old men? I hope so.”

She smiled and traced a path down his chest with her fingertip. “My da’s meant well.”

“Oh, aye. So did my uncles. They just don’t understand me any more than they understood my father. They expected me to serve
in King Henry’s army, to use my sword,” he said mockingly, “in the glorious war with Scotland.” He arched a sardonic brow.
“Well, I went to Scotland. But I chose to wage my battles with a golf club.”

“ ’Tis no use fightin’ against your nature.”

He pulled his head back to gaze down at her. “And what about your nature, my wee warrior?”

“I suppose ’tis what I was born to, bein’ the daughter o’ the Maid of Ancrum Moor.”

He nodded, then grew pensive. “ ’Twas a tragedy,” he breathed, “what happened to her.”

She furrowed her brow. “My mother knew what she was doin’ the moment she stepped onto that battlefield. I’ll always believe
that. The real tragedy was what happened to your father.”

He smiled ruefully, coiling a lock of her hair around his finger. “If I’d done what my father did—killed an
innocent who was suffering—I wouldn’t have hanged myself. I don’t believe he was weak, but I think he was wrong to feel guilty.
My uncles taught me that in war there are no rules.” He quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Which is why I prefer golf.”

She shook her head in amusement. “Ye truly prefer golf to war?”’Twas hard to imagine for Josselin, who’d been raised with
a blade in her hand and a legacy to her name.

“Oh, aye.” He let his fingers drift down her throat and trace a path between her breasts. “ ’Tis a bloodless battle,” he said,
“aside from the occasional brawl on the links.”

Josselin quivered beneath his touch. “And ’tis profitable,” she admitted.

He dragged his knuckles gently beneath her breast, awakening the flesh there. “More profitable to drain an enemy’s coffers
than his blood.”

“No rules,” she mused, biting her lip. “I’ve heard the same thing said about love.” She gazed at him with languid eyes. “Do
ye prefer golf to that as well?”

He brushed a thumb across her nipple, eliciting a gasp from her, and his irresistible blue eyes twinkled wickedly. “Why don’t
you get a good grip on my fairway club, and we’ll see?”

’Twas late in the day when they fell back on the mattress for the third time, breathless and satiated. Their clothes—what
few of them remained—were in a hopeless tangle, as were their limbs and—Josselin feared—their hearts.

“Ye know this is mad,” she murmured.

“Aye,” he breathed. “We should have chosen a chamber with a quieter bed.”

She smiled and halfheartedly punched his arm. “Ye know what I mean. Our queens are enemies.” She rested her forearm across
her brow. “If this were a battlefield, we’d be at each other’s throats.”

He rolled lazily toward her. “Is that what you want, lass? You want me at your throat?” With mock ferocity, he lunged at her,
playfully biting the side of her neck, making her shiver.

She reluctantly pushed him away, then sat up, pulling up the neck of her chemise in modesty. “I’m serious, Drew. Ye know I
have to go back to Edinburgh.” She began repairing the damage to her attire and tried to lend some semblance of order to her
hair. “If I don’t report to Philipe, if I don’t deliver the last missive…”

Drew rocked forward, pulling up his trews. “He’ll suspect you’ve either been compromised or you’ve betrayed the queen.”

“Exactly.”

He shrugged, as if the answer were simple. “So we’ll go back.” He ran a finger lightly down her cheek and spoke in his Highland
brogue. “Unless ye find ye prefer English swordsmen to Highland golfers.”

She was still deciding when they finished dressing and prepared for the journey home.

Fortunately, his uncles had left a small purse of silver at their door, and Josselin’s da’s had paid for the damages to the
inn. Their guardians might not have approved of their consorting with the enemy, but the old fools apparently hadn’t killed
one another, and the innkeeper reported that they’d departed peacefully in opposite directions.

D
rew had made it sound easy. He and Josselin would return to Edinburgh together, claim to have had a week-long tryst in the
woods of Musselburgh, then return to their respective inns to resume their usual activities. She’d return to her beer wagon.
He’d return to his golfing. And no one would be the wiser.

Unfortunately, ’twasn’t so simple.

Though she’d studiously avoided peeking at the secret writing on that missive, claiming ’twas best she didn’t know what it
contained, Drew had taken a good look at it, particularly once he noticed to his alarm that the name of “Drew MacAdam” figured
prominently in the letter.

Josselin still didn’t realize he could read, or she would have taken greater pains to hide the thing. But he’d had time to
memorize and decipher the message, and if it meant what he thought it meant, both of them were in great danger.

Of course, he wouldn’t tell Josselin that. There was no point in making her worry. Besides, she was a woman who believed trouble
was best confronted face to face with a sword in her hand, and this was not the kind of threat that
could be handled that way. ’Twas a matter requiring subterfuge, sleight of hand, and cunning.

If there was anything Drew excelled at, ’twas deception. It only troubled him that, in order to escape peril, he was going
to have to deceive Jossy… again.

The trip back to Edinburgh was thankfully uneventful, and he was able to deliver Jossy safely to The White Hart on the evening
of the second day. But the kiss he gave her at her chamber door was bittersweet, for in some ways, ’twas a kiss of farewell.

Josselin had only closed her chamber door a moment ago, and already she missed Drew. The mere touch of his lips upon her mouth
eased her fears and awakened her desire. And the press of his body against hers filled her with such longing, everything else
seemed irrelevant.

’Twould be an eternity till tomorrow, when she’d see him again at Musselburgh. But he was right. They weren’t out of harm’s
way yet. She needed to get this missing missive delivered to Philipe before he began to suspect she was a rogue agent.

She sat at the desk and pulled out the note, then smoothed out the wrinkles with a trembling hand.

Halfway home, she’d realized that she couldn’t turn the missive over to Philipe with the secret writing exposed. He would
know that she’d seen the encoded passages and could no longer be trusted to carry messages.

There was no way to make the letters invisible again, so she had to recreate the missive. Thank Alasdair, she knew how to
read and write. But she’d never undertaken such a thorny task before—trying to deceive a royal secretary with her artless
scrawl.

Still, she’d managed to purchase a few quills, ink, and parchment. And she’d procured a lemon at dear cost from the market,
squeezing the precious juice into a small vial. She arranged everything carefully on the desk, taking care not to get the
parchment too close to the candle.

Swallowing hard and steadying her hand, she began with the original love letter, taking care to copy each loop, line, and
flourish meticulously. With each word, she held her breath, making certain she left no blob of ink. So focused was she on
creating an exact replica that she paid no heed to the content of the text at all. She already knew ’twas nothing but sentimental
drivel.

The candle had burned a quarter of the way down when she finally finished “Duncan’s” signature. Carefully replacing the pen,
she slid back from the desk and stared at the note, praying ’twould dry before it had the chance to get smudged.

She cocked her head left, then right, stretching out her neck, which had tensed up while she worked.

She was still concerned about Philipe. He’d surely disapprove of her having been absent so long. Though Drew had reassured
her that the French were notoriously romantic, that Philipe would accept her story of runaway passion, she wasn’t so sure.
Mary’s secretary was, above all, a suspicious man. Not that that was a bad thing. After all, his suspicious nature was what
kept the queen safe.

But as grim as it seemed, if Philipe suspected her cover had been compromised or that the missive had fallen into the wrong
hands, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to have Josselin hunted down.