Seduced by Destiny (27 page)

She dared not think about that possibility. ’Twas too
horrifying to consider. She had to believe that Philipe would trust in her loyalty to Mary.

More than anything, Josselin didn’t want to give the queen cause to doubt her. But though Josselin’s intentions were noble,
the fact that she was sitting alone in her room, meticulously forging a highly sensitive document that she wasn’t even supposed
to have seen, made her feel like the worst sort of outlaw.

While the ink dried on the new missive, she picked up the original, looking over the lines of secret writing, which weren’t
as neat as those done in ink. The lemon juice would be difficult to work with, and the lettering would have to be done quickly,
for it went on as an almost clear liquid, and as soon as it dried, it became invisible.

Thus far, she’d studiously avoided looking at the message, for the same reason she always avoided looking at her contacts.
The less she knew, the safer she was. Now, however, she couldn’t help reading it as she carefully reviewed what she’d have
to duplicate.

Even then, she made every effort to read it only as a series of words, letting the meaning slip through her mind like water
through a sieve. ’Twasn’t too difficult, since some of it was written with cryptic abbreviations. But she’d skimmed only halfway
down the page when her eye caught abruptly on two words that stood apart from the rest as vividly as blood on a white rose.

The breath froze in her lungs as she stared at them, unable to tear her gaze away. Surely there was some mistake. There was
absolutely no reason for…

She closed her eyes. She was just tired. That was all. She’d focused so long over a quill that now she was imagining things.

Exhaling, she forced her eyes open again. The words were still there, stark and undeniable. Her heart began to pound like
the beating of a war tabor.

The missive trembled in her hand, as if ’twere alive, and she dropped it, backing away as it drifted to the floor. Still the
words stared back at her.

Drew MacAdam
.

’Twas unfathomable. Why should Drew’s name appear on a secret document meant for the eyes of the Scots royals? As far as everyone
else knew, Drew MacAdam was a Highland golfer. He had no ties to John Knox or the Reformation. Political intrigue was the
furthest thing from his mind.

Wasn’t it?

Dread dropped like a lump of lead to the pit of her stomach. Drew had deceived her before. Was he doing so again?

She had to find out.

She picked up the missive and began to read.

She had to read it three times before she could understand it completely. D.S. was one of Philipe’s contacts. W’ham must stand
for Walsingham, Elizabeth’s master spy, who would likely have men stationed around Edinburgh. One of them might have been
watching Drew at Musselburgh. But why?

Friday was two days ago. If D.S. had been watching Drew, he must have been alarmed when Drew went missing. In fact, Drew’s
sudden absence would likely confirm D.S.’s suspicions about him being a contact for Walsingham.

But why would Walsingham be interested in a Highland golfer who…

The answer came to her all at once. Drew’s Uncle Simon! Drew’s uncle had let it slip that he was an English spy, so he must
work for Walsingham. It had to be Simon then whom D.S. had seen spying on Drew at Musselburgh.

D.S. had no idea that Drew and Simon were related. He assumed there was some political context for their connection. And he
was passing on this information to Philipe.

Of course, it didn’t matter that ’twas a purely innocent relationship. Simon
was
an English spy, after all, even if he’d returned to England. And Drew was no Highlander. If Philipe learned Drew’s true lineage,
and worse, if he found out about Josselin’s relationship with him, they could both be in serious danger. Bloody hell, they
could be executed for treason.

She gulped and lowered the missive. What was she to do?

Drew packed his things as quickly as he could in the dark. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but he couldn’t be sure.

He slipped downstairs to settle up with the innkeeper of The Sheep Heid and to leave behind a few important bits of information
for the man to remember later.

“So ye’re off, are ye?” the innkeeper asked with a yawn, totaling up his charges.

“Aye. Time to go. I’ve milked the locals dry.”

The innkeeper chuckled. “And made some o’ them rich—those clever enough to wager in your favor. Sorry to see ye go. Ye know,
ye’ve come to be a hero o’ sorts.”

Drew arched a cynical brow. “The secret to bein’ a hero is leavin’ ere ye can muck it up.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Wise words.” He reversed the account book so Drew could review the charges. “Still, I thought ye might
stick around for that wee filly o’ yours.”

“Nae. A man’s got to keep movin’,” Drew said with a wink. “Otherwise, a woman is apt to put him in a cage.”

“I know just what ye mean.” The innkeeper lowered his voice as his wife peered out momentarily from the back room. “That’s
why ye’re leavin’ in the dead o’ night, eh?”

“No need for hurly-burly,” Drew agreed.

“So where are ye headed?”

“Tintclachan,” Drew said, counting out coins for the innkeeper, “where I’m from.”

“Long journey?”

“A good week.”

The innkeeper collected the coins and put them into his coffer. “Will ye be back?”

“Maybe in a year or so.”

“Ye do that,” the innkeeper promised, “and I’ll place a few wagers on ye myself.”

Drew bid the man good-bye and set off into the night, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder. If everything went according to
plan, all of Edinburgh—including, unfortunately, Jossy—would believe the Highlander had returned home. Only Drew would know
differently.

*      *      *

Josselin tapped the feather quill against her lip. What name should she write?

’Twas a travesty, what she was about to do, worse even than simply copying the words of the missive. Changing what was written
was tantamount to treason.

But she had to do it. She couldn’t leave Drew’s name on the note. With any luck, D.S. would never lay eyes on the letter.
Hopefully he’d give up his investigation of the Highland golfer and move on to something more useful.

Meanwhile, she had to come up with a name to substitute for Drew’s. She didn’t want to endanger another innocent soul, but
it had to be a recognizable name.

What golfers played at Musselburgh? She remembered Ronald Metz, Michael Cochrane, Campbell Muir, Ian Hay…

All at once, it occurred to her. There was someone who’d played at Musselburgh recently, a memorable character who would be
completely above suspicion.

Smiling, she carefully dipped the quill in the lemon juice and scrawled the name across the page.

A
s Josselin continued to stare in confusion at the innkeeper behind the counter of The Sheep Heid, her smile grew brittle.
“What do ye mean, he’s gone?”

He shrugged. “Sorry, lass. He left late last night.”

Her heart began hammering in her breast, but she refused to panic. “But his things are still here?”

“Nae. He packed up, settled his account, and set off.”

She tried to make sense of what the innkeeper was saying, which wasn’t easy when she could scarcely breathe. “Did he say where
he was goin’?”

The innkeeper made a strange grimace, as if he knew, but was reluctant to tell her. Which, if he’d known Josselin better,
he would never have done.

She seized him by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward across the counter, drawing her dagger to press against his
throat.

“Listen, ye hound-swiver! If ye know where he is, ye’d better tell me now, or ye’ll be whistlin’ out o’ your bloody throat
for the rest o’ your miserable life.”

“T-tinkle… Tank…” he stammered. “Tinklake…”

“Tintclachan?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

She released him, furrowing her brow in thought.

There was no such town. Drew had admitted as much to her. He’d invented it. So where had he really gone?

“Did he say when he’d return?”

The innkeeper swallowed hard, loath to say, but wary of her blade. “In a year.”

“A year!”

“Or so.”

Josselin blinked. What the devil was going on? Why would Drew leave so suddenly? Had D.S. caught up to him? Had he been forced
to flee?

“Did he say anythin’ else, anythin’ at all?” she demanded. “Did he say why he was leavin’?”

The innkeeper backed away a step, out of her range. “He may have said he wanted to keep movin’.”

“Keep movin’?”

“And somethin’ about… women… wantin’ to put him in a cage.”

“Women? What women?”

The innkeeper gave her a fleeting glance and a guilty shrug.

“Me?”

She didn’t believe that for an instant. Cage Drew? She’d never given him cause to think that. She’d made no demands of him.
She’d never mentioned marriage. In fact, she’d given him her virginity freely, never asking for anything in return. There
was no need to cage him—he was bound to her by love and respect and trust.

Only last night Drew had held her in his arms and murmured to her that—for better or worse, no matter their bloodlines, no
matter what the future held—their
destinies were intertwined. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d meant every word.

Which meant he’d lied to the innkeeper. But why?

He must have had good reason. And if he’d fled Edinburgh, he must have had good cause to do that as well. They were allies
now—she and Drew. She might not know his exact intentions, but she must do all she could to uphold the story he’d concocted.

The innkeeper was watching her expectantly, as if he’d never before seen a woman scorned. She supposed she’d better not disappoint
him.

With a roar of rage, she stabbed her dagger into the oak counter. “That son of a bitch!”

One by one, she picked up the half-dozen clay flagons lined up along the counter, punctuating her oaths by flinging them to
the floor, where they burst with satisfying crashes.

“That cuckoldin’ varlet! That miserable cur! That sheep-swivin’ dastard! That bloody, good-for-nothin’, philanderin’ rogue!”

She wrenched her dagger from the counter and shoved it back into its sheath, then skewered the innkeeper with a fierce glare,
spitting forcefully into the rushes. “A curse on your sex!”

Whipping around in an angry swirl of skirts, she stalked out of the inn, slamming the door behind her.

Drew huddled over his table in the shadowy corner of The White Hart, pushing the candle away and tugging the hood of his cloak
further forward. He adjusted the telltale scarf that swathed the lower half of his face, marking him as a pox victim.

He must truly love Jossy. Why else would he plant himself in an inn thick with Scots spies? Or forego golfing indefinitely?
Or take on the guise of a pox-riddled old man with a bent back and a pronounced hobble?

It hadn’t been easy, secretly following Jossy for the last several hours. But unbeknownst to the lass, she was in mortal danger.
Someone had to keep a close watch on her, and it couldn’t be Drew MacAdam.

He hadn’t wanted to frighten Jossy by revealing just how much peril she was in. But frankly, the fact that the Highland golfer
had been marked as a suspicious character and that Josselin, a spy for the queen, had gone away with him for several days,
did not bode well for her.

If she’d disappeared for good, Philipe would have assumed that either her secrecy had been compromised or that she’d double-crossed
him. He would have had her hunted down and killed. Indeed, Drew suspected Jossy’s suicide attempt might have been part of
her spy’s oath—a necessary precaution when dealing with the consequences of falling into the hands of the enemy.

There was no question—Jossy needed to return to Edinburgh to prove her loyalty. As for Drew MacAdam, he must appear to have
fled to his distant Highland home, far from royal scrutiny. To all concerned, ’twould seem that the tie between Drew and Jossy
had been severed. But someone would have to watch over the lass, and it couldn’t be Drew.

That someone else was currently staying at The White Hart, in the chamber next to Jossy’s. Jossy hardly seemed to notice the
hunched old man with the masked face and the gnarled walking staff who’d followed her to Musselburgh this morn. But Drew was
content with that. As she’d told him once, the less she knew, the safer she was.

Drew didn’t know how long he’d need to protect her. Hopefully, once D.S. learned Drew MacAdam had gone to Tintclachan, he’d
give up the hunt, report his fruitless search to Philipe, and Jossy’s name would be cleared.

On the other hand, if D.S. had followed them into the woods that day and seen Jossy, a royal spy, abducted by Englishmen,
’twas surely a death sentence for her. After all, Philipe had no way of knowing what traitorous secrets she’d spilled under
enemy coercion.

It should be clear in a matter of days where Jossy stood with Philipe. Until then, Drew dared not reveal himself to her. But
he’d never be more than a dozen yards away, his sword hidden under his cloak, ready to defend her to the death.

He peered at Jossy over the top of his tankard of beer. ’Twas the worst sort of torture, being so close to her, yet unable
to speak to her, to reassure her, to touch her. It crushed him to think she believed he’d forsaken her. He wanted to go to
her, tear off his mask, and declare his unwavering love.

He watched as she pushed away her half-eaten pottage and tossed back her beer, then made her way up the stairs. He ached to
sweep her off her feet and carry her there, to kiss away her sorrow and make sweet, tender love to her.

He sighed. The poor lass’s heart must have broken into a million pieces when she learned he’d left her. Drew hoped when all
this was over he could repair the damage he’d done. He prayed she’d forgive him and take him back. Love conquered all, the
bards said. He hoped they were right.