Seduced by Destiny (5 page)

“I’ve seen enough to know ye’ve got a hot temper that likely ruins your aim.” He handed her dagger back to her, hilt first.

She snatched it from him in irritation and slid it back into its sheath. Her Da Angus had told her the same thing a hundred
times. She didn’t need to hear it from a bloody Highlander, no matter how handsome he was.

T
he crowd began to disperse. Mary’s procession was moving toward the Tollbooth. Drew could easily make his escape now, retreat
to the comfort of his lodgings, settle in front of the fire with a frothy pint of ale, and forget about the whole upsetting
debacle.

But something prevented him. Something with flashing green eyes, wild honey hair, and a filthy mouth. Something that was quickening
his pulse and rousing the beast in his trews.

As a rule, Drew kept his distance when it came to exchanges with the natives. The less they knew about him, the better. His
dark scowl kept most people away. For those to whom he had to be civil, he’d learned to affect Highland charm to steer the
conversation away from personal matters. As for intimate encounters, he employed discreet wenches who charged for their services
and their silence.

Why he felt drawn to engage a wee, fiery-tempered, trews-wearing lass who was a danger to herself and others, he didn’t know.
Surely it had nothing to do with her rosy pink lips, the rough whiskey timbre of her voice, or
the thought of what bewitching charms might lie beneath that baggy shirt.

Lord, he thought, shaking his head, he’d spent too many days of late on the links and not enough feeding his carnal appetites.

The lass might be beautiful, but she was trouble. ’Twas a mistake to intervene in the affairs of quarrelsome Scots. And the
last thing Drew needed was to draw the notice of their queen.

But he supposed he was obliged to help the maid. She was partly right—it
had
been his idea to expose her. The queen might never have noticed her had it not been for the waving pennant of her dazzling
curls.

Besides, be they Scots or English, he’d never been the sort who could walk away from tiny, helpless creatures. Especially
ones with sparkling eyes and tempting lips.

He’d at least get the lass out of immediate danger and on the road home. He owed her that much.

He studied the departing entourage to measure its progress.

“Look, lass,” he offered, “I’ll take ye as far as Roslin.” With the current speed of the procession, they had about an hour’s
advantage.

“I’m not goin’.”

“We should leave before the…” He swung his head back to her. “What?”

“I’m not goin’.” Her arms were crossed stubbornly over her chest.

He checked quickly for witnesses, then lowered his head to whisper, “If ye leave before the procession’s o’er, ye can escape
ere they know ye’re gone.”

Her eyes narrowed with disdain. “Spoken like a true
Highlander.” She looked him up and down. “If ye get into a scrape, ye just scamper off into the hills, don’t ye, never to
be heard from again.”

He blinked. He believed he’d just been insulted.

“I’m no coward,” she told him, “and I’m a woman o’ my word. I told the man I’d meet him, and meet him I will.”

Despite her brave vow, she was still a wee, naïve country lass from Selkirk who was about to get herself into more trouble
than she realized.

He told himself ’twasn’t his duty to set wayward innocents on proper paths, particularly not
enemy
wayward innocents.

’Twas folly for an Englishman to traffic with Scots.

’Twas madness to traffic with Scots royals.

And ’twas the height of insanity for Drew to endanger his entire mission of vengeance for an impertinent, foolish, hot-tempered
brat of a lass he’d just met who clearly didn’t want his aid.

But, God help him, the words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Fine. I’ll escort ye to The White Hart then.”

She lifted her impertinent, pointy chin. “Nae, ye go along. Shoo. Run off into the hills. ’Tisn’t your fight.”

’Twasn’t
his fight. The people here could worship the Pope, the Heavenly Father, or the ancient Celtic gods as far as he cared.

But now the lass had insulted his honor and issued a challenge. He straightened proudly, fixing her with a stern gaze.

“I’m no coward either, lass,” he bit out. “Let’s go. ’Twas me who sliced ye into the rough. I’ll be damned if I won’t chip
ye out of it.”

Her forehead creased in mild confusion.

He smirked. He
had
spent too much time on the links.

“Come along, lass,” he said with a resigned sigh, offering his arm. “Whatever the queen’s intent, after sufferin’ the sneers
of her high and mighty secretary, we could both use a pint.”

She refused his arm, but let him accompany her as they weaved their way down Lawnmarket, past the tall buildings that stood
shoulder to shoulder along the street. They made an admittedly odd pair—an Englishman in the guise of a Highlander escorting
a lass in the guise of a lad. For someone accustomed to blending in with the crowd, Drew felt dangerously exposed as they
ambled down the Royal Mile.

Still, he’d sworn to accompany the lass to the inn. He supposed if he was marching to his execution, he might as well do it
with a pretty wench at his side.

Josselin grew curiously quiet as they walked past the crowded shops. When Drew gave her a sidelong glance, he saw that she
was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. The closer they got to their destination, the tighter she knitted her brows. Apparently,
the stouthearted maid wasn’t quite as stouthearted as she pretended to be.

In golf, when Drew was faced with the prospect of a particularly daunting match, he found it best not to dwell on the game
too much. A bit of distraction was beneficial. Perhaps he could distract the lass from her worries with his Highland charm.

“So tell me, lass … Jossy, is it?”

“Josselin.”

“Tell me, Jossy,” he said, ignoring her disapproving scowl, “where did ye get your trews? From your father?
Brother? Lover?” He cocked a brow. “Or is that what all the lasses are wearin’ in Selkirk?”

She gave him a long-suffering glare. “My da.”

“Ah, the same da who warned ye away from strangers… and taverns… and losin’ your temper?”

She sighed. “Aye.”

“Did he also teach ye to fight with a knife?”

“Nae, that was my other da.”

That stopped him in his tracks. “Your
other
da? How many do ye have?”

“Three.”

“Three?”
That
she needed to explain. He reached for her elbow, hauling her around to face him.

She instantly wheeled on him with her dagger drawn. “Get your bloody—”

Before she could finish, he’d seized her wrist and plucked the blade from her.

Her jaw dropped.

He, too, was startled. He hadn’t needed his defensive reflexes in a while. It appeared they were still in good working order.

After a moment of mutually shocked silence, they spoke at the same time.

“What the…?”

“How did…?”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Reflexes.”

“Instincts.”

They avoided one another’s eyes, finally exchanging brief sheepish smiles.

He returned her dagger.

She sheathed it.

After an awkward moment, they resumed their journey, turning left down Grassmarket.

In the prolonged silence, Drew stole sideways glances at Josselin, who looked strangely adorable in her floppy hat and her
baggy trews. ’Twas hard to believe such a sweet-faced kitten had such sharp claws. He wondered if she possessed sinuous feline
curves as well beneath that voluminous clothing.

Before long, the lass started biting nervously at her lip again, and Drew was struck with the most profoundly mad urge to
kiss her fretful mouth. Indeed, he decided that if he weren’t sure she’d run him through, he’d be glad to distract her from
her worries with a kiss. Seduction was the best diversion he knew.

Lord, what was he thinking? He was already taking far too many chances in escorting the lass. The wise thing would be to bid
her a quick farewell at the inn and, considering the wicked bent of his thoughts, perhaps take himself to the nearest bawdyhouse.

In the meantime, he’d continue with the second-best diversion he knew—conversation.

“Knife-fightin’, eh? I suppose ’tis a good skill for your three da’s to teach ye,” he said with a shrug, adding pointedly,
“if they’re goin’ to let ye wander loose on your own.”

“Wander loose?” she echoed. “I’m not a bloody sheep. I’ll be damned if I need watchin’ o’er.”

“Ach, lass!” he said, wincing. “Did ye learn the filthy language from your fathers as well?”

She pierced him with a glare.

“Nae?” He shook his head, allowing a gleam of
mischief to enter his eyes. “Well, I’ve never heard such words from a lass… at least not outside o’ the Canongate stews.”

Her eyes widened at his wicked suggestion, then closed to smoldering green slits. Apparently unable to think of a vile enough
retort that wouldn’t further prove his point, she resorted to giving him a hearty punch in the arm.

Drew figured he deserved it. Josselin was no more a harlot than he was the Archbishop of St. Andrews. The way she whipped
out her blade at the slightest provocation, ’twas surely a rare man who got within arm’s reach of her. And with three fathers
hovering about, he doubted the lass had so much as been pecked upon the cheek.

He rubbed at the place she’d struck him. “Marry, ye’ve got a strong arm on ye, Jossy,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Maybe
ye’re a caber-tosser then.”

She gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Aye, that’s it. So ye’d better beware, Highlander. One wrong move, and I’ll toss ye on your
bloody arse.”

He clucked his tongue at her swearing. “Dreadful.”

The White Hart was just ahead. He almost regretted arriving so soon. No matter that she was Scots, Josselin was surely the
most refreshingly forthright and entertaining lass he’d met in a while. He’d almost be sorry to leave her.

“What about ye?” she asked. “Shepherd or cattle thief?”

He chuckled. Lowlanders assumed all Highlanders were one or the other. “Neither.”

“Then what’s your trade?”

“I golf.”

“Golf?” she scoffed. “ ’Tisn’t a trade.”

“ ’Tis if ye win.”

They stopped below the sign of The White Hart—a green background with the head of a white deer painted on it.

“And I suppose ye win all the time?” she asked, freeing the tankard from her belt.

“Most o’ the time.”

“Good.” She pushed her way through the door of the inn. “Then
ye
can buy the beer.”

T
he instant Josselin stepped inside, a sense of ease came over her. Though she’d never set foot in The White Hart before, everything
was familiar: the dim, crowded room with a crackling fire on the hearth, the clatter of dice, the chatter of tipplers, the
pungent aromas of strong ale, mutton pies, and aged leather.

She’d spent a good part of the last seven years working in Kate’s tavern. ’Twasn’t exactly the safest place for a young lass,
but Will had always been a whistle away, and he’d taught her at an early age to defend herself from drunken patrons with straying
hands.

Poor Will. She realized now that she’d broken all three of the promises she’d made to her loyal guardian.

She’d lost her temper.

She’d trafficked with a stranger.

And she was about to spend the afternoon in a tavern by herself.

No, she corrected, not by herself. The stranger had insisted on coming with her.

She didn’t mind too much. He was pleasant enough to look at, despite his dearth of Highland charm.

Besides, the truth was her purse had grown dangerously light. The cost of the inn where she was staying had been unexpectedly
exorbitant, especially considering its absence of a level floor and proper shutters. She had just enough coin left to purchase
one night of lodging, one loaf of bread, and one jack of ale for the trek home. As long as he was paying, she could use an
extra pint to steady her nerves.

“Two beers,” the Highlander called out to the tavern wench, unhooking his own tankard and banging the two cups on the counter.

“Your finest!” Josselin amended as they headed toward a small table in the corner. “And don’t be waterin’ it down.”

The Highlander arched a brow at her.

“ ’Tis my trade,” she explained dryly, “between tossin’ cabers. I work at a tavern in Selkirk.”

“Ah.”

They took their seats, and when the beer arrived, Josselin took a cautious sip. ’Twasn’t bad. Not as good as Kate’s, of course,
but passable. She wasn’t about to complain. The Highlander had paid for it, and she knew better than to look a gift horse
in the mouth.

She lifted her tankard in a salute and took one healthy swallow. Then another. And another. Once begun, she couldn’t stop.
She hadn’t realized how badly the morn’s events had rattled her. The bracing drink seemed like a magic elixir.

“God’s bones!” the Highlander whispered in alarm. “Slow down, lass.”

With an embarrassed sniff, she set her half-empty tankard on the table, wrapping her hands around it possessively.

“Don’t ye want your wits about ye?” he asked.

Actually, she was tempted to drink herself into oblivion.

He shook his head, and one corner of his lip turned up in merriment. He reached into the small satchel at his waist, producing
a linen handkerchief. He motioned her forward.

Wary of his intentions, she leaned tentatively toward him.

Before she could compose herself to resist, he captured her chin in one hand and, with the other, began dabbing with the handkerchief
at her frothy upper lip.

Maybe ’twas the shock of the morning. Maybe ’twas the half-pint of ale she’d just quaffed. But instead of telling him to keep
his hands to himself and blackening his eye, she let him attend to her.

His fingers were warm against her cheek, and his touch was surprisingly gentle. He was so close she could discern the stubble
on his face and the half-amused, half-irritated glitter in his eyes.