Seduced by Destiny (8 page)

’Twas madness, what he was doing, and in a moment he was sure he’d be skewered. But he couldn’t stop himself. Whether ’twas
the strong Scots brew, the sultry September afternoon, or his long abstinence, Drew felt incapable of tearing himself away
from the pleasure of the moment. He was drowning in a sea of desire, and there was nothing he could do to resist the Siren
dragging him down.

Then she made that sound.

’Twasn’t anything, really. Just a small moan. The kind of sound a child might make in her sleep, as soft as the mew of a nursing
kitten.

But that innocent sound struck at the sweet spot of Drew’s lust, driving him straight toward the point of no return.

He answered with a groan that came from the depths of his manhood, and, fueled by his own primitive response,
he feasted upon her with increasing urgency, nudging her lips apart to taste the fruit within.

If she were going to kill him, she’d surely do it now. And he’d probably never even feel the prick of the blade.

Josselin knew her hand was around her knife. She could feel the worn leather grip in her palm. And there was no mistake that
the Highlander was overstepping his bounds, committing the most grievous insult upon her person. She should by all means use
her blade on him.

’Twas what her da’s had prepared her for—defending herself against the improper advances of a wicked stranger.

But somehow, though the knife was in her hand and she knew how to use it, she couldn’t force herself to plunge the blade into
the Highlander’s gut.

In fact, at the moment, she couldn’t force herself to let go of the man’s shirt. Or twist out of his arms. Or tear herself
away from his mouth.

Some devil had a hold of her, and she’d be damned if she could resist his temptation.

With a savage groan, the Highlander pressed her back against the stone wall, pinning her there with his mass, devouring her
with the desperation of a starving animal.

She should have been terrified. No one had ever taken such liberties with her, cornering her and kissing her with such blatant
possession.

At the very least, she should have been furious with the brute. Seduction was a low form of betrayal.

Instead, she felt wildly alive. Her heart raced, and heat unfurled in her body like a blossoming rose. She gasped against
his mouth, which was rough and foreign and male.
They were not gasps of pain, but a curious breathlessness that kept her hungering for more.

The Highlander must have slipped some intoxicating poison into her beer, she decided, one that stole her willpower, dizzied
her senses, and made her throb in places no man had ever touched.

Worse, it made her respond in kind, clinging to him like ivy to a wall, slaking her feverish thirst upon his lips, moaning
as if he somehow tortured the sound out of her.

’Twas the clatter of her knife on the cobblestones, dropped from her slack fingers, that broke the enchantment. She gasped,
and they both drew back in horror.

Rattling his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, the Highlander bent to seize her dropped weapon.

Flustered, Josselin wiped the back of her mouth with a trembling hand. She tried to snap at him, but her voice came out in
a hoarse whisper. “I should skewer ye for that.”

He lifted a brow over one languid eye. “Probably.” Despite confiscating her knife, as he hunkered there before her, the Highlander
seemed as curiously vulnerable as she felt.

“Is that all ye have to say?” she demanded. Lord, his eyes smoldered like live coals. And his mouth looked absolutely … delicious.

He came slowly to his feet. “If ye think I’m goin’ to say I’m sorry,” he said, passing her the knife, hilt-first, “I’m not.”

She bit her lip. She wasn’t exactly sorry either. She’d never felt anything quite so thrilling. But ’twas very unchivalrous
of him not to accept the blame.

She sheathed her knife. “I was right,” she bit out. “Ye’re
nothin’ but a savage Highlander, swivin’ anythin’ that’ll stand still. I should have jabbed ye while I could. And I will if
ye follow me. Go on now. Go back to your sheep.”

She swept up her hat, jammed it back on her head, and turned on her heel. Then she stomped off in the direction of the inn
before Drew could see the confusing glow of arousal and humiliation coloring her skin.

He may not have followed her, but she felt his hot gaze tracing her all the way down the lane. She swore she wouldn’t look
back at him. And she didn’t. Until she arrived at the door of the inn.

The Highlander was standing just where she’d left him. But now he leaned with cocky arrogance against the wall, waving something
over his head like a taunt.

Suddenly, her heart seized and her eyes widened. She clapped a hand to her knife sheath. The note from Philipe!

She narrowed her eyes, steeling herself for the worst.

“Ye lose somethin’?” he called out.

She mouthed a silent oath.

Damn the rake! How had he…?

Transfixed by the incriminating scrap of paper grasped between his careless fingers, Josselin worried her lip. The Highlander
had no idea what he possessed or how important ’twas.

He continued to wave the note with maddening negligence. “I believe ye dropped this!” he yelled.

Josselin flinched. Did men have to bellow everything?

She glanced about for witnesses, then forcefully gestured for him to come to her.

“Oh, nae!” he shouted with a shake of his head. “I’ve no wish to be skewered! Don’t follow me, ye said. I don’t need to be
told twice!”

His voice attracted the attention of a man staying on the second floor of the inn, who leaned out from his window.

“Come
here
!” Josselin hissed.

“If ye want it,” Drew yelled, “ye’ll have to come and get it!”

The housekeeper appeared at another window, opening the shutters to see what all the shouting was about.

The last thing a spy wanted was attention. Josselin hadn’t even started on her first assignment, and already her vow of secrecy
was being jeopardized.

Though it chafed against every fiber of her being to come at the man’s beckoning, Josselin had no other recourse. As quietly
and calmly as she could, she retraced her steps. But under her breath, she cursed the smirking Highlander every step of the
way.

Of course, she was nearly as vexed with herself as she was with Drew. Entrusted with a task by the queen’s secretary not two
hours ago, she’d already lost her first message and endangered her first mission. What kind of a spy would she make if she
let frivolous passions distract her from the queen’s business?

Sobered by her own lapse of judgment and with newfound resolve, Josselin stopped before Drew and held her hand out for the
missive.

The Highlander, too, seemed to have collected his wits since she’d stormed off. He was back to his grinning, cocksure, irritating
self.

“I knew ye couldn’t stay away,” he teased.

She arched a brow. “And I knew ye couldn’t leave without stealin’ somethin’.”

He coughed as if she’d punched him, then snickered and shook his head. He placed the note in her palm, closing
her fingers gently over it. To her mortification, she actually shivered at his touch.

“Ye’d best hold on tight, lass,” he murmured with a knowing smirk. “I’d hate to see ye lose your ‘invitation to the royal
supper.’ ”

His sarcasm gave her pause. Had the cad read the missive,
her
missive?

Of course he had. Who would be able to resist? How else would he know it belonged to her?

She glanced uncertainly at the Highlander, whose eyes danced with mirth.

’Twas no laughing matter. She’d signed an oath of allegiance to Queen Mary. She’d sworn that if ever she were compromised,
she’d take her own life rather than reveal her identity as the queen’s spy. If he’d read the note…

“Go on, lass,” he urged, his gaze grazing her suggestively from head to toe, “ere ye lose both your note
and
your trews.”

Josselin fumed. He was a vile, vile man. She couldn’t believe she’d let him… let him…

’Twas too terrible to think about.

“Mind your own bloody affairs,” she snapped, shoving the note into her belt, and whipping smartly about to march back toward
the inn. “All o’ ye!” she shouted to the small mob of curious onlookers that now leaned out of the windows over the lane,
chasing them back inside.

Halfway to the door, she turned back toward Drew to fire off one last warning. “If ye know what’s best for ye,” she hissed,
sliding her knife halfway out of its sheath in threat, “ye’ll forget what ye read in that note.”

He turned away with a grin, tossing a lazy wave of farewell over his shoulder.

“Silly lass,” he called back. “Highlanders can’t read.”

D
rew liked to think of himself as a lone wolf, roaming the woods of Scotland on his own, keeping to the shadows, never forming
attachments, never staying in one place too long. At choice spots, he’d emerge to feed on the native prey, then return to
the sanctuary of the forest.

So the fact that he’d been in Edinburgh long enough for the innkeeper at The Sheep Heid to start calling him by name and for
the tavern wench to have memorized his favorite brew was completely against his usual conduct.

He’d lingered for two weeks after the queen’s procession, playing consecutive golf matches at Musselburgh, Berwick, Carnoustie,
and St. Andrews, and winning most of them. To his chagrin, the wagering crowd was beginning to think of Drew MacAdam as a
local favorite.

He justified his loitering, saying ’twas foolish to leave while he was on a winning streak.

He even half-convinced himself that simple curiosity compelled him to remain until the date mentioned in the mysterious missive
from Queen Mary’s secretary, particularly since the rendezvous was set for a location he knew so well.

Neither of these were the real reason he was still in Edinburgh. The real reason stood about twenty yards to his left at the
edge of the Leith links, serving beer to thirsty Scotsmen.

He wouldn’t have seriously wagered on seeing Jossy again. Edinburgh was a big city. Jossy was a wee lass. She’d left the inn
she was staying in, and no one knew where she’d gone. Probably home like a sensible lass. Even if she hadn’t gone home, Drew
imagined the queen’s secretary had more important things to do tomorrow than keep a vague appointment with a lowly tavern
wench from Selkirk.

But the improbable odds hadn’t kept him from loitering about till that date, watching for her on the streets of Edinburgh.
And it hadn’t stopped his pulse from quickening at the sight of any wench with long blond tresses.

Less than an hour ago, he’d decided ’twas an unhealthy obsession, some imagined attraction based on the distorted memory of
a kiss that had only
seemed
to move the earth.

He’d determined to leave Edinburgh tonight. Today he’d play and beat Leith’s champion, Campbell Muir. Then he’d return to
the inn, pack his things, and head north.

’Twas for the best, he told himself. The lass had a curious effect on him, and he didn’t much like curious effects. They could
interfere with his concentration and throw off his game.

But to his chagrin, no sooner had he vowed to leave than the lass suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the midst of the Leith
course, hawking beer from a wagon to the wagerers at the match. In that instant, all of Drew’s well-laid plans went awry.

Faith, the lass looked even more beautiful in women’s clothing. She might be small-boned, less than voluptuous, and able to
pass for a lad. But she wore no oversized man’s shirt today. Her snugly laced bodice accentuated the subtle curves she possessed.
Muted green skirts flared over her gentle hips. And the soft puff of her white linen chemise floated atop her breasts. As
he stole a glance, a breeze caught the edge of the sheer fabric, revealing a glimpse of tempting flesh that took his breath
away.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she chatted with her customers. Her honey hair, peeking out from the linen coif perched
on her head, gleamed in the morning sunlight. Her smile sparkled like a rippling stream. Her eyes shone with merriment and
mischief. And his body responded with all the poise of a rutting deer.

Clenching his teeth against a wave of disconcerting lust, he turned his back, waiting for Muir to start the match.

The attraction he felt to her was inexplicable. Jossy wasn’t at all what he preferred in a woman. He could list several things
that were wrong with her already, and he scarcely knew her.

First of all, she was Scots, therefore his enemy.

Second, she was blond, and he generally favored brunettes.

Third, she was scrawny, and he liked his women pleasantly plump.

Fourth, she was headstrong, and everyone knew that headstrong lasses were trouble.

Fifth…

“MacAdam.”

Fifth…

“MacAdam!”

“Aye?” he murmured.

Muir had taken his swing. ’Twas Drew’s turn.

With a sobering shake of his head, Drew selected his club and placed his ball. But try as he might, he couldn’t focus on his
swing. It had nothing to do with the boisterous shouts of encouragement and discouragement fired his way, the aggressive goading
and cajoling, the cacophonous praise and insults, or the inevitable shoving that occurred in any crowd of drunks. He was distracted
by the comely lass he could glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

Even his opponent’s secret weapon, the enormous hound Muir had trained to menace his opponents, was no match for Drew’s fixation.
Though the dog snapped and barked and lunged at him in deadly threat, ’twasn’t the animal’s antics that interfered with Drew’s
drive, but the fact that his gaze kept drifting to the beer wagon.

He desired the lass. That was all. Surely there was nothing more to his fascination. She was like a beautiful, mysterious,
challenging course he had yet to play, a course that, once conquered, would no longer hold appeal for him.

’Twas simple, then. All he need do to curb his obsession was to give in to it. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, played upon
her field and learned the hazards and sweet spots of her particular landscape, he’d doubtless be cured of his lovesickness.