Seduced by Destiny (3 page)

One immediate forward thrust sent the old man
scuttling back, followed rapidly by a downward slash, which forced Will to dodge to the side.

Once a man was on the defensive, Angus had said, he’d reply with hasty desperation, and his blows might be incautious. ’Twas
then the risky move would have to be made.

When the old man’s awkward, defensive slash whistled from left to right, his opponent needed precise, lightning-quick calculation
and sheer nerve to step sideways into the blade’s path. Thankfully, the measurement proved accurate. Will’s dagger sliced
superficially through cloth and flesh, not enough to cause too much damage, just enough to sting like bloody hell.

As predicted, Will dropped his weapon in shock at what he’d done. “Jossy!” he cried.

Just as Angus had suggested she do, Josselin played up the injury. She gave a feminine gasp, winced, and staggered, letting
Will get a good look at her wounded left arm, but never letting go of the blade in her right.

With horror in his eyes, Will stepped forward. “Jossy, lass, are ye—”

“Aha!” Before he could finish, she swung the tip of her dagger up to rest it at his stubbled throat. “I win.”

“What?” His bewildered gaze almost made her regret her trickery. Almost.

“I win.” She gave him a grin of triumph.

His confusion turned rapidly to anger. “Win, my arse,” he spat. “Ye cheated, brat.”

“I didn’t cheat,” she said with an injured sniff. “Ye can see the blood.”

“I can’t believe ye’d do that on purpose,” he scolded. “I could have cut ye badly, ye fool wench.” He shook his head. “Who
taught ye such deceit?”

“ ’Tisn’t deceit,” she said, avoiding the question. After all, ’twould make Will jealous if he knew he wasn’t her only teacher.
“ ’Tis cleverness.”

He batted her dagger away. “Cleverness, my ballocks,” he grumbled. “Ye’ll get yourself killed with such cleverness.”

“But I win, right?” she said. “I get to go to Edinburgh to see the new queen.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an expletive.

“Ye promised,” she warned.

“Aye, that I did. Never let it be said I’m not a man o’ my word. But,” he said, wagging his finger at her nose, “ye’re goin’
to promise me somethin’ in return.”

Josselin’s heart was beating so fast with the thrill of winning the wager that she didn’t care what his promise was. “Aye?”

“Ye’ll go as a lad.”

“What?”

“Ye heard me.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Ye’ll get yourself some trews, a baggy shirt, and boots,” he told her. “And a hat big enough, Mistress Goldilocks, to hide
your hair and those connivin’ green eyes.”

Josselin furrowed her brows. “Why?”

“For protection.”

She brought her blade up swiftly. “I’ve got this for protection.”

“Don’t argue with me, lass, or ye’ll not go at all.”

“But ye swore. Ye said if I bested ye, I could go to Edinburgh.”

“So I did, and I’ll be true to my word … even if ye did cheat.”

“I did not—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “But if ye don’t agree to my terms, I can’t promise I won’t have a slip o’ the tongue in
front o’ Kate about the mischief ye’ve been up to these past few years.”

She whisked her dagger back down and looked at him in hurt disbelief. “Ye wouldn’t.”

He folded his arms over his stocky chest. “Only if ye force me to it.”

She huffed out a vexed puff of air. “Oh, fine. I’ll go as a bloody lad.”

She sheathed her weapon and unbuckled the belt from her hips, handing it to Will. As they walked back toward the tavern, Josselin
smoothed her skirts and loosed her braid, letting the waves fall around her shoulders and down her back, then tied on her
linen coif. Kate mustn’t know she’d been fighting. ’Twould break the woman’s heart.

Will brought up Kate Campbell any time he wanted to keep Josselin under his thumb. Kate, a prosperous brewster, had taken
Josselin in when she was twelve years old, claiming ’twas unseemly for three unwed men to raise an orphaned lass, pointing
out that they’d taught her nothing but sparring, spitting, and swearing.

But despite the woman’s kindness, Josselin had burst into tears as she’d been forced to leave behind the three men she called
“Da” to move her things into the room over Kate’s tavern.

Will had taken pity on her. He’d whispered to her that if she promised not to tell Kate, he’d continue sparring with her every
Monday morn. After all, he’d sworn on her mother’s grave that he’d teach Josselin how to defend herself properly.

What Will didn’t know was that her second da, Angus, had made a similar arrangement. They met to cross swords on Wednesday
afternoons, to honor the memory of her brave father, killed in battle.

And neither Angus nor Will knew about her engagements with her third da, Alasdair, who dedicated Fridays to teaching Josselin
how to read, do sums, and, if nagged enough, how to wield a dagger with lethal grace.

As far as her foster mother knew, Josselin went off for several hours a week to gather flowers, do embroidery, or visit with
friends. That was in addition to her regular work, which was serving beer at the tavern and managing the brewster’s accounts.

“Ye’d better keep your wits about ye in Edinburgh,” Will muttered as they crossed the field toward town. “ ’Tisn’t Selkirk,
after all.”

“I’ll keep my wits
and
my blade about me, Da.” She called all three of her fathers “Da.” It got confusing sometimes, but none of the three would
surrender the title.

“Half o’ Scotland is determined to get a peek at the new queen,” he said with a shudder, making his graying beard quiver.
“There’s bound to be an enormous crowd.”

Josselin’s heart raced, imagining the grand procession… hundreds of people waving scarves and cheering… French soldiers on
horseback and lairds from all over Scotland marching through the streets… musicians and players and dancers making festive
displays. And floating like an unruffled goddess above the din and ceremony would be Queen Mary with her constant companions,
the Four Maries.

“Get that glimmer right out o’ your eyes, lass,” Will
groused. “ ’Tis a dangerous place, the city. And not everyone will be so glad to see the queen.”

“How could they not?” Josselin broke off a purple thistle growing beside the path. “She’s been gone for twelve years. ’Twill
be a triumphant return.” She smiled, tickling Will’s cheek with the blossom.

He scowled and brushed it away. “She’s a Catholic, and there are those who don’t much care for the old religion.”

Josselin thought that was silly. What did it matter where a person worshipped on Sunday? Scotland was finally going to have
her own real queen. And from all reports, Mary was beautiful and powerful, intelligent and charming.

“Mary is strong,” she decided. “She can defend herself.”

“Not accordin’ to Knox.”

“Hmph.” Josselin had heard men in the tavern talking of John Knox, the Protestant zealot. It seemed many were swayed by his
charismatic speeches. “I hardly think one nasty old man with a waggin’ tongue can wield much influence.”

“Perhaps not, but he has powerful friends.”

Josselin straightened with pride. “Well, so does the queen.” More than anything, Josselin wanted to live up to her mother’s
legacy, to fight the foes of the crown, to triumph where she had fallen. “Who was it taught me,” she added pointedly, “that
the best defense is a strong offense?”

Will stopped in his tracks, grabbed her by the shoulders, and spun her to face him. In that one instant, his fierce frown
took all the wind from her sails. “Ye’ll not tangle with the likes o’ Knox, do ye hear me?”

Josselin gulped. She wasn’t afraid of Will, but she did respect him.

“He’s a dangerous man,” Will said. “All fanatics are. Ye can go do your merrymakin’, watch the hurly-burly, and steal a peek
at young Mary from a distance. But ye steer clear o’ Knox and his ilk.”

She wriggled loose of his hands. “I’ve no interest in the man anyway. Ye fret too much, Da.”

“Ye give a man much to fret about,” he said, shaking his head and sighing unhappily as they continued down the path. “What
are ye goin’ to tell Kate about that gash on your arm?”

She shrugged. “I’ll say I fell off the beer cart.”

He arched one grizzled brow. “Again?”

September 2

D
rew grumbled under his breath. He didn’t know why he’d come. He usually avoided crowds like the pox. Already he’d been jostled
by drunks, elbowed by peddlers, pushed aside by filthy urchins trying to get a better view, and aye, even patted on the arse
by a wench looking for a bit of business.

But he was currently staying in Edinburgh, and the whole city seemed to be in a feverish fervor over their new monarch, Queen
Mary. He hadn’t been able to persuade any golfers to play today, even with the offer of weighting the game in their favor.
So he’d decided, since the links were deserted, and since he’d missed the coronation of his own Queen Elizabeth three years
ago, perhaps he’d venture down to the Royal Mile to see what the clamor was about.

So far, Queen Mary had been nothing but an inconvenience to him. Her early arrival at Leith Harbor had interrupted one perfectly
good golf game, and her home-coming
festivities today prevented another. True, he’d been paid handsomely for the forfeit of his match with Ian Hay. But
lately, he was driven as much by his love of the sport as by coin.

He frowned, beginning to regret his decision to come. The hubbub was inescapable. The crowd was packed in at Lawnmarket as
tightly as herring in a barrel. People were cheering and singing and shouting and laughing in a deafening commotion. And the
queen hadn’t even arrived yet.

He scanned the crowd with an uneasy scowl, wondering how quickly the Scots would string him up if they found out he was English.
Fortunately, he’d played the part long enough to be fairly certain he could convince even the most dubious Lowlander that
he’d been born and bred in the Highlands. And the rare Highlander who ventured this far south had never heard of his hometown
of Tintclachan—which was no surprise, since Drew had invented the village and placed it in a vague, remote part of the country.

’Twas a necessary deception. Traveling as a Highlander along the eastern coast of Scotland, he could steal from the purses
of those who’d stolen his father from him, exacting a fitting but bloodless revenge.

His uncles, of course, would have preferred he join the English army and kill every Scot in sight. Drew had considerable skill
with a blade, thanks to his uncles’ training. But like his father, he’d never had the heart for violence. Besides, with King
Henry dead and Queen Elizabeth on the throne, battles along the Borders were rare. Still, to keep his uncles content, Drew
let them believe the coin he earned was won on the English tournament circuit with a sword rather than on the Scots links
with a golf club.

He thought his disguise was reasonably convincing. He’d let his hair grow a bit shaggier than was fashionable, and he usually
went a day or two without a shave. He owned a pair of sturdy knee-high boots and a long, belted saffron shirt with a short
leather doublet, beneath which he wore dark tartan trews, even in summer, for he’d never quite accustomed himself to the Highland
habit of going bare-arsed. When the weather grew cold, he tossed a Scots plaid over one shoulder.

He’d spoken so long with a brogue that he could hardly remember how to speak proper English. After three years of living the
lie, he almost believed it himself.

“And ye have the ballocks to call yourself a Scotsman!” cried the lad beside him unexpectedly.

Drew stiffened.

But the lad was yelling at someone else, a half-drunk redbearded fellow who was carrying on about the new queen in a loud
bellow. “I’m more Scots than some Catholic tart who’s been livin’ in France all her life!”

The lad gasped, then spat, “Ye take that back!”

“I won’t!” snorted the redbeard.

The lad gave him a hard push.

The man stumbled back a step, spilling a few drops of his ale, but continued his tirade. “What gives the wench the right to
sail into my harbor and tell me how to say my prayers?”

The youth raised a puny fist and spoke through his teeth. “Ye’d
better
say your prayers.”

The redbeard was too drunk to recognize the threat. “I won’t be takin’ orders from ye, nor from that French trull.”

The lad growled a warning.

Drew groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in a brawl. This wasn’t his fight. He wasn’t Scots. And
he didn’t care a whit about the queen. He was already having a miserable day. He didn’t need to make it worse.

But the lad was half the redbeard’s size. A strong wind would blow him over. Drew couldn’t just stand by and watch the young
pup get his arse kicked. He laid a restraining palm on the lad’s shoulder. “Easy, half-pint.”

“He’s right!” a third man chimed in from Drew’s other side, suddenly placing Drew squarely in the middle of the battle. “No
Scot should have to kiss the derriere of a French wench.”

The lad shrugged off Drew’s hand. “Mary was born here, ye lobcocks!” he insisted, his voice breaking with his vehemence. “She
knows our history. She speaks our tongue.”

“Ye’re a daft grig!” the redbeard crowed, raising his cup of ale. “No sensible Scotsman would let a hen rule the roost, eh,
lads? Even John Knox says so!”

Drew grimaced as the surrounding men cheered in accord.

He could practically feel the heat rising off of the angry youth beside him as the lad ground out, “John Knox is a bloody
blockhead.”

Drew had heard the preachings of John Knox, who was an infamous misogynist, and he had to agree with the lad. But he couldn’t
afford to be trapped in the midst of a rabid pack of battling Scots. He leaned down to murmur a few words of friendly advice
to the reckless youth. “Careful, lad. Ye’re outnumbered.”

The lad whipped his head around, facing Drew
directly, and answered him with all the fearless passion of youth. “I’ll gladly fight them all in Mary’s defense.”