Seduced by Destiny (6 page)

“There,” he said, finishing and tucking the handkerchief away. “Ye don’t want to look like a mad dog, foamin’ at the mouth,
when Mary’s man comes.”

Josselin glanced down at her beer, wishing more than ever she could gulp down the contents and order another. The prospect
of meeting the queen’s secretary wasn’t half as unsettling as the notion that she’d allowed the Highlander to put his hands
on her.

The Highlander. Lord, she didn’t even know the man’s name.

“Thank ye…” She glanced up expectantly.

“Drew.”

“Drew.”

He saluted her with his tankard and took a few swallows. “So tell me, Jossy, how is it ye come to have three da’s?”

She shrugged. “My mother and father both died when I was a bairn. The three men who found me looked after me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She took a sip of beer and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t remember my parents, not at all.”

He stared into his beer, and an inscrutable sweet sorrow came into his eyes. “Maybe ’tis better that way.”

She wondered what had saddened him, but she didn’t ask. Her Da Alasdair had taught her ’twasn’t polite to pry. Besides, the
man would likely be gone in an hour, and she’d never see him again, so what was the point?

Instead, she finished her drink, careful not to leave foam on her lip this time. Then she set the tankard down, tapping idly
on its rim and eyeing the tavern wench.

“Can ye handle another?” Drew asked.

“Are ye buyin’?”

He smiled and summoned the maid.

Josselin knew she probably shouldn’t drink another. She’d had nothing for breakfast, and on an empty stomach, she’d soon be
feeling the full effects of the beer.

But every time she relived the events of the morn and thought about their possible consequences, she felt like she needed
a good swallow of something to wash away the taste of fear in her mouth.

What she’d told Drew was true. She’d never run in her life. She’d never let fear master her. And she didn’t intend to start
now.

Still, another fortifying pint wouldn’t be unwelcome.

“Another ale for my friend here,” Drew told the tavern wench.

The maid smiled coyly, giving the Highlander a thorough perusal, then picked up Josselin’s empty tankard without sparing her
a glance. If she had, she might have noticed that Josselin wasn’t the lad she appeared to be.

Instead, the wench sidled up to Drew and said in a silky voice, “We don’t get many o’ your kind here. I’ve oft wondered, what
is it ye Highlanders wear under your saffron shirt?”

“I assure ye, lass,” he said with a suggestive lift of his brow, “there’s nothin’
worn
under my—”

“Ach!” Josselin spat in disgust, “If I hear that jest one more time…” She smirked at the maid. “Don’t ye have beer-pourin’
to do?”

The maid was so astonished, she almost dropped the tankard. Josselin waved her away.

Halfway through her second beer, Josselin began to feel its soothing effects as her shoulders relaxed and a pleasant buzzing
filled her head. She gazed casually over the top of her cup at the Highlander, who was staring into the fire with a faraway
frown.

He resembled some beautiful, dark, wild avenging angel that might grace the wall of a chapel. His hair was in need of taming,
and his jaw was shaded where he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His nose was straight, broad, and strong, and his mouth had
a sweet curve to it, as if he were on the verge of a grin. But his eyes were most remarkable. They were deep-set and intense,
shaded by heavy brows that seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, and their color was as clear and pure as a bluebottle blossom.

She wondered what he was thinking about as he gazed into the flickering firelight. Was he imagining his Highland home? Plotting
a cattle raid? Pining for some long-lost mistress?

His gaze never left the hearth as he told her flatly, “Ye shouldn’t stare, lass. ’Tis rude.”

She averted her eyes, which wasn’t easy, considering how languid they’d suddenly become. “I wasn’t starin’. I was… glancin’.”

He brought his gaze around. A twinkle lurked in his eyes. “Aye? And what were ye glancin’ at?”

“Nothin’. I was just …” Her glance caught on his tankard. “I was wonderin’ if ye were goin’ to drink the rest o’ that?”

“In time,” he said.

She tried to raise a brow in challenge, though, in her condition, it may have only given her a quizzical look. “I’d heard
Highlanders could outdrink Lowlanders, three to one.”

“So they say. But do ye know why?”

“Why?”

He leaned toward her. She leaned toward him. His eyes danced with mirth.

“Highlanders can’t count for shite.”

T
he unexpected laughter that bubbled out of the lass was as charming and infectious as a merry madrigal. Seeing her bright
smile and her shining eyes, Drew forgot for a moment that she was his foe.

But as he glanced around the tavern, he saw that her giggling had drawn the interested gazes of several other patrons, and
his grin faded. Attention was the last thing he wanted.

He’d intended to bid the lass good-day at the door, but she’d practically dragged him into the inn. So he’d chosen the darkest
corner of the room in the hopes of avoiding notice.

Now it seemed that wasn’t to be. Josselin, with her radiant looks and her unbridled spirit, couldn’t help being the center
of attention.

His only hope then was to distance himself from her as soon as possible.

But the way the wolves in the room were perusing her now—narrowing their eyes and licking their lips as if to devour her—he
couldn’t very well abandon the little lamb, especially not in her present state. She might not be
fully sotted, but Scots beer was markedly strong, and she was definitely tipsy.

Maybe a bit of food would temper her intoxication.

“Are ye hungry?” he asked.

“If ye’re buyin’, I’m famished.”

He snorted. The lass certainly had no qualms about spending his coin. But then she was a Scot. Notoriously close-fisted with
their own purses, they had little trouble squandering away the wealth of others. He’d learned that more than once on the golf
course, trying to collect his winnings.

He waved the tavern wench over and ordered two servings of whatever skink was simmering on the fire.

Once the stew arrived, Josselin proved as straightforward in her supping as she was in her speech. She didn’t pick at her
food, as most maids did. She dove in eagerly without wasting a drop and finished before he was halfway done.

For a small thing, she could certainly pack away a respectable meal.

“More?” he asked, indicating his own portion.

She paused, considering his offer, then politely shook her head.

“I had an enormous breakfast,” he lied. Actually, he’d had two buttered oatcakes and a cup of ale, but since he wasn’t golfing
today, he wasn’t very hungry. “I don’t think I can finish it.”

Her tongue flicked out involuntarily, and he pushed the bowl toward her.

“If ye insist,” she said.

While she polished off his barley skink, he glowered in threat at the men in the inn, hoping his black looks would
dissuade them from coming anywhere near the lass, even after he was gone.

He was about to tell Josselin that he had to be off when she happened to glance toward the door behind him, and a flicker
of recognition lit her eyes.

“ ’Tis him,” she breathed.

Drew cursed silently, but didn’t turn around. How the devil had the man gotten here so quickly? Drew had hoped to be long
gone by the time the secretary arrived.

Now what would he do? ’Twas difficult enough to maintain his anonymity among common Scots. But to sit across from a bloody
French noble…

He tensed, prepared to bid the lass a swift farewell and make his escape. Then he made the mistake of glancing up at her again.

She’d raised her chin a notch, putting on a brave face as she watched the man approach. But her lower lip trembled slightly,
and she gulped as her fingers tightened around her tankard.

He couldn’t just leave the poor lass. That would amount to desertion.

With a sigh of self-mockery, Drew reached out to squeeze her hand. “I won’t let him have ye.”

Even
he
didn’t know what that meant. But the words seemed to soothe her. She nodded and loosed her hand to lift it in greeting to
the Frenchman.

The man was no friendlier than he’d been on the Royal Mile, acting as if whatever task he’d been set to was far beneath his
station.

“I would speak to you alone, Madame,” he informed her, giving Drew a pointed glare.

She looked uneasy for an instant, but quickly masked her fears. “O’ course.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

Drew assailed the man with his most charming Highland grin, assuring Josselin, “I’ll wait near the door, darlin’. If ye need
anythin’, just give me a wink.”

He winked at her, then stood to give the secretary his seat. ’Twas tempting to pull it out from under him, but Drew resisted
the urge.

What madness had possessed Drew to pose as Josselin’s guardian, he didn’t know. Nor did he much care to ponder it.

’Twas the height of recklessness. He had no idea what the secretary intended. But if the sneer on the man’s face was any indication,
the lass wasn’t going to like his news. All Drew knew was that if he threatened Josselin, if he laid one bony finger upon
her…

What? Drew wondered as he commandeered a table by the door. Would he box the man’s ears? Pull a dagger on the fellow? Challenge
Queen Mary’s personal secretary to a duel?

Hopefully ’twouldn’t come to that. In the meantime, he’d watch the man like a hawk.

When Philipe de la Fontaine took the seat across from her, Josselin had two simultaneous opposing thoughts. One was that she
shouldn’t have drunk so much beer. The other was that she wanted nothing more than to seize her tankard and gulp down the
rest of its contents.

’Twasn’t that the pinch-nosed nobleman frightened her. She wasn’t easily intimidated by men. Her da’s had trained her well.
What troubled her was that she’d wanted so badly to make a good impression on the new queen. And she was deathly afraid she’d
ruined her chances.

“You may have noticed,” the secretary intoned, “that you caught the eye of the queen.”

She swallowed hard. “Aye.”

“Her Majesty was quite…” He searched for the word.

Disgruntled? Offended? Enraged?

“Intrigued by you.”

Josselin blinked. Intrigued? That wasn’t bad, was it? “I see,” she said carefully.

Behind Philipe’s shoulder, she glimpsed the Highlander, seated by the door, scowling as if he could burn a hole in the secretary’s
back.

Philipe continued, oblivious to Drew’s smoldering stare. “Her Majesty likes your spirit, your loyalty, your…” He shuddered.
“Attire.”

Josselin’s gaze snapped back to the secretary. “My attire?”

He shrugged, as befuddled by the news as Josselin was.

“It is not my place to question the queen,” he said, indicating with a sharp look that ’twasn’t hers either. “Her Majesty
has sent me to make you an offer of employment.”

Josselin’s heart skipped. “Employment?”

The tavern wench came briskly to the table, and the secretary asked, “You have French wine?”

“Nae, m’lord,” she said, “only beer and ale and a wee bit o’ Madeira.”

Philipe shooed her away, muttering, “Dozens of taverns in this city and not a drop of good French wine.”

“An offer, you said?” Josselin reminded him, breathless with anticipation.

“Yes, yes. The queen desires to reward your loyalty. She has sent me to find out your qualifications.” He sniffed
in scorn. “I already know you have a penchant for wreaking havoc. Do you have any other skills?”

Josselin was stunned silent. The very opportunity she’d hoped for—to serve the new queen—had fallen into her lap.

Thrilling images flashed through her mind … accepting a commission from the queen … leading a charge on the battlefield like
a Scots Jeanne d’Arc… celebrating victory over the English at a royal dinner …

“Cooking?” the secretary blandly inquired. “Sewing? Spinning wool?”

Josselin frowned in disappointment.

He pursed his lips in distaste. “Or do you make your husband keep the house?”

“He’s not my…” She took a deep breath. She had to make her intentions clear, which wasn’t easy when her brain was swimming
in beer. “I’m not a servant.”

He stiffened. “In the court of Queen Mary,” he announced regally, “we are all servants.”

This wasn’t going well at all. “I didn’t mean… That is to say…”

He spoke slowly, as if he were addressing a child. “What is it you do all day, Madame? Besides inciting riots.”

“I serve beer at a tavern in Selkirk.” Then she straightened proudly and added, “But I’m good with a blade and my fists. Both
of my parents fought in battles against the English—my father at Solway Moss, my mother at Ancrum Moor. I’ve held a sword
since I was three years—”

He held up a hand to stop her, taking a sudden keen interest. “You’re a tavern wench?”

“Aye,” she said cautiously.

“And how long have you been employed?”

She shrugged. “Seven years.” She didn’t want to talk about serving beer. She wanted to talk about swordfighting.

“Seven years,” he repeated.

“Aye. I started when I was twelve.”

“Ah, you know your numbers.” He nodded, impressed. “I don’t suppose you are able to read as well?” he asked doubtfully.

“Aye. I keep the accounts for the tavern.”

“Indeed?” He leaned back and studied her, stroking his neatly trimmed beard in speculation. “I may have a suitable position
for you, after all.”

Josselin waited for him to elaborate, but he only continued to peruse her, narrowing his eyes, pursing his lips, pensively
tapping his cheek.

“Aye?” she blurted.

“Tell me,” he said. “Can you keep a secret, or are you one of those maids who cannot stop her jaws from flapping?”

Josselin answered stonily. “I can keep a secret.”