Seduced by Destiny by Kira Morgan

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 sniffedin 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.”
    “On pain of death?”
    Now he was speaking a language she could understand. “Aye.”
    “I wonder.”
    She furrowed her brows. The beer made her less cautious than usual. She leaned forward and bit out, “Ye can ask me that after
     what I did on the