streets? Ye doubt my devotion to the queen? I defended Her Majesty against—”
“Reckless violence is not the same thing as devotion.I need to know if you would give your life to keep the queen safe.”
“In the beat of a heart.” She’d been trained from the time she could barely walk to do just that. She’d fight with her last
breath and die if she must. But she didn’t intend to die. She intended to succeed where her mother had failed.
“So he is not your husband,” Philipe said, gesturing with a nod of his head over his shoulder. “Who is he?”
She glanced at Drew. In her excitement, she’d almost forgotten about the Highlander. He was leaning back against the wall
now, but his eyes were fixed on the secretary with a steely stare, and he was drumming his fingers on the table with calculated
impatience.
“Nobody,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“He knew the way to the inn, that’s all.”
He studied her eyes, as if to gauge the truth of her words.
“Do ye wish me to send him away?” she asked.
“No. That would arouse suspicion. But you must tell no one,
no one
, what I am about to tell you.”
Josselin nodded soberly. If there was one thing at which she excelled, ’twas keeping secrets. The secrets of Queen Mary she
would take to her grave.
Chapter 9
D rew sat back with feigned indifference, all the while watching Philipe de la Fontaine’s every move. He wished he’d chosen
a closer table. Unable to hear over the rolling dice and cheering players, the best Drew could do was watch for trouble.
Why he should worry, he didn’t know. The lass might look as pretty and delicate as an English peach, but she was more lethal
than a thistle tipped with poison. If Philipe made any wrong moves, she’d likely pull a blade on the poor fool.
Still, from what he’d seen of her so far, Josselin of Selkirk seemed to attract trouble, and this might prove to be more than
she could handle alone.
They were talking rather animatedly, and so far Jossy was holding her own with the royal secretary rather than cowering in
fear or misplaced humility.
But when the man pulled out a scroll of vellum and a quill from his penner and uncorked his inkhorn on the table, Drew straightened.
The secretary began writing something on the page while Jossy grimly looked on.
Still, the lass didn’t seem to be in distress. She didn’t try to garner Drew’s attention. She didn’t wave. She didn’t wink.
She didn’t so much as glance his way.
Finally, the secretary reversed the page and handed her the pen, and Drew fought the urge to bolt forward and tear the vellum
out of her hands.
What was she signing? A letter of apology? A writ of guilt? Her own death warrant?
He tried to read her face, but ’twas nigh impossible to read the face of a stranger. Was her expression calm stoicism? Resigned
defeat? Silent dread? When she passed the paper back to the secretary, her countenance was as solemn as the grave.
The secretary fanned the ink to dry it, then rolled the document and slipped it inside his doublet. He scrawled something
on another small scrap of paper and handed it to Jossy, who nodded and tucked it covertly into her knife sheath. Finally,
to Drew’s astonishment, the secretary counted out several silver coins into her palm.
Drew decided the lass had an uncanny knack for relieving men of their riches.
The Frenchman rose to go then, sketching an elegant bow of farewell.
Drew’s instincts told him not to confront the man. If Philipe de la Fontaine intended to harm the lass, Drew reasoned, he
wouldn’t be leaving her unguarded, nor would he have paid her silver. So as Philipe turned, Drew dropped his head onto his
arms atop the table as if he’d passed out and began snoring loudly.
He didn’t look up again until the door closed behind Philipe. Then he cast a quick glance at Jossy, who sat deep in thought,
staring at the age-warped planks of the floor.
He approached her,
“Reckless violence is not the same thing as devotion.I need to know if you would give your life to keep the queen safe.”
“In the beat of a heart.” She’d been trained from the time she could barely walk to do just that. She’d fight with her last
breath and die if she must. But she didn’t intend to die. She intended to succeed where her mother had failed.
“So he is not your husband,” Philipe said, gesturing with a nod of his head over his shoulder. “Who is he?”
She glanced at Drew. In her excitement, she’d almost forgotten about the Highlander. He was leaning back against the wall
now, but his eyes were fixed on the secretary with a steely stare, and he was drumming his fingers on the table with calculated
impatience.
“Nobody,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“He knew the way to the inn, that’s all.”
He studied her eyes, as if to gauge the truth of her words.
“Do ye wish me to send him away?” she asked.
“No. That would arouse suspicion. But you must tell no one,
no one
, what I am about to tell you.”
Josselin nodded soberly. If there was one thing at which she excelled, ’twas keeping secrets. The secrets of Queen Mary she
would take to her grave.
Chapter 9
D rew sat back with feigned indifference, all the while watching Philipe de la Fontaine’s every move. He wished he’d chosen
a closer table. Unable to hear over the rolling dice and cheering players, the best Drew could do was watch for trouble.
Why he should worry, he didn’t know. The lass might look as pretty and delicate as an English peach, but she was more lethal
than a thistle tipped with poison. If Philipe made any wrong moves, she’d likely pull a blade on the poor fool.
Still, from what he’d seen of her so far, Josselin of Selkirk seemed to attract trouble, and this might prove to be more than
she could handle alone.
They were talking rather animatedly, and so far Jossy was holding her own with the royal secretary rather than cowering in
fear or misplaced humility.
But when the man pulled out a scroll of vellum and a quill from his penner and uncorked his inkhorn on the table, Drew straightened.
The secretary began writing something on the page while Jossy grimly looked on.
Still, the lass didn’t seem to be in distress. She didn’t try to garner Drew’s attention. She didn’t wave. She didn’t wink.
She didn’t so much as glance his way.
Finally, the secretary reversed the page and handed her the pen, and Drew fought the urge to bolt forward and tear the vellum
out of her hands.
What was she signing? A letter of apology? A writ of guilt? Her own death warrant?
He tried to read her face, but ’twas nigh impossible to read the face of a stranger. Was her expression calm stoicism? Resigned
defeat? Silent dread? When she passed the paper back to the secretary, her countenance was as solemn as the grave.
The secretary fanned the ink to dry it, then rolled the document and slipped it inside his doublet. He scrawled something
on another small scrap of paper and handed it to Jossy, who nodded and tucked it covertly into her knife sheath. Finally,
to Drew’s astonishment, the secretary counted out several silver coins into her palm.
Drew decided the lass had an uncanny knack for relieving men of their riches.
The Frenchman rose to go then, sketching an elegant bow of farewell.
Drew’s instincts told him not to confront the man. If Philipe de la Fontaine intended to harm the lass, Drew reasoned, he
wouldn’t be leaving her unguarded, nor would he have paid her silver. So as Philipe turned, Drew dropped his head onto his
arms atop the table as if he’d passed out and began snoring loudly.
He didn’t look up again until the door closed behind Philipe. Then he cast a quick glance at Jossy, who sat deep in thought,
staring at the age-warped planks of the floor.
He approached her,
Similar Books
