Seduced by Destiny by Kira Morgan Page B

tempted to demand what the bloody hell she’d just signed. But knowing he’d catch no flies with vinegar,
     he summoned up his Highland charm.
    “So,” he said with a wink, “the Frenchman didn’t come to drag ye off to gaol after all.”
    She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Nae.” She gave him an evasive smile. “He only wished to convey the queen’s appreciation.”
    “Appreciation?” he asked, lowering himself to the vacant chair.
    “For my loyalty. For defendin’ her name.”
    “Ah.”
    He signaled the tavern wench for another beer. He hadn’t intended on staying, but now that the immediate danger was past,
     his curiosity got the best of him.
    Jossy elaborated. “With John Knox and his ilk tarnishin’ her good name, the queen is grateful for loyal subjects.”
    “Is that so?” He tapped a finger twice on the tabletop in front of her. “And was that a document of appreciation ye were signin’
     then?”
    His question rattled her, but she managed an answer. “ ’Twas a…’twas an invitation.” He noticed, however, she wouldn’t look
     him in the eyes.
    “An invitation from the queen,” he said with a low whistle of amazement. “To dinner?”
    “Nae.”
    “What then?”
    He could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to come up with a suitable lie. In the end, she forfeited.
    “I’m not at liberty to say,” she told him haughtily.
    Drew’s beer arrived at that moment, and he was glad of the interruption, for it gave him time to ponder her words.
    What would she have signed that she didn’t want him to know about? What kind of deal had she made with the devil? Had the
     man blackmailed her? Indentured her? Or worse? And what had he scribbled onto that scrap of paper?
    Whatever he’d written, ’twas apparent that Philipe de la Fontaine wasn’t finished with the lass.
    Drew had to get a look at that note.
    Even while a small voice in his ear told him that he was a fool, that he should look after his own affairs and leave the lass
     to hers, he couldn’t shake off the fear that Jossy had somehow just signed away her life, that she’d trapped herself in some
     royal intrigue that was far more perilous than anything she’d encountered in the sleepy village of Selkirk, and that ’twas
     his fault.
    Josselin’s head was spinning. She felt as if she were balancing at the edge of a cliff, peering down at the loch below, about
     to plunge into unfamiliar waters. The current might carry her safely, or she might drown in the murky depths. But now that
     she’d committed to the leap, everything was in the hands of fate.
    Philipe had made her the most amazing, dangerous, exciting offer. As unbelievable as it seemed, he’d asked Josselin to serve
     as part of the queen’s network of spies. Philipe had told her that women were often employed in intelligence-gathering because
     they were least likely to arouse suspicion. Not even the queen herself would be aware that Josselin was her spy. Mary would
     simply believe that Philipe had found work for Josselin selling beer.
    The secretary had already enlisted male spies in the field to infiltrate John Knox’s ranks and gather information about the
     Reformation uprising, but he had to have a secure method for collecting that information. He needed someone who appeared harmless,
     who could move easily in various circles, who could make contact with the queen’s agents beneath the noses of the most dangerous
     Reformers.
    The men of Scotland, Philipe had told her, had two great passions—golf and beer. In Edinburgh, when there was a golf match
     afoot, every man with five pence in his purse would buy a pint with four pence and wager his last penny on the game. Peasant,
     noble, merchant, clergyman—it made no difference. When there was gambling to be done and beer to be drunk, all Scots partook
     equally.
    In the diverse crowds that attended golf matches, clandestine contacts could be easily made. And a beer-wagon set