Free Seduced by Destiny by Kira Morgan Page B

Though the dog snapped and barked and lunged at him in deadly threat, ’twasn’t the animal’s antics that interfered with Drew’s
     drive, but the fact that his gaze kept drifting to the beer wagon.
    He desired the lass. That was all. Surely there was nothing more to his fascination. She was like a beautiful, mysterious,
     challenging course he had yet to play, a course that, once conquered, would no longer hold appeal for him.
    ’Twas simple, then. All he need do to curb his obsession was to give in to it. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, played upon
     her field and learned the hazards and sweet spots of her particular landscape, he’d doubtless be cured of his lovesickness.
    ’Twas decided, then. He’d court the lass.
    He glanced over at the tempting maid, who was tying on her apron, preparing for the incoming onslaught of patrons. He wondered
     why she was still in Edinburgh,why she’d decided not to return to her sleepy village and her three da’s after all. Had she indeed indentured herself to the
     queen’s secretary? Was she working off a debt to the crown as a tavern wench?
    While Muir lined up his next shot—his dog presently by his side, as docile as an orphaned lamb—Drew was able to study Jossy
     further from the refuge of the crowd.
    The lass definitely knew her trade. Not only could she fill a tankard without spilling a drop, but she could take coin for
     one beer, tempt a man into buying a second, and dance out of a third’s grasp all at the same time.
    “MacAdam, stop droolin’ o’er your next beer,” Muir scolded, “and get your head in the game!”
    The crowd laughed, and at that very moment, Jossy spotted him.

Chapter 12
    F or an instant, time stood still as Josselin stared in disbelief. Then the tankard she was filling overflowed onto her hand.
    “Bloody …” she exclaimed, handing the patron his brimming cup and wiping her hand on her apron. When she ventured a second
     glance, the Highlander had turned away and was making his way to the next hole.
    Perhaps ’twas only her imagination. Perhaps the golfer had only borne an uncanny resemblance to that other man, she thought
     as she stared over the heads of the patrons clamoring for beer.
    Nae, she decided, studying the man’s backside as he strode down the green. That was definitely the Highlander’s cocky swagger.
    “Hurry up, wench,” a grizzled merchant grumbled. “They’re movin’ down the course.”
    Josselin bit back a retort, hastily filling the man’s cup and pocketing his coin.
    Tankards were shoved her way as the mob vied to get their cups filled before play resumed. She worked with the fluidity of
     habit, no sooner topping off one foamy cupbefore starting another and never dropping a penny as she collected payment.
    Meanwhile, her brain raced in mad circles as she tried to imagine what had happened to cause the Highlander to cross paths
     with her again.
    The crowd thinned as the onlookers, their cups replenished, scrambled off toward the action. Then a small, wiry man with swarthy
     skin and fierce, dark eyes came up and expectantly handed her his wooden tankard.
    “Four pence,” she told him, taking the cup and preparing to place it under the tap. But as she turned, her glance snagged
     on the rim of the cup, into which three curious notches were carved.
    He was her contact.
    Philipe’s instructions had been clear. She was never to acknowledge the contacts by word or deed. She would not learn their
     names. And she’d do her best to forget their faces. They had the most dangerous tasks of all, and ’twas up to Josselin to
     protect them.
    So without saying a word, while her back was turned, she reached under the hollowed bottom of the wooden cup. Just as she
     expected, a folded missive was lodged there, stuck fast to the cup with a blob of wax. She quickly popped the wax loose and
     tucked the note into the concealed pocket in the waist of her kirtle.
    The missive would be written in some sort of