Seduced by Destiny by Kira Morgan Page B

Drew was better. He had youth on his side—a smooth, powerful
     swing that allowed him to place the ball precisely where he wanted it.
    He also had a secret incentive. As childish as ’twas, Drew intended to make Jossy eat her words. She’d discounted him as a
     cheat. He’d prove otherwise. There was nothing like the prospect of gloating to inspire one’s performance. So he saved his
     most impressive shots for the green in front of the beer wagon, where Jossy would be sure to hear the gasps of disbelief and
     congratulatory cheers from the crowd.
    At the seventh hole, the contestants took a break, and servants were sent to fetch beer for the thirsty spectators.
    Meanwhile, Drew kept a watch on Philipe, who remained behind with the nobles. The secretary hadn’t yet openly acknowledged
     Jossy. Drew wondered what the man was up to, why he’d ordered this mysterious rendezvous if he was bent on ignoring the lass.
    By the last hole, the game was close enough to generate a continuous cacophony of threats, bets, and cursing from gamblers,
     detractors, supporters, and drunks. Drew didn’t care. He’d learned from his training with a sword to block outside distractions,
     to go in for the kill.
    When he gently nudged the ball into the hole with his putting cleek, half the crowd erupted in cheers, and half of them turned
     the air hot with their swearing.
    He grinned. He’d won by a stroke.
    And now Jossy owed him an apology.
    “Victory for the Highlander!” somebody crowed.
    “Brilliant, MacAdam!”
    “Fine game, lad.”
    Metz dispiritedly extended his hand. “Well played, MacAdam,” he grumbled.
    Drew shook his hand and beamed with Highland charm. “ ’Twas an honor to play ye, Metz. Your golfin’ exploits are legendary.”’ Twasn’t
     entirely true, but Drew
had
been listening to them all morn, and his praise seemed to take the edge off of Metz’s disappointment.
    “Sir, Ambrose Scott,” a tall lad in the crowd said by way of introduction, offering his hand to Drew. “I’d like to buy the
     champion a pint, if ye’ll allow me.”
    If Drew was rattled by the youth’s offer, he wasn’t about to show it. And he knew better than to turn it down. After all,
     one didn’t refuse beer from the Queen of Scotland.

Chapter 17
    N ae,” Josselin whispered in horror. Her heart thudded like a mallet on an empty beer cask as the crowd swarmed toward her.
     “Nae.”
    That was
not
the Highlander approaching with a smug, I-just-won-the-championship grin on his face. And that was
not
Queen Mary walking beside him.
    “Bloody hell.”
    Curse Drew MacAdam! He was going to ruin everything. She’d told Philipe that the Highlander meant nothing to her. If Drew
     started flapping his jaws about his acquaintance with Josselin, Philipe would think she’d violated his trust. And if the lout
     said anything unseemly to the queen …
    Ballocks. Drew probably didn’t even know she was the queen. Nobody seemed to recognize her. There was no telling what secrets
     he’d let slip.
    This was going to be disastrous.
    Wiping her palms anxiously on her apron, she searched for Philipe. Perhaps she should tell him the truth about her acquaintance
     with the Highlander and warn Philipe before Drew could do any harm.
    But the secretary was walking in the opposite direction, highly distracted, conversing with another nobleman.
    She was on her own.
    It took a great deal of her willpower not to address the queen as Your Majesty, not to reveal that she knew Mary’s secret,
     to treat her simply as one of the townfolk. It took the rest of her willpower not to wallop Drew MacAdam as he came smiling
     up to the beer wagon, clearly basking in his victory.
    Josselin did her best to ignore Drew, but ’twas nearly impossible, especially when the queen issued a startling request.
    In a throaty voice with a flawless Scots accent, Mary told her, “I’d like to buy a pint for the champion.” She held out a
     hand to Drew for his