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glare.
    “Nae?” He shook his head, allowing a gleam ofmischief to enter his eyes. “Well, I’ve never heard such words from a lass… at least not outside o’ the Canongate stews.”
    Her eyes widened at his wicked suggestion, then closed to smoldering green slits. Apparently unable to think of a vile enough
     retort that wouldn’t further prove his point, she resorted to giving him a hearty punch in the arm.
    Drew figured he deserved it. Josselin was no more a harlot than he was the Archbishop of St. Andrews. The way she whipped
     out her blade at the slightest provocation, ’twas surely a rare man who got within arm’s reach of her. And with three fathers
     hovering about, he doubted the lass had so much as been pecked upon the cheek.
    He rubbed at the place she’d struck him. “Marry, ye’ve got a strong arm on ye, Jossy,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Maybe
     ye’re a caber-tosser then.”
    She gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Aye, that’s it. So ye’d better beware, Highlander. One wrong move, and I’ll toss ye on your
     bloody arse.”
    He clucked his tongue at her swearing. “Dreadful.”
    The White Hart was just ahead. He almost regretted arriving so soon. No matter that she was Scots, Josselin was surely the
     most refreshingly forthright and entertaining lass he’d met in a while. He’d almost be sorry to leave her.
    “What about ye?” she asked. “Shepherd or cattle thief?”
    He chuckled. Lowlanders assumed all Highlanders were one or the other. “Neither.”
    “Then what’s your trade?”
    “I golf.”
    “Golf?” she scoffed. “ ’Tisn’t a trade.”
    “ ’Tis if ye win.”
    They stopped below the sign of The White Hart—a green background with the head of a white deer painted on it.
    “And I suppose ye win all the time?” she asked, freeing the tankard from her belt.
    “Most o’ the time.”
    “Good.” She pushed her way through the door of the inn. “Then
ye
can buy the beer.”

Chapter 7
    T he instant Josselin stepped inside, a sense of ease came over her. Though she’d never set foot in The White Hart before, everything
     was familiar: the dim, crowded room with a crackling fire on the hearth, the clatter of dice, the chatter of tipplers, the
     pungent aromas of strong ale, mutton pies, and aged leather.
    She’d spent a good part of the last seven years working in Kate’s tavern. ’Twasn’t exactly the safest place for a young lass,
     but Will had always been a whistle away, and he’d taught her at an early age to defend herself from drunken patrons with straying
     hands.
    Poor Will. She realized now that she’d broken all three of the promises she’d made to her loyal guardian.
    She’d lost her temper.
    She’d trafficked with a stranger.
    And she was about to spend the afternoon in a tavern by herself.
    No, she corrected, not by herself. The stranger had insisted on coming with her.
    She didn’t mind too much. He was pleasant enough to look at, despite his dearth of Highland charm.
    Besides, the truth was her purse had grown dangerously light. The cost of the inn where she was staying had been unexpectedly
     exorbitant, especially considering its absence of a level floor and proper shutters. She had just enough coin left to purchase
     one night of lodging, one loaf of bread, and one jack of ale for the trek home. As long as he was paying, she could use an
     extra pint to steady her nerves.
    “Two beers,” the Highlander called out to the tavern wench, unhooking his own tankard and banging the two cups on the counter.
    “Your finest!” Josselin amended as they headed toward a small table in the corner. “And don’t be waterin’ it down.”
    The Highlander arched a brow at her.
    “ ’Tis my trade,” she explained dryly, “between tossin’ cabers. I work at a tavern in Selkirk.”
    “Ah.”
    They took their seats, and when the beer arrived, Josselin took a cautious sip. ’Twasn’t bad. Not as good as Kate’s, of course,
     but passable. She