by Sandy Blair
Gone were the charming peals he’d so often heard at court. In their place were rich husky tones he would never forget. His grip tightened further. Her voice, her faulty memory, the cow’s milk, the blushing, her lack of flirtation, her stomping about rather than gliding, the frankness of speech and now this. A chill danced down his spine. All the discrepancies now made sense.
He had the wrong woman.
“Better caution than danger.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb
Chapter Seven
Genny yelped when MacKinnon jerked her up against his massive chest and hissed, “Who are you?”
“You’re hurting me!”
His eyes turned coal black as he loomed over her. “You’ll have more than bruised arms if you don’t tell me your name this instant.”
Oh dear merciful God! “You know who I am. I’m the king’s mistress.”
He shook her. “Stop lying!”
Fearing she might faint, she insisted, “I’m not.”
He huffed in disgust and pushed her toward the palfrey. Before she could catch her breath or her thudding heart could steady, he grabbed her by the waist, his thick, long fingers squeezing the breath out of her, and tossed her onto her saddle, then bound her hands to the saddle horn with one of the reins. “Aye, you are lying. There have to be two of you. Twins.”
Oh Lord, he knows. What will he do now?
Using the free rein, Britt pulled her palfrey after him. As it danced in agitation, he, cursing under his breath, vaulted onto his stallion, then turned south, heading back from whence they’d come.
Nay! The moon was already three quarters full! “MacKinnon…Britt, please listen. We have to head north to Edinburgh.”
He glared over his shoulder at her. “Why? Do you fear if we return to your cottage I’ll find your sister hiding beneath the hay? Or mayhap in the loft you were so anxious to check again before we left?”
The saints preserve her. Could Greer have returned to the cottage? Nay, she wouldn’t be so foolish, wouldn’t dare put her bairn in such peril. But then she’d been so frightened. Oh God…
Genny’s tears spilled unchecked as she mentally ran through the myriad of troubles her sister could have encountered. Greer might not have found a ship to take her to Ireland. She might have found a ship but then spied someone she knew onboard and then fled home. Someone might have accosted her and stolen what coins she had, and thus her means to garner passage. Or she might have just taken it into her pretty stubborn head to go home.
“Please, MacKinnon, please turn about.”
“Tell me your name.”
“I’ve told you.”
With a look of pure disgust, he tugged on the palfrey.
Hour upon hour, only the clacking of hooves and creaking of leather broke the silence. When she could stand it no longer, needing to pace, to do something other than be hauled about, she said, “I have need for privacy.”
Glancing at her over his shoulder, he curled his lip in derisive fashion. “Hold it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then you’ll have a wet—”
Something whizzed past Genny’s cheek—so close it burned her skin—before hitting a nearby tree with a loud thwangggg. Her gray shied as she stared in horror at a vibrating arrow imbedded in the dense bark not a yard before her.
MacKinnon, cursing, jerked around, his gaze raking the path and woods. Before she could ask why someone would shoot at them, he kicked his destrier into a full gallop and she, terrified and nearly unseated, found herself being hauled pell-mell into the wood. Shouting broke out behind them and to their right as pine boughs slapped her face. MacKinnon hauled her mount up shale and through a burn before reining in behind a huge boulder outcrop and vaulting from his saddle.
Heart thudding, she cried, “What’s happening? Why would someone—”
“Later.” The rein binding her wrists fell away, and he hauled her off her palfrey. His arm came about her waist, and he started running. “Hie now! Into the hole.”
Breathless, her mouth suddenly parched by fear, Genny stumbled over her skirts and into the boulders’ shadows. He pressed on her shoulders, and she fell to her knees within a nest of winter-dead leaves and needles, a spider’s web brushing the cheek the arrow so nearly penetrated. Shivering, she batted the gauzy threads away.
He grabbed her chin to get her attention. “Do not move if you want to live. I’ll be back.”
“But—”
His mouth closed over hers, firm, warm and moist. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and yielded. His tongue swept past her lips, startling her, caressing hers, causing inexplicable heat to flare deep within her chest and middle.
He pulled away and whispered, “I had to know.”
Swamped by sensations she had yet to sort out, it took her a moment to realize he meant to leave her alone. Horrified he’d even think to do such, she gasped as her eyes flew open.
He was gone.
“Your Highness appears most pleased this morn’,” Lady Campbell murmured.
For the third day in a row, Yolande smiled in shy fashion just as Anton suggested, which was no easy task, given her worry. He’d been gone four days. “The day is most pleasant.”
Her court turned toward the window, and in unison, frowned at the dark sky looming overhead.
“Most pleasant,” Lady Fraser murmured, glancing surreptitiously at Lady Campbell.
Yolande held the little bed gown she’d been working on to the lamplight to admire the tiny leaves she’d embroidered and allowed her smile to broaden. “I’m famished, Evette.”
Her cousin looked up from her work. “But you just ate but an hour past.”
“Oui. Would you be so kind as to ask Cook for a basket of her wonderful buns, a bit of cheese and a few olives? No, I should like a dozen olives.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Yolande waited until her cousin crossed the threshold to call after her. “And sardines! And…”
Evette poked her head back in the solar and, grinning, asked, “Perhaps something to drink?”
Yolande beamed at her cousin. “Oui! A chalice of milk.”
All in the room gaped at her, obviously aghast at the thought. Only Mademoiselle Dupree dared mutter what all were thinking. “Milk, Your Highness?”
Yolande picked up her embroidery needle and, smiling, murmured, “Oui.”
By mid morn’, Yolande’s middle heaved in fiery revolt. She fought for composure for as long as she dared, then bolted, a hand over her mouth, toward the garderobe.
As she flew past her commiserating court, she heard Lady Campbell murmur in their crude tongue to Lady Fraser, “Tell Ross.”
Britt, broadsword in hand, ran on silent feet as far as he dared from Lady Armstrong before deliberately stepping on a felled branch. The resounding crack echoed through the forest. A pursuer somewhere to his right shouted, “La-bas!”
Down there. God’s teeth! Their attackers weren’t hapless thieves but French. The queen’s men.
More branches fractured as their assailants rushed forward, one running directly toward him, the other moving fast at right angles to the depression in which Britt had sought cover, doubtless trying to outflank him.
More worrisome than not knowing their number was the bastards’ lack of stealth. Their orders apparently weren’t to capture the king’s mistress but to kill her.
Britt heaved a hefty rock into the undergrowth to his right. The man closest to him bolted toward the sound. When he drew within striking distance, Britt rose from behind the bramble masking him, his broadsword gripped in both hands.
Tempered steel sliced through flesh and muscle as if through fresh bread, then vibrated, hitting bone. The man gaped in surprise. Before he could topple, Britt was off on silent feet after the next would-be assassin.
Entering a stand of dense wood, he sheathed his broadsword and palmed his short sgian duhb. Rocks clattered and leaves crunched to his immediate left. Britt lunged and landed on the man, who, light
er than he by a good five stones, fell flat on his face, air whooshing from his chest, a blade falling from his outstretched hand. A flick of Britt’s wrist and the man was dead. Britt stood. Two down. He looked about, then cocked his head, listening. Nothing. Mayhap he’d taken down the last—
Searing pain took his breath away. He looked down in surprise as his knees buckled. His hands instinctively closed around the thick shaft protruding from beneath his chest armor. Damn. Why hadn’t he heard the telltale ratcheting of the bastard’s crossbow? Black spots danced before his eyes, and he toppled onto his side, jarring pain exploding in his middle.
Lady Armstrong. He had to get back to her.
The mossy ground beneath his cheek began to vibrate with the weight of rushing footfalls. He let his body go limp and held his breath. A boot slammed into his ribs mere inches above the arrow, and he had all he could do to keep from screaming, writhing in agony.
Deep in the boulder’s shadow, Genny pressed shaking fingers to her lips. Why would thieves try to kill them? They’d had the element of surprise. They could have simply taken what valuables she and Britt had and then been on their way. But then again, they had no way of knowing that Britt would fight to the death rather than run the risk of her being captured. He still had no certain proof that she wasn’t the king’s mistress.
And why had Britt kissed her? She’d deceived him at every turn. And why had her body and heart responded? She’d felt naught when the butcher had accosted her, had slammed his wet mouth against hers that May Day and summarily suffered the consequences. Deciding this was all too complicated to fathom in her current agitated state, she focused on what she could do—stay alive.
She strained to hear something, anything, beyond her damp hidey-hole. Surely Britt had dispatched the villains by now. But what if they’d—
Nay, she’d not even think it. He stood head and shoulders taller than any, would prove stronger than any. He would return. But what if they found her before he returned? Britt had her blade. Her bow and quiver were still hooked over the gray’s saddle horn. She had no means by which to defend herself should the knaves find her before Britt returned.
She couldn’t just sit here hoping for the best.
She crawled forward into mottled sunshine, where the unearthly silence continued—not a bird twittered, not a leaf moved.
Palms sweating, she came to her feet, pressed her back to the cold stone, her gaze scouring the forest for signs of friend or foe. Seeing neither, she slowly edged around the boulders and found Britt’s destrier amazingly still in his absence, whilst her mount, its ears pinned back, upon spying her began prancing in agitation at the destrier’s side. She darted to the destrier, taking what comfort she could from his massive size and armor-curtained sides. Praying her palfrey’s antics wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, she eased beneath the destrier’s neck and stroked her pretty mount’s side. The gray immediately settled, and she lifted the bow and quiver from the saddle horn.
Within a heartbeat, she had her quiver on her back and had nocked an arrow. Feeling immeasurably better, she heaved a sigh, only to startle when a heavily accented voice said, “Good day, Mademoiselle Armstrong.”
Terror surging within her breast, Genny spun, bow rising. From long habit, her arm pulled back, and the bow went taut. Heart hammering, she stared at the stranger dressed in chain mail from crown to boots, a steel helm masking all but his eyes.
“Drop the bow, mademoiselle.”
“Where’s Britt?”
He snorted in derisive fashion. “So now ’tis Britt, huh?”
Heart hammering, fearing the answer but needing to know, she screamed, “Answer me! Where’s Britt?”
His head jerked to the left. “If you must know, MacKinnon is dead, an arrow in his gut. Now put the bow down.”
She shook her head. “You lie.” Britt couldn’t be dead, but then the man did have a huge crossbow hanging on his back. Waving a thin rapier slowly before him, he took a step forward.
“Halt or I’ll shoot!”
He stopped but laughed. “You forget, mademoiselle, I’ve seen you at games. You couldn’t hit a curtain wall if it fell on you.”
Who is this man? Why had he killed Britt, and why was he now threatening her…or rather her sister? “What do you want?”
“You’ve ceased being a mere embarrassment to our queen and are now a serious inconvenience.”
Oh dear God above, did he know Greer carried the king’s bairn? Did the queen? Aye, they must, and they fully intended to see her dead.
She had only one clear target, thanks to his helm and armor. If she missed, he’d be upon her before she could nock a second arrow.
He sprang; she gasped and released.
The arrow hit its mark. The man screamed and fell on his side, his hands reaching for his face.
As the man went deathly still, the bow slipped from Genny’s hand. Sobbing, her stomach roiling at the sight of her arrow protruding from his helm, she edged closer to see if his chest still rose and fell. It did, while blood pumped from what remained of his right eye. She hadn’t killed him outright as she had so many hares and quail, thank God. To kill an animal for the table was one thing. To kill a man, another entirely.
But her relief was short-lived with the realization he could regain consciousness, and then she wouldn’t stand a chance. He would kill her. She paced before his inert form, wringing her hands. “What to do, what to do?”
She couldn’t kill him with a second arrow as he lay there defenseless, she just couldn’t. But then she couldn’t allow him to get up, either. And she had to find Britt. He could well be alive, just as the man lying before her was. She looked about. A length of rope hung from the destrier’s saddle. Mayhap she could truss the man as she would a hog going to market. Nay. The very thought of touching him made her ill.
Legs quaking, she ran to the destrier and grabbed his reins. She would decide what to do with the bastard later. First she had to find Britt.
Branches snapped several yards to Britt’s left. Careful not to jar the arrow imbedded in his right side, he pressed his back to the nearest tree and held his breath. Someone was moving fast, mindless of the racket they created. Most likely the queen’s confidant Montre, the bastard who’d left him for dead. Had he found the Armstrong lass? Or did she remain safe in her hidey-hole?
“MacKinnon!”
God’s teeth, ’tis Lady Armstrong! She was alive, praise the saints, but she’d get them both killed if she didn’t stop shouting.
Having no idea where Montre might be lurking, Britt wrapped his fingers around what remained of the arrow after snapping off the shaft and silently jogged toward her. A flash of blue, then the black and gold of his destrier’s livery peeked through the dense underbrush.
“MacKinnon! Oh God, please answer me!”
Please, woman. Please stop shouting.
He whistled as loud as he dared. His mount nickered, and Lady Armstrong yelped. A heartbeat later, the pair crashed through the undergrowth, his snorting destrier in the lead, the gray behind them.
Lady Armstrong, tear-streaked and dirty, tangled braids falling about her shoulders, spying him, dropped the reins. He was nearly knocked off his feet as she slammed into him. Throwing her arms about his neck, she cried, “Thank God, you’re alive! He said that he’d killed you.”
“Shhh, m’lady.” He pulled her back into the protection of the ancient tree. “I told you to stay hidden. Do you ever mind?”
“On occasion, but you were gone so long—”
“Who said I was dead?”
She stroked his cheek and studied him, as if not believing her eyes. “I’ve no idea. He’s large but not so tall as you. He came up behind me with sword in hand and said you were dead. He said I’d become a serious inconvenience to the queen and then tried to kill me!”
Wondering how she managed to escape, he asked, “Where is he now?”
She blanched and pointed behind her. “Back there. I shot him…in the eye.
Heaven help me, I only meant…”
“Is he dead?”
“Nay, but badly wounded and—Merciful God, you’re bleeding!” She was staring at his blood-drenched side and the broken shaft protruding from it.
“Aye, but we’ll tend to it after I deal with the blackguard.” Men like Montre could take an arrow to the heart and still keep fighting. Britt pushed off the tree and took her hand. “Come.”
At the outcrop of rock where he’d left Lady Armstrong, he found Montre helmless and covered in blood, an arrow lying at his side. At the grisly sight, Lady Armstrong keened and staggered away, a hand over her mouth. Britt leaned over Montre and discovered the man still lived.
Hmm. Should he put the bastard out of his misery now or haul him back to Edinburgh where he could answer to a furious Alexander? The first option held the most appeal, given the bastard’s arrow was still imbedded in his side. But His Majesty needed to know of what level of duplicity—of what lengths—his new queen was capable.
Teeth grit, Britt reached up and pulled the rope from his saddle, then bound Montre hand and foot. Once satisfied Montre would be most uncomfortable but secured should he awake, he took his wound kit from his saddlebag. “M’lady, a moment of your time, please.”
Lady Armstrong, her coronet and braids askew, dashed the tears from her bonnie blue but now red-rimmed eyes. Taking pains not to look at Montre, she asked, “Aye?”
“I need your help removing this arrow.”
Her brows tented as she looked at his bloodied side. “What would you have me do?”
He held out his sgian duhb. “Hit the shaft firmly with the blade’s hilt so I might remove this damn arrow.”
“Uhmm…of course.”
Britt handed her the blade, then, wincing, pulled his right arm free of both chain mail and shirt.
Nodding like a sandpiper, she wiped her palms on her skirts, bent and explored his side with tentative fingers. “Dear God above, MacKinnon. The tip has another two inches to travel.”
