The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  “Aye, just give it a hard whack and drive the point through. I’d do it myself, but as you can see, the shaft is at an angle I can’t readily hit.” When she made no move to do his bidding, he glanced over his shoulder and found her gnawing her lower lip. Hoping to distract her from the task at hand, he murmured, “And I thought we agreed to call each other by our Christian names.”

  A single tear spilled over her thick lashes as she took a shuddering breath. “My name is Geneen. Greer is my twin.”

  Ah ha! As he suspected. “How do you do?”

  She dashed the wetness from her cheek. “Not at all well at the moment, if you must ken.”

  He grinned. “Nor I, but let’s be done with this, shall we?”

  Britt faced forward so as not to make her anymore anxious than she already appeared and grit his teeth. And a good thing he did. Geneen Armstrong held naught of her eight stones back when she finally struck the shaft. Muscle and flesh tore with searing intensity. When he could finally breathe again, he gripped the fully exposed steel tip with his right hand and pointed with his left to the leather pouch at his feet. “In there you’ll find what you’ll need to bind the wound.”

  As Lady Geneen hauled whisky and bandages from the pouch, Britt again gritted his teeth and jerked the arrow free. Before his heartbeat could steady, his best whisky was burning its way through his flesh. “God’s teeth, woman, enough!”

  “Hush! ’Lest you end up doing this yourself.”

  He huffed, then glanced at Montre. Seeing he was still out cold, Britt murmured, “You’re quite the iron maiden, Geneen Armstrong.”

  “Iron to the core, MacKinnon.” She tied off his dressing and then, heaving a sigh, took a step back. He twisted a wee bit to test the dressing. Satisfied it would stanch the bleeding, he murmured, “My thanks.”

  “’Twill hold?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good.” Her lovely blues eyes then rolled back in her head, and to his utter astonishment, she fainted dead away at his feet.

  “Ouch!” Merciful heavens, her head hurt.

  “My apologies, my lady, but the compress is needed to stem the bleeding.”

  MacKinnon! Her eyes flew open. The day came rushing back in one awful flash when she found Britt staring down at her. Their argument, the attack, her shooting Montre, her driving an arrow through Britt’s side, then…nothing. “What happened?”

  And why was she prostrate on Britt MacKinnon’s lap? She struggled to sit, but his arm tightened about her waist.

  “Nay, be still. You fainted. Right now we need talk…before Montre awakens.”

  Oh Lord, not now. She looked away. “Talk of what?”

  “Are you daft?” He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his handsome face. “Why did the two of you not just hie off? Why go to all this trouble masquerading as your sister? From what I’ve seen of you, ’twill be most obvious to the king that you are not Greer the moment he tries to bed you.” He huffed, then nodded toward Montre. “And you do realize he’s not Her Highness’s only henchmen, aye? You need tell me what you’re about before you get us all killed, your sister included.”

  He’s right, damn him. She did need his protection and therefore had no choice but to confide in him…to a point. Genny took a shuddering breath and whispered, “Greer’s with child.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye, most certain. The babe will arrive by Samhain.”

  “Where is she?”

  Oh no! That she wouldn’t tell him. “I’m taking Greer’s place at court for only a short while.” She cleared her throat. “For only as long as it takes to prove I am not with child, and then I’ll take my leave.”

  Britt looked incredulous. “And what makes you think you’ll be allowed to leave at will? If the king says you’re to remain at court, you remain. And doubtless in his bed.”

  “None will wish me to remain.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the packet she’d carefully wrapped in a scrap of oiled cloth. “This will make everyone most happy to see me gone.”

  Watching her open the packet, he asked, “What is it?”

  “A poison nettle. When the time comes, I need only rub its sap on my skin to make large painful boils rise within hours. I’ll look like I have pox.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “They are most protective of their well-being, so ’twill work.”

  Relieved he thought her plan would work, Genny pocketed the nettle.

  Britt rose, then helped her to stand. “And in the meantime? Can you sing, dance? Play the lute or play the whor—”—he cleared his throat—“courtesan?”

  Heat infused her cheeks at the very notion of him thinking her that kind of woman. “Nay. To all.”

  “Humph.” He looked about. “We need go.”

  Happy he’d ended his inquisition, she pointed to the queen’s assassin. “What of him?”

  “We’re taking him with us.”

  She shuddered at the thought. “But…”

  Before she could give voice to her fears, Britt tossed the bleeding Montre onto her pretty palfrey, then grabbed her by the waist and set her onto his destrier. She shifted sideways. Before she could hook her right leg around the wide pommel, his fingers closed about her ankle.

  “Nay, Geneen.” His thumb stroked her instep, sending a shiver skittering up her leg. “You need ride astride so we ride as one.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Should we be set upon again and I have to spur this horse, you’ll thank me.”

  Reluctantly, she swung her right leg over the destrier’s neck, mindful that her skirt rode up and that both her legs were now exposed to God and country up to her knees.

  Praise the saints her mother wasn’t alive to see it.

  Britt slipped into the saddle behind her and picked up the reins.

  Within minutes—and despite both trying to keep a modest few inches betwixt them, his groin pressed against her hurdies thanks to his well-worn saddle. Good Lord! Was that long firmness what she thought it was? Aye! ’Twas.

  She glared over her shoulder at him.

  “My apologies, my lady, but I am a man.”

  She huffed and faced forward. “So I noticed.”

  Please, merciful God, keep dear Anton safe.

  Seven agonizing days had passed since he’d taken leave to deal with the whore.

  Having done all that her mentor and guardian suggested, the time had come for Yolande to carefully pen the lie that would save her life. She dipped her quill in ink, then took a deep, settling breath to steady her shaking hand.

  My beloved and honorable husband,

  I have a most important and joyful secret to share. I pray for your quick and safe arrival and that my tidings will bring you as much joy as they do your devoted servant and loving wife.

  Yolande, Queen of Scots

  She dusted and carefully folded the parchment, then lit her sealing-wax candle. When a sizable puddle took shape along the fold, she pressed her signet ring into the red wax. “Evette, I’ve a task for you.”

  In the nearby window alcove, her cousin looked up from her reading. “Oui?”

  Yolande held out her sealed missive. “Please see that this is delivered to His Majesty—and only to him—as soon as possible.”

  Evette, grinning, came to her side. “I’ve been wondering how long you could keep your secret to yourself.”

  Yolande blinked in owl fashion as if caught off guard. “And what secret might that be?”

  Evette rolled her eyes. “That you’re with child, dearest. Your entire court has suspected such for a while.” She slid a sidelong glance to the ladies Campbell and Fraser, who were embroidering before the roaring fire. “In fact, I wouldn’t be the least surprised to learn the news has already reached Sir Lyle’s ears.”

  Yolande, suspecting as much, still stiffened. “And to the king’s?”

  Surely he would have come to her by now had he heard. His doing so was imperative to her truly begetting a child
.

  Evette shook her head. “Ross is no fool. He knows the king would be affronted learning others in Edinburgh knew of the upcoming blessed event before he did.”

  Relaxing, Yolande wrapped an arm about her cousin’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeezing. “Thank you for reminding me that I’d be foolish to think I could ever keep anything secret here.”

  “Fighting is better than fear.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Eight

  The vivid hues of gloaming had been swallowed by the deep soot of night when Britt murmured, “See yon light?”

  Gen looked in the direction he pointed and saw a faint yellow flicker against the black mountains. “Aye?”

  “’Tis the watch fire on Edinburgh’s southern wall.”

  “Oh.” Now that they were within sight of their destination, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Around a tight dry throat, she asked, “When will we get there?”

  “Depends. If you’re tired, we can spend the night at a friend’s croft and arrive by afternoon. Or we can keep going and be there by midmorn’.”

  Middle beginning to quake, she weighed her options. Edinburgh was but a few hours away, and she’d yet to pose her most pressing questions to Britt for fear of the answers. She looked at the waxing three-quarter moon. Her courses were due any day. Saddle sore, she would have welcomed the reprieve of a night on a pallet, but she hadn’t the luxury of time. “We should continue on.” She then looked behind. Montre, his hands and feet bound and head covered by a feed bag, had slumped forward in the saddle in sleep. Or was he simply feigning? Not knowing but needing answers to her questions, she whispered, “Why have you agreed to help me?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “I don’t doubt that you do, but how can I trust that you won’t name me an imposter the moment we pass through Edinburgh’s gates? Have me thrown into the dungeon?” The very thought made her blood run cold.

  He made a thick sound at the back of his throat, then murmured, “Scotland needs a legitimate heir born of Yolande if we’re to keep the peace and keep England at bay. You proving yourself not to be with child, then going away will squelch any rumor that there could be a contender—any other heir but hers.”

  His response made sense, but dare she risk her life on it? She sighed. Given her circumstances, she really had no choice but to do so.

  Now to the question that had been keeping her awake these past two nights. “Are you in love with my sister?” She couldn’t blame him if he was. Greer was most accomplished, could charm the birds from the trees when she set her mind to it.

  He laughed, a quiet but deep rumble that caused her heart to inexplicably trip. “Nay, my lady. Your sister—and Alexander’s obsession with her—have been the bane of my existence for nigh on to a year now.”

  How curious. “Then why did you kiss me?”

  He said naught for a long moment, then said, “Why do you ask?”

  Dare she tell him? Aye, she’d best, or she’d never get any sleep. “Because you kissed me as if…well, ’twas not a peck, some meaningless kiss good-bye.” There, she’d said it, and the devil take her. His kiss had seared her, had felt as if he’d hated parting from her. That he cared. Not for her, of course. He hadn’t known who she—Genny—was at the time.

  “If you must know, I kissed you, a woman for whom I had no name but whom I’ve very reluctantly come to admire.” Surprised, she twisted in the saddle to better judge if he spoke the truth, and he shrugged. “Truth to tell, I had to know what you tasted like…in the event I never returned.”

  Oh my. “I would have sworn you wanted nothing more than to strangle me.”

  He grinned. “That has crossed my mind as well.”

  She grimaced and faced forward. “I can well imagine it has.”

  Saddle leather squeaked as he leaned forward, his warmth and decidedly masculine scent washing over her. “So why did you kiss me back?”

  She snorted. “I did not.”

  His breath caressed her ear, setting sparks dancing down her spine. “You most certainly did so.”

  ’Twas true. She had kissed him back. Had melted into his warmth and strength like a wanton, but rather than admit such, she muttered, “You took me by surprise.”

  Britt pulled the destrier to a sudden halt. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

  She glanced back at Montre, who now sat upright, alert in the saddle. “He’s awake.”

  Britt nodded. “Likely has been for some time.” He untied the rein securing the palfrey to his destrier and handed it to her, whispering, “Quick, lead the gray and Montre into yon trees whilst I see to the rider.”

  She nodded, not sure what was happening. The moment her feet hit the ground, Britt kicked his destrier forward. She’d barely gotten the growling Montre and her reluctant palfrey into the wood when she heard someone shout, “MacKinnon?”

  Grinning, Britt slapped Lyle’s back in greeting. “What in God’s name are you doing about at this hour?”

  Lyle grimaced. “Randy Sandy is on the loose again.”

  “Heads are going to roll for this.”

  Lyle waved a dismissive fashion. “You should know better than any that you can’t get a man to do his job when his job depends on him not doing it.”

  Britt made a derisive sound at the back of his throat. ’Twas true. His Majesty did not take being thwarted kindly. Heads tended to roll. Literally. “So what happened this time?”

  “One of Her Majesty’s ladies arrived with a missive. Not long after, he raced to the stables. Your men were fast on his heels, but his mount was already saddled and waiting whilst theirs were not. When Angus came to me with the news, I went to the solar and discovered the missive on the desk.” Lyle grinned. “’Twas from the queen and vague, but I do suspect we may have a loaf in the oven, my friend.”

  Britt blew through his teeth. “’Bout friggin’ time.” This would make Geneen’s mission and escape all the easier. “So he’s off to Kinghorn, then?”

  “I suspect so and sent men after him.” He looked about and frowned. “I thought you were supposed to be fetching Lady Armstrong back to court.”

  “Oh shit.” How could he have left her alone with Montre for so long? Britt immediately turned his destrier around. “Come.”

  Rounding the granite outcrop, he shouted, “’Tis safe, my lady. You can come out now.”

  When Geneen came into view, Lyle murmured, “Good Lord, what happened to her, and who’s that tied on the gray?”

  “Montre.”

  Lyle scowled. “Care to explain?”

  “As soon as I find out why the bastard is falling off the palfrey.”

  As Britt dismounted, Lyle murmured, “My lady.”

  Geneen shoved hair out of her eyes and executed an awkward curtsy. “Good eve—or rather night, my lord.”

  While Lyle took in her disheveled appearance, Britt pulled Montre upright in the saddle. When his hands came away slick with fresh blood, he jerked the hood from Montre’s head. Seeing a broken nose and battered mouth, he looked at Geneen. “What happened to him?” Surely she hadn’t taken a club to him?

  Geneen, obviously vexed, threw out her arms. “He started to shout for help. I had to do something. So I swatted the gray’s rump…and a low-slung branch did the rest.”

  Britt shook his head. “Remind me never to cross you.”

  After replacing the hood and checking the ropes binding the again slumbering Montre, he told Lyle, “Yestermornin’, he and two of his men attacked us.”

  “On orders from Yolande?”

  “How else? When Montre confronted Lady Armstrong at sword point, he told her she’d become an inconvenience.”

  “Yolande will not be pleased to find her favorite in our dungeon.”

  To his left, Geneen muttered, “She should have thought of that before she set him on this mission. He shot Britt!”

  Lyle’s right eyebrow arched in question. Not knowing if his friend’s surprise was due to Gen’
s use of his Christian name or from the fact that he’d let the bastard get the better of him, Britt, ignoring Lyle, glared at Geneen. “’Tis only a flesh wound.”

  To his annoyance, she thrust her hands on her hips and glared back. “Do not take that tone with me, Britt MacKinnon. ’Tis more, and well you ken it.” She then pointed an accusing finger at his bound middle. “There, Sir Lyle, see? The arrow was still imbedded in his side when I found him.”

  Lyle, his countenance an expressionless mask, looked from him to Geneen, then back again. “Why do I sense there’s more here than meets the eye?”

  Geneen, huffing and muttering, stomped off toward his destrier, and Britt growled low in his throat. With his gaze locked on his annoying charge, he asked Lyle, “If you think Alexander is headed to Kinghorn, why are you riding south?”

  Lyle’s gaze returned to Geneen. “On the chance I’m wrong and Alexander is on his way to meet Lady Margaret.”

  Ah. A prearranged tryst would explain Randy Sandy’s horse being saddled. “Very well. Take care. We’ll talk at length when you return.”

  Lyle picked up his reins. “Count on it.”

  When Lyle disappeared, Geneen slumped against his destrier. “Oh Lord, I thought he’d never leave.”

  “You did well. But henceforth, could you please refrain from pointing out my shortcomings to my friends?”

  “I never pointed out—oh, you mean my telling him you were wounded?” When he continued to glare at her, she heaved a sigh. “Henceforth I shall try to restrain myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  Teeth clenched—not believing for a moment she’d be able to keep her pledge—Britt hoisted her up and into the saddle. As he settled in behind her, she asked, “Why did Ross stare so at me? Do you think him suspicious?”

  God grant me patience. Of course he’s suspicious! Her sister would never have been so outspoken. But there was no point in telling Gen that. She’d only grow agitated and fearful. “He stared because he’s accustomed to seeing a perfectly turned out Lady Armstrong…and you are anything but, at the moment.”