The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  Comyn, at least, had the decency to glare at those who snickered, then turned his attention back to Britt. “MacKinnon, we have far more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. When the Council officially convenes, we shall be happy to take the matter under consideration, but not until after we finish with the business of Scotland.”

  “But, Your Grace, ’twill be days before the Southerland and the MacDonald arrive and the full council can convene. Then more days shall be lost in endless discussion. Nay, you cannot let the lady languish so long in a dark, dank cell when she is innocent of any and all crimes. Your Grace, I know—”

  Comyn held up a hand. “Sir, you have my answer. You are excused.”

  Teeth clenched, Britt turned on his heel. At the stairs, Ross caught up with him, and Britt hissed, “The outside of my loof to you all.”

  Ross grabbed his arm. “Whoa, now. Tell me what’s going on, or I swear I’ll have you tossed into the cell next to Lady Greer.”

  Britt glared at the steely fingers gripping his arm. “’Tis not Greer Armstrong in that cell.”

  Scowling, Ross released his arm and motioned for Britt to follow him up the stairs. Finding the first floor landing empty, he stopped, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “If not Greer Armstrong, then, pray tell, who is she? I swear you’ve not been in your right mind since fetching that woman.”

  Britt took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders in an effort to ease the tension running up his neck. “The woman in the cell is not Greer Armstrong. ’Tis her twin, Geneen.”

  Ross, brow furrowing, straightened. “Ah, that explains her behaving so oddly.”

  “You see now why we need set her free? She’s an innocent. I grabbed the wrong woman.”

  “So why did you not tell the Council this?”

  Britt sighed. “’Tis complicated.”

  “Humph. What I see is that you’ve come to care for this Geneen, want her for yourself.” When Britt didn’t deny it, Ross grumbled, “As you lust, but do us all a favor. The moment she’s released, take her somewhere private and tup her blind. Take a day or two. I don’t care. Just get her out of your system, then send her home.” Ross huffed and started down the stairs. “All hell is about to break loose, my friend, and I need you with a clear head.”

  Fists clenched, Britt watched his friend disappear. What to do now? He would love to do as Ross suggested, ached to do so, but ’twas impossible. He could not simply tup Gen, then send her on her way. Kissing her had been mistake enough. The simple act had given him a taste of what might have been had he not allowed himself to be led by the bollocks so many years ago. ’Twas too late to correct that mistake, but he’d be damned if he would make another. Should he be so foolish as to take Ross’s advice—should he and Gen become lovers—Britt knew to his bones he would never be able to give her up. And that would destroy her.

  He gave himself a hard mental shake, shifting his attention to the most pressing problem at hand. He had to somehow manage Gen’s release on his own.

  Regrettably, he had no advantage over the queen. And then there was the problem of Montre. Now that his king was dead, Montre had become a liability, one better dead than set free—

  Or was he?

  Britt thought back to the last time he’d seen Montre and Yolande de Dreux in whispered discussion on this very staircase. Yolande had been in an obvious royal temper, doubtless over something she’d seen in the hall betwixt her husband and Lady Greer. At one point, she’d burst into tears, and Montre had taken her into his arms, patted her back as he whispered urgently into her ear. After a moment, Yolande, apparently appeased, dashed at her tears and nodded. The moment she turned, Montre rolled his eyes as if to say, Women! I’ll never understand them.

  Or perhaps he’d done so because he knew her too well. As a father might his daughter.

  They were not lovers. Of that he was certain. The ladies Campbell and Fraser would have reported such had they even suspected a liaison. Aye, there was definitely more betwixt Yolande and Montre than a simple relationship of chief guard and queen.

  “Aye, and quite possibly I’ve found the other way to skin this fox.”

  He jogged up the stairs to the queen’s apartment, where he found one of her guards before the door. “Sir Britt MacKinnon to see the queen consort.”

  The guard’s bored expression shifted to one of distain. “Her Highness is not to be disturbed.”

  “Tell her I bring word of Montre.”

  Within two breaths, Britt was ushered into the presence chamber, where he found Yolande standing pike straight before her perpetual fire, the door to her private chamber and nosy court closed. “You have news of Montre, sir?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” He looked over his shoulder to be sure the guard had closed the apartment’s exterior door behind him.

  Sweat that had little to do with the stuffy room trickled betwixt his shoulder blades. The stakes were high. If his instincts were correct, what he was about to say could very well so unsettle their queen that she could lose the bairn she carried, the heir Scotland so desperately needed, but there was no hope for it. He could stand guard at Gen’s cell door for days on end if need be, provide her with food and drink, but he could not protect her from the rats’ nightly forays. One bite and Gen could die of purulence and fever before the Council had time to hear her case.

  “Your Highness, Montre has been in my keeping since he and his two henchmen attempted but failed to kill Lady Armstrong and myself.”

  Yolande blanched. “This is outrageous! You must bring him to us immediately.”

  “I shall…after you give me the key to Lady Armstrong’s cell.”

  Yolande gaped at him, her cheeks now sporting vivid red blotches. “No! You shall bring Montre to me this instant. I am your queen. You shall do as I order.”

  Britt snorted. “You are naught but a queen consort, one who—the Council would be most interested to learn—has tried and failed to kill two of His Majesty’s subjects without his knowledge or consent whilst he still lived.” Britt blew through his teeth. “My king is now dead, but soon too will be your bodyguard if you do not hand over that key to Lady Armstrong’s cell.”

  Yolande staggered back, hands blindly reaching for the chair behind her. Collapsing onto it, she hissed, “You would not dare.”

  “I not only would dare but will, since none would be any the wiser, for only I and Lady Armstrong know he did not meet his end on the road but is now my prisoner.” A blatant lie, since Ross, MacLean and Hildy also knew he held Montre, but she had no way of knowing this.

  “Is he well?”

  “He is injured, Your Highness.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Grievously?”

  “With proper care, he will survive.”

  As she ruminated, gnawing on her trembling lower lip, Britt, his middle churning, waited. Finally, she reached into her pocket and pulled forth the large iron key he sought. Holding it close to her sparrow’s bosom, she said, “I have your word that Montre is alive and that you shall bring him to me?”

  “He is alive, but I shan’t bring him here, for that would raise questions you doubtless do not want asked. I shall bring him to a safe place where your men may find him and then take him to Kinghorn, where he can be tended to properly and in private.”

  “But how shall I know where?”

  Britt weighed his safest options. “I shall send word of the locale through my squire.”

  His quiver empty, Britt held his breath. He could do naught now but pray. Finally, she held out the key. “Take it, but know I shall not suffer Lady Armstrong in my presence. You must send her away.”

  Hell, he’d not anticipated that. Taking the key, he said, “Your Majesty, our custom demands Lady Armstrong remain within Edinburgh until after the funeral.” In truth only Scotland’s chiefs and those clansmen from within one hundred miles were expected to show their respects by attending the burial.

  Eyes narrowing, Yolande came
to her feet, her regal posture restored. “As you lust, MacKinnon, but hear well, if you fail to keep that slut from my sight…”

  Without another word, she spun, threw open her private chamber door and disappeared.

  Britt blew through his teeth. “Well, that went better than expected.”

  Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. Gen raced to the door, the threat of her furry companion forgotten in the hope of seeing Britt. She stood on tiptoes and craned her neck, only to find a thick, squat shadow moving toward the cell.

  Oh God, ’twas one of the queen’s men coming to take her away.

  Or kill her.

  Breath hitching in panic, she scrambled backward, tripped over her satchel and pressed her back to the wall. Instinctively, she slipped her hand into her pocket for her sgian duhb, only to recall Britt still had her blade. Augh! Claw and scream as she might, it would be to no avail. No one was close enough to hear.

  Metal scratched metal and shadow blocked the door’s wee window, throwing the cell into complete darkness. “Gen, I have the key.”

  “Britt!” Genny ran to the door. The moment it opened, she threw herself into his arms, pressing her face against his massive chest.

  His arms tightened about her, his hands warm and soothing at her back and neck. Pressing his lips to her hair, he whispered, “Shhh, shhh, there’s no need to greet. You’re free.”

  She managed a jerky nod, still not sure she believed it. When she did catch her breath, she muttered, “What took so long?”

  He laughed. “’Tis a long tale that can wait until you’ve had something to eat and drink.” He took hold of her right hand and, grinning, brushed a loose lock from her cheek, then wrinkled his nose. “And a bath.”

  She smiled at that. She did reek to high heaven, her hair was a tangled mess, and Greer’s favorite gown was torn and soiled beyond repair, but she didn’t care. She was free and with Britt. ’Twas all that mattered, all that would likely ever matter again. “I’m past ready to take my leave.”

  He retrieved her satchel and, taking her hand again, headed for the door at the end of the hall. “We need go through the kitchen.”

  She followed without question until she found he’d led her into the crowded lower bailey, what he called a ward. Realizing they were heading for the stable, she pulled back. “Wait. We can’t leave the castle.”

  “But we must.”

  “But my—” She looked about, then crooked a finger, bidding him come closer. When he bent, she whispered, “The moon is full.”

  “So?”

  Feeling heat rise up her neck and infuse her face, she muttered, “My courses—I am due any day.”

  When understanding finally dawned, he turned the color of a fresh-cut beet. “Oh. But not yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then we have time to worry about how we’ll get you safely within the queen’s company later. Right now, we have a more pressing problem.”

  Was he not listening? “What could be more important than protecting Greer’s bairn?”

  “Montre.”

  “Oh?” In her distress, she’d completely forgotten about him.

  “I promised the witch his safe return in exchange for the key.”

  The admission took her breath away. Here she’d thought the Council had ordered her release, but instead ’twas due to Britt’s risking his own freedom to garner hers.

  He tugged her forward. “Come. We’ve no time to waste.”

  From the window high above the lower bailey, Yolande, hand to her heart, watched the whore and MacKinnon race for the stable.

  How had MacKinnon gotten the upper hand like this?

  She needed Armstrong’s infant, needed it desperately, but she would not lose Anton in the process.

  Now she had no choice but to trust that MacKinnon was a man of his word, that he wouldn’t kill Anton now that he had what he wanted.

  Just the thought made her ill.

  She’d been given no choice but to trust her instincts. She’d seen the way MacKinnon’s lip had curled in derision whenever Lady Armstrong had flirted and her husband had made a fool of himself. Knew there was no love lost there. In fact, MacKinnon had done his utmost to keep her lustful husband and whore separated. Why he should now take up her cause was beyond her understanding. Unless…

  Oh Lord, unless this had all been a ruse.

  Her heart hammered against her hand. Could MacKinnon have wanted Armstrong for himself all along? If so, she’d just placed the nails in Montre’s coffin.

  No, she would not believe that. MacKinnon, a man of few words while around her, was also a man uncomfortable with dissembling.

  “My queen, are you all right?”

  Ignoring her cousin’s question, Yolande said, “Please summon Duval.”

  “Of course, but first let me see you to rest. You’ve been standing before this window for so long—”

  “Now, Evette!” Startled, her cousin jumped back a step. After she rushed away, Yolande turned her ire on the rest of her court. “Leave. We wish to be alone.”

  No sooner had her ladies disappeared than Duval bowed before her. “Your Highness.”

  She gave Montre’s second in command a much altered and abbreviated version of her conversation with MacKinnon. “If MacKinnon speaks the truth, then soon he will send word through his squire as to where Anton will be found. Bring him to Kinghorn and tend to his every need until I join you.” She took a shuddering breath, then squared her shoulders, a queen in command. “If, God forbid, you find Anton dead, then I want MacKinnon’s head severed and brought to me on a pike. Take every guard we have, but do not return without word that Anton is alive or with the other.”

  Britt looked about Hildy’s personal chamber in shock. “Are you sure this is the only room left?”

  MacLean’s lady, hands on her ample hips, rolled her eyes. “’Tis the only bed left in the town. Take it or leave, love.”

  Growling under his breath, Britt dropped a mound of coins—what Hildy claimed would be three days’ lost wages—onto her outstretched palm. The coins disappeared before he could blink. Hildy then turned her attention to Genny. “Hot water is on the way. The hip bath is behind yon screen.”

  When the door closed behind her, Britt muttered, “At least ’tis clean.”

  Genny grinned. “’Tis more than I can say for myself at the moment.” She sighed and looked about the room. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite so…red.”

  Hildy’s boudoir was not simply red but shockingly so from floorboards to ceiling, thanks to beet-colored stenciling and yards of scarlet drapery and bedding. Even the sheepskin pelt beneath his feet had been dyed blood red.

  Genny tested the thickness of mattress. “I dare say, she must do…uhmm, very well for herself.”

  “Apparently.” The room’s appointments, as lavish as any he’d seen in Edinburgh and certainly more than any within his home, could have come straight from a Persian palace.

  Genny kicked off her slippers and, giggling, took a flying leap backward and landed in the center of the bed with a pleasant thump, her arms above her head, her breasts thrust toward the ceiling. God’s teeth!

  Laughing, she patted the counterpane. “Come. You’ve never felt the like.”

  He shook his head. Not only would he have “never felt the like”, but would in all likelihood roll atop her, kiss her breathless, then love on her ’til neither of them could think, much less feel. To distract himself and the growing discomfort betwixt his thighs, he said, “I need go.”

  Genny sat up, a frown marring her normally smooth brow. “What’s wrong? Have you suddenly taken ill?” She gasped. “’Tis your wound, isn’t it? Has it festered?”

  Worry etched her lovely face as she slid off the bed and reached up to touch his forehead, but he stepped away. “Nay, I’m fine. I just need to leave.” Before he gave in to desire.

  She reached for his breastplate. “If ’tis so, then let me see your wound.”

&
nbsp; He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, better than fine, but if you must check something, here.” He took her hand and placed it on his cheek. “See. No fever.”

  “You aren’t fevered. Then you must be worrying about the meeting. Please tell Ross at the least what you’re doing. If something should happen—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “The fewer who know I’ve coerced the queen, the better.” And the safer for Genny. There were many in the queen’s court who, thinking Gen to be Greer, would gladly bring her down.

  “Then promise to be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “Nay. If memory serves, you rarely are.” She placed her palms on his chest. “I’ve been most ungrateful, have yet to thank you. Were it not for you…”

  The earnest expression in her eyes, the soft swell of her lower lip and sweep of her thick lashes as she looked up at him caused his heart to thud erratically, and without thinking, he pulled her close. Could she feel the chaos just looking at her caused within his chest? Could she hear the roar of his blood? “I’ll return once the queen’s men find Montre and take him away to safety.” Of that he had to be certain.

  Heaving what sounded like a resigned sigh, she slipped her hand from beneath his and backed away. “Then you’d best be off, but keep in mind I shan’t rest until your return. Then we shall break fast together, and hopefully you can get some sleep.”

  He nodded, knowing he’d be fortunate to get any. He’d be sleeping in the stable, in Montre’s cell, if need be. Anywhere but next to lovely Geneen Armstrong.

  In the stable, Britt forced his reluctant destrier betwixt the poles of MacLean’s cart, then struggled into the too-tight homespun tunic he’d found in a corner. He had no time to find anything else. His squire was already making his way to the queen.

  His disguise finally complete, he opened the door to the secret room and found his prisoner just as he’d left him: bound, battered and bruised. “You’re a lucky man. Her Highness has negotiated your release.”

  Montre glared at him through his one good eye.

  Britt bent, unlocked the shackles securing Montre’s arms behind the pole, then pushed his prisoner forward and secured his wrists again. “Listen carefully. I’m bringing you to your men. They will take you to Kinghorn, where you will remain. Her Highness will join you there after the funeral. Should you take it into your head to disobey and leave, then I’ll have no choice but to relate the whole sordid tale of Her Highness’s duplicity—how she took it upon herself to order the executions of two of His Majesty’s subjects without His Majesty’s knowledge or consent—to Ross and Comyn, neither of whom is a forgiving man. Do you understand?”