by Emma Lang
While Tahiska’s look at her clearly stated that he would reserve judgment, Kristina stared at the beadwork and porcupine quilling on his shirt, his leggings, his moccasins. Who had cared enough to ornament his clothing in such an intricate fashion? Was he married? Disappointed, Kristina remembered that marriage would not rule out an Indian male’s flirtation with others. They were allowed more than one wife.
Kristina watched the Indians enter the small, one-room building. And though one of Tahiska’s friends turned around to motion her after them, Kristina’s heart was not in it.
Nanny was wrong, she said to herself. My future cannot lie with these people. I could never follow my husband around like a puppy and I could never share him with another. And with this reluctant self-revelation, Kristina followed her guests into the store.
The long way home could be the shortest road to ruin…
The King’s Mistress
© 2011 Sandy Blair
The king of Scotland is in a snit. Which means Britt MacKinnon, proud captain of the king’s guard, has an onerous task: fetch Alexander’s favorite paramour back to the royal bed—now. Never mind that the crown should be about the business of getting a legitimate heir. Especially since England’s Edward I would love nothing more than to seize an empty Scottish throne.
When the handsome soldier appears on her doorstep, Geneen Armstrong has to think quickly. Her twin lies abed in her cottage, pregnant with the king’s bastard. If the barren queen learns the truth, the foolish girl’s life won’t be worth a farthing.
She must somehow transform her graceless, plain-spoken self into her vivacious, talented sister. Then, after the court is convinced she carries no child, use her herbal knowledge to sour the king’s taste for her sister’s company—for good.
By the time Britt realizes this unusually articulate, ungodly stubborn woman is the wrong woman, tendrils of attraction have already tightened into a bond. A bond that will be tested when the king’s unexpected death puts Scotland’s very destiny at stake—and unleashes an ever-tangling web of court intrigues, secrets…and lies.
Warning: This title contains men in kilts, Scottish accents and a feisty heroine contained herein. A more perfect historical romance doesnae exist.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The King’s Mistress:
Hearing a cock crow, Britt opened his eyes and found Lady Greer just as he’d spied her most of the night, sitting upright on her pallet with her legs pulled close to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly about them, her chin on her knees as she stared at the dying embers. Had he not known better, he’d think her a woman on route to her doom.
“Good morn’.”
At the sound of his voice, she jerked upright and hastily rearranged herself, then glanced at the sleeping crofters who’d offered them a place before their hearth for the night. In a whisper, she said, “You sleep like the dead.”
Grinning, he stretched and rolled to his feet, taking care not to crown himself on the low-slung ceiling beams. “One sleeps when and how one can, m’lady.”
And last night—like any night whilst on the road, his sleep had amounted to only a few quick catnaps.
He held out a hand. Ignoring it, she rose on her own.
As she dusted bits of straw from her gown, he pulled two bodles from his sporran and placed the coins on the hearth where the crofter’s wife would find them when she awoke. He bent and whispered in Genny’s ear, “I’ll ready the horses whilst you seek what privacy there is to be had.”
Outside, he found fog blanketing pasture and knoll, the sun gilding the distant mountains. Their ride would prove comfortable, unlike his charge. Lady Greer, normally a chattering and laughing wench, had been uncharacteristically reticent since leaving her cottage.
Although he’d kept an eye on her in Edinburgh, he’d made no effort to form more than her passing acquaintance. Mayhap if he engaged her in conversation, she’d stop looking at him as if he were taking her to the gallows.
He caught a flash of bright blue and glanced left and found the king’s normally gliding mistress charging with long, determined strides through reeds toward the babbling burn behind the croft like a ship plowing through high seas. How odd. He shook his head and turned his attention back to securing their possessions. The woman was a conundrum.
The next time he looked up, she was again gliding as she normally did, this time with their breakfast in hand. “Here,” she said, holding out a square slice of oat cake and a cup.
He looked in the cup. “Milk?”
She nodded, biting into her oat cake. “There’s a lovely cow in yon paddock.”
“’Tis warm.”
She looked at him blankly as if not understanding his meaning, then blanched white as the cup’s contents. “I…I found a bucket half full of milk by her side. A tenant must have begun milking her but been startled away by me. I took only a wee bit but… Oh dear, I’ve no coins…”
“I left enough coins.”
Nay, she could not have milked the cow. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting were just that: ladies, the pampered daughters and sisters of landed men. He very much doubted any knew which end of a cow to approach for milk. He couldn’t imagine any knowing how to hobble a cow, much less stooping beneath one and pulling on teats. Aye, she must have found the milk as she said.
His qualms settled, Britt tried to suppress his bone-breaking shudder as he drained the cup. Never let it be said that he lacked chivalry.
He dropped the cup on the croft stoop. “If you’re ready, we should leave.”
She looked up at him, her bonnie blue eyes shimmering as if on the verge of tearing. “Aye, I’m quite ready.”
Nay, she was not, not in the least.
He placed his hands above the silver girdle she wore, marveling once again at how small her waist was. When her hands settled on his shoulder armor, he lifted her negligible weight, bringing them face-to-face. What was she thinking as she stared into his eyes so solemnly? Was she simply wary, or did she feel the same charge he felt when he held her so close? How easy it would be to capture her mouth with his, to taste the forbidden fruit he’d been thinking about since she’d cocked her head and smiled at him in her parlor.
Too easy and too dangerous for both of them.
He settled her on the gray, then leapt onto his patient destrier. Determined to put her at her ease, he said, “What new songs have you to entertain the court?”
“Uhmm…none. I’ve had no opportunity to learn any.”
He nodded. Of course she hadn’t had time, what with her having to arrange her parents’ funerals, then notifying the earl and her extended family of their passing.
They rode on in silence as the day grew warmer, he alert to danger and Lady Armstrong yawning in the saddle. When the sun reached its zenith, he stopped by a burn, and Lady Armstrong jerked upright, asking, “Why are we stopping?”
“Because I’m hungry, as are the horses.”
Helping her dismount, he again caught the scent of lavender and roses, his blood heated, and he quickly set her down and turned his attention to their mounts. He pulled free their wine skin and his saddle bag and handed them to her. “I’ll water the horses if you would be so kind as to set out something for us to eat.”
She mustered a smile, her first since leaving the croft.
With their mounts tended, he settled on a sun-warmed boulder next to her and accepted the oatcake and dried fruit she’d packed. “How many years have you been in the king’s service?” she asked.
Mesmerized by the halo of sunlight bouncing off her silver coronet and glossy braids, he murmured, “Near a decade.”
“Ah, you must enjoy it, then.”
He straightened and looked about. His remaining at the king’s side had naught to do with enjoyment. “Duty and honor before pleasure, my lady.”
They finished their repast in silence. Dusting the crumbs from her kirtle, she said, “We should be going.”
In no hurry, he suggested, “Why not rest a bi
t. You must be tired.”
She rose. “Nay, we need be on our way.”
They rode on. And as he could have predicted by gloaming, Lady Armstrong was head down and eyes closed, weaving in her saddle. They were but a few hours’ ride from the stronghold of Meade Mont, but fearing she’d topple and crown her lovely noggin, Britt steered his destrier to a grassy wee glen and dismounted. The gray followed without any assistance from their king’s sleeping mistress.
Shaking his head at the woman’s stubbornness, Britt secured his mount, gathered deadwood, then cleared a spot in the grass to lay a fire, all while Lady Armstrong slept. Accustomed to sleeping in the elements, he needed no fire, but from what he’d observed, Lady Armstrong enjoyed her creature comforts. And God forbid she should grow ill.
When the fire caught, he spread his breachen feile on the ground at a safe distance from it, then lifted Lady Armstrong from the gray. As she settled on his plaid, she mumbled something incoherent about love and castration—a decidedly unsettling thought—then, sighing, curled like an exhausted kitten before the fire.
He pulled his whetstone from his sporran, then freed his blades from their sheaths. As he ran a finger over his broadsword’s edges, testing the sharpness, he watched her by the glow of the fire. Aye, his king was a lucky man but had no clue to what extent. His Majesty had been blessed first with a fertile and sensible wife, then been granted a second wife, one half his age, and still his eye wandered.
Shaking his head at the sad waste of blessings, he sheathed his broadsword and began honing his more oft used sgian duhb.
And what on earth was this woman, now tossing in restless sleep, thinking? She’d been gifted with incredible beauty and a voice that could make songbirds weep with shame, yet she too squandered her gifts. Was she such a rustic, such an innocent, that she did not know she’d ruined all hope of her ever making a good match by acquiescing to Alexander?
She could just as easily have said, “Thank you, but no.” His Majesty was lusty—no denying that—but he was also chivalrous. Oh, he would have sulked and made everyone’s life miserable for a day or so, but then he’d have shrugged it off and sought out one of his other paramours…or the queen.
Women. Be they fair or foul, royal or not, he would never understand them.
Lady Armstrong, brow furrowed, flipped onto her stomach and cocked a leg. Looking at her well-turned ankle and calf, at the lovely swell of her rump, he sighed. At least he well understood what his liege was thinking.
Endless Heart
Beth Williamson writing as Emma Lang
She’s learning to live. He’s forgotten how. Love will be their teacher.
Heart, Book 3
Lettie Brown has lived in the shadow of violence. After escaping her brutal past, she’s finally at home in Forestville, Wyoming, where she would live a normal life—if she knew how. She’s content working at The Blue Plate and printing the town newspaper, if not happy. Then a stranger stumbles into her world and turns everything upside down.
Shane Murphy is a shell of a man, destroyed by the aftermath of the war, his personal tragedies and a penchant for cheap whiskey. When he lands, literally, on Lettie’s feet, his future takes a hard right turn.
As they fumble through a relationship that should not have been, a deep love takes root, one that cannot be denied. Together they discover a bond as unbreakable as steel and as undeniable as life itself—until the past rears its ugly head and threatens the happiness they’ve found in each other.
Warning: Get ready for a deep, intense love story that will leave you crying, cheering, shouting, squirming and sighing. Prepare for a hero who needs to be held, a heroine who needs to be loved, and a story that needs to be told.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Endless Heart
Copyright © 2012 by Emma Lang
ISBN: 978-1-60928-955-3
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the Author
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