The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  Genny nodded as she flipped the dough into a greased bowl to let it rise. “And will until such time as our new earl discovers Father died, which, pray God, will not be for a very long time.”

  By all rights and heaven, she should have written to the earl last spring informing him of their parents passing, but having no place to go, Genny had quietly slipped into her mother’s shoes assuming the role of trackman. The new Earl of Kerr—now unfortunately only a very distant blood relation—apparently cared little about what happened on his estates so long as his tenants kept the peace and sent in their rent tithes in timely fashion. Which she took great pains to do, lest they be left homeless and impoverished.

  Her sister pulled the steaming kettle from the hook above the fire and poured hot water into the bowl of dried sliced apples at Genny’s side. “I’ve had my fill of bannocks and dried fruit. I can barely wait for fall, for fresh apples and pears.”

  “And the babe.”

  Greer set the kettle on the hearth. “And the babe.” After a moment, she murmured, “Should I decide to remain here, are you absolutely certain you can handle the birthing?”

  Genny dusted flour from her hands. “I’ve assisted the birthing of all manner of beasts, from cattle to kittens. They’re all much alike.”

  “But a howdie—”

  “We’ve already discussed this, Greer. Asking Old Maude to assist your delivery is out of the question. She’s the worst of gossips. Without a husband pacing seven times sunwise around this cottage or standing before the door shooting arrows east to west ’til he empties his quiver to ease your pain…”

  “Aye, aye. Everyone for a hundred miles around will be speculating on who the father is.”

  “Precisely. ’Tis why you need to seek shelter with Lady Macintyre. She has the room. More importantly, I’ve often heard Irish howdie-wives are far more skilled than ours.” A lie to be sure, but she had to convince Greer that going to Ireland was her safest course. If push came to shove, Genny could act as howdie-wife—she’d been discreetly questioning mothers since learning of Greer’s predicament—but she’d much prefer not to attempt it. The babe could be breech or too big. Or Greer could bleed beyond what was expected…

  “But this is the king’s—”

  “Nay!” Genny spun and glared at her sister. “This is your babe, yours alone. And you’d best not forget it, or one day you’ll say the wrong thing and find the bairn taken from you.”

  Greer blanched. “Never. This babe will never go through the hell his father went through.”

  Genny had no idea what hell her sister referred to and truthfully didn’t care. All she cared about was her sister’s safety and that of her unborn babe. Softening her tone in hopes of making her sister see reason, she said, “You ken Auntie loves you.”

  “Aye, but Ireland is so far away. I’d never see you.”

  “I’ll miss you as well, dearest, but the farther away you are, the safer it is for the babe.” Their great aunt, Lady Macintyre, would surely take Greer under her wing if she believed Greer to be recently widowed, heartbroken and in need of a change. “And it’s not as if you’ll be traveling alone. I’ll be with you until you settle in.”

  Greer pouted in pretty fashion, something Genny had never managed, and settled on her stool. “I still don’t see why I can’t remain here. What difference does it make if I pretend to be a widow here or there?”

  Lord have mercy, her sister could be so bullheaded at times. “What if the babe has his ginger hair and brown eyes?”

  Greer, looking mutinous, crossed her arms over her swelling breasts. “He could just as easily have our blonde hair and blue eyes.”

  “Aye, but by all accounts, all of the king’s previous bairns bore his stamp. And unless you are known to have slept with another ginger-headed, brown-eyed man at court—”

  “Oh! How can you even think that, much less say it?”

  “You’ve just made my point. Everyone at court can count to nine and kens that you were sleeping with him.”

  Greer, her expression crumbling, leaned forward, cradling her head in her hands. “I hate you sometimes. I truly do.”

  Heaving a sigh, Genny knelt and wrapped her arms about her distraught sister. “I understand, dautie. At times I hate myself.” But her sister had to face the hard cold truth: so long as their new queen remained barren, Greer and her babe were in mortal danger. No amount of wishful thinking or well-practiced wheedling or pouting on Greer’s part could change that. Or the fact that her bairn could still be in danger even if the queen did give birth. Heirs to thrones—legitimate and otherwise—too often had very short lives.

  She slipped a finger beneath Greer’s trembling chin so she could look into her eyes. “Dearest, you showed great courage when you realized you were with bairn and came home without anyone suspecting why. I have no doubt you can be courageous again.”

  Salty rivers coursed over Greer’s blotchy cheeks. “Oh, Gen, I’m so terribly frightened.”

  “I know, dautie, believe me, I know.”

  As her sister wept in inconsolable fashion, the cold knot of fear that had settled in Genny’s middle upon learning of her sister’s dilemma bloomed into pure black terror.

  If Greer chose to remain here or died in childbirth…

  From the moment Genny had taken her first breath, her sister had been there, waiting. Not a moment in childhood had passed that she hadn’t shared it with Greer. Then Greer had left for Edinburgh, taking the laughter and music with her. Finding joy in the mundane had proved difficult enough with Greer living so far away. Life without Greer in it was beyond comprehension, would be impossible. Greer was their light, the balance to Genny’s own darker, more plodding nature and practical sensibilities. She’d lose the very best half of herself if she ever lost Greer and would thus lose her mind, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. The decisions were Greer’s alone.

  “Genny, someone’s at the door.”

  Startled by the panicked note in her sister’s voice, Genny dashed tears from her own cheeks and looked about. “What’s wrong?”

  “Listen. Someone is beating on the door.”

  Someone was, and with a hammer, by the sound of it. Heaving a sigh, Genny rose and pulled off her apron. “Stay here. ’Tis likely the smithy. I asked him to make a new latch for the front door months ago, and he’s probably just gotten around to it.”

  In the parlor, Genny sniffed back the last of her tears—wouldn’t do to have a tenant see she’d been crying—smoothed her bodice and opened the door, only to gasp, finding the largest man she’d ever laid eyes upon standing on her granite stoop.

  “Good morn’, Lady Armstrong,” the armor-clad mountain barked. “His Majesty requests the pleasure of your company back in Edinburgh.”

  The wise man is deceived but once. ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Three

  Britt had never seen a lass turn so white in his life. Humph! Mayhap the lady wasn’t as enamored with Randy Sandy as His Majesty presumed. ’Twould serve him right.

  The king’s paramour wavered in the doorway, and Britt grabbed her arm, fearing she might topple. “Lady Greer, are you all right?”

  She swallowed in gulping fashion and jerked her arm away. “Fine. I’m quite fine, thank you.”

  “Excellent.” She didn’t look the least fine to him. In fact, she looked totally distraught, not to mention dowdy in her plain tunic of gray homespun and with her pale, waist-length tresses caught in a simple braid, but then she hadn’t been expecting him. “May I come in?”

  Her right hand flew to the long white column of her throat. “In?”

  “Aye, inside.”

  “Oh. Aye, please come in.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold as Lady Greer scurried backward, her cornflower-blue eyes growing as huge as tankard tops, her gaze raking him from boots to hair roots as if she’d never set eyes on him before. Knowing that not to be the case, he tensed and immediately scanned the whitewas
hed room and the open sleeping loft above for an intruder. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he murmured for her ears alone, “Is something amiss, my lady?”

  “No!” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m simply surprised to be summoned…so soon.”

  “Ah.” He relaxed his stance. “His Majesty trusts that whatever crisis took you from his side is now resolved?” The queen had not deemed it necessary to tell anyone why Lady Greer had gone home.

  “They died.”

  He scowled at her. “I beg your pardon? Who died?”

  “Father and Mother. Both of them.”

  “Oh. My deepest condolences, my lady. May I be so bold as to ask how?” The last thing he wanted to do—orders or no—was to escort a contagious Lady Armstrong back to Edinburgh.

  She wrung her hands. “A carriage accident.”

  He nodded. Good. Well, not good for her parents, of course.

  He looked about the modestly furnished room, this time taking note of the basket filled with skeins of green and yellow wool, the odd chair, the bench and small bowl overflowing with dandelions sitting on the stone hearth, of the oil lamp, a handful of well-worn texts and a few candlesticks. There was little enough of a personal nature. One trunk at best, which his destrier could easily carry. “Your father was trackman in service to the earl, I believe.”

  “He was.”

  “So, with a new man coming and nothing left to hold you here, am I correct in assuming we can pack up and be on our way before gloaming?”

  “Umm, umm…” Lady Greer looked about in panicked fashion. “But I’ve yet to say good-bye to the animals, sir!” She blushed to a pretty rose, something he couldn’t recall her ever doing in the past, then waved in dismissive fashion. “I meant to the tenants, of course.”

  “Of course.” Grief could make idiots of us all, he supposed. And likely explained why her voice sounded deeper then he recalled it being. Aye, she was likely hoarse from weeping, although weeping didn’t explain why she spoke in such stilted fashion.

  “Sir, I’ve yet given thought to what I should take or leave behind.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I need a full day to pack and set my affairs in order.”

  Since he was in no hurry to return her to their king, he said, “Why not take two? You have many a woolly beast in yon pasture you doubtless wish to kiss good-bye.”

  Her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “Doubtless.”

  “But please be mindful of my horse as you pack. He’ll also be carrying me.”

  “Does that mean my taking the rocking chair is out of the question?”

  “Absolutely!” He huffed, then realized she was only taunting him, that she was trying not to grin, then lost the battle, which brought light into the low-ceilinged room and an odd sensation to his belly. My God, he’d always found Lady Greer pretty but had never thought of her as truly beautiful… Until now. That smile. Absolutely captivating. Why hadn’t he noticed it or the dimple in her right cheek before? No wonder his liege had become so enamored.

  His gaze drifted down the long column of her neck to the gentle swell of her breasts. Feeling heat rise in his loins, he gave himself a hard mental shake and cleared his throat.

  Christ’s blood. Lusting after his king’s prime flesh could prove a fast route to the gallows. He blew through his teeth.

  He’d need a place to bed down for two days. Randy as he felt and without her having a chaperone, his staying here—even in the barn—was definitely out of the question. “Whilst you settle your affairs, I shall be at the small lodging I passed in the village.”

  Her lovely eyes went wide again. “Oh no! Not there. No, no. The place is crawling with fleas. Loads and loads of fleas. Bucketsful.”

  “Bucketsful?”

  “Oh, aye.” She made a delicate shudder, setting the golden wisps framing her face to fluttering. “You’ll be far more comfortable staying at the abbey in Morehead. Simple but clean. Much nicer, truly. And you’ll not be getting weevils with your porridge…as you could expect at Mr. Bailey’s.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Bailey has fleas and weevils?”

  “Aye, ’tis a terrible place. Truly.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. She looked so earnest, but he suspected her defaming poor Mr. Bailey was more likely due to a female aversion to anything crawly rather than to the actual number of crawlies Mr. Bailey might have. Britt had stopped at the establishment to quench his thirst, and the hostel hadn’t appeared any worse than most. But to be assured he wouldn’t be munching weevils when he broke his fast, he said, “As you lust, my lady. Please direct me to the abbey.”

  The moment she closed the door on their unexpected visitor, Genny collapsed against it, tears springing to her eyes.

  Why on earth had she blurted that her parents were dead? Now the earl would learn the truth; she’d be evicted, and with nowhere to go…

  Saint Bride and Columba preserve us.

  “Oh dear God, Gen!” Her sister rushed to her side. “I thought I’d faint when I heard his voice.”

  “You? I nearly expired on the threshold. Who, pray tell, is that man?” She’d never seen anyone so tall, so broad of shoulder or so muscled of limb in all her days. And the way he studied her with those pitch-black eyes! A dozen times she’d readied to scream, certain he was about to snatch her up by the hair and declare her an imposter. Certain, that was, until he began teasing her. As if she’d kiss her sheep good-bye. Well, mayhap Ol’ Duffy. She did cherish her old ram, stiff-legged and grumpy as he’d grown.

  Greer wrung her hands. “’Twas Sir Britt MacKinnon, Captain of the King’s Guard. I can’t believe he’s here. What are we going to do, Genny?”

  “I’ve yet had time to think. Have yet to get over our good fortune that he did not think to question who I was.” Or over her shock that she’d actually taunted so obviously lethal a man.

  Greer cocked her head in question. “Why would he? We look alike.”

  “But knowing that we do, wouldn’t he have asked to whom he spoke?” In response, Greer twisted the wide silver band she wore on her right index finger to cover a scar—a sure sign she’d done something wrong or was about to lie—then turned away. As she began rearranging the dandelions in the bowl, a painful realization finally dawned. “You never told them about me.”

  “Well…”

  Her throat growing tight, Genny examined her work-worn hands. Her nails were ragged. Firm calluses crossed her palms. She looked down. Her simple tunic was stained at the knees, and her boots water-marked from her morning chores. All was as it always had been and would likely always be. “You’re ashamed of me.”

  Her sister gasped. “Oh no, never think that. ’Tis just that when I arrived in Edinburgh, I was introduced simply as Greer Armstrong. For the first time in my life, I was no longer the other Armstrong lass, no longer one half of a matched pair. People didn’t say, ‘Which one are you?’ as they greeted me. They simply accepted me…for me.” Greer had the decency to duck her chin, then murmured, “’Tis all.”

  ’Tis all?

  Having spent the last year and a half talking of little else but Greer to anyone who would listen, Genny could only stare at her mirror image.

  “Gen, I cannot go with him.”

  “Hush! I need to think.” Think about MacKinnon and the fact that her sister, whom she cherished beyond all else, had kept her very existence a secret from her new and influential friends.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Seeing fresh tears coursing down Greer’s cheeks, Genny cursed under her breath. Now was not the time for either of them to be wallowing in self-pity like sows in mud.

  She opened her arms, and Greer, sobbing, fell into them. “Hush, now. I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

  At least she’d garnered them time by pleading for another day and then sending MacKinnon off to the distant abbey, in the opposite direction from which they’d be running. They could get to Annan in two da
ys’ time, but what if there wasn’t an Ireland-bound ship waiting? They might have days to wait, and MacKinnon didn’t strike her as a man easily thwarted. Better mounted, he could easily catch up with them, at which time all hell would rain down on their heads.

  Her sister needed more time. Aye, and her admission might well have provided it.

  She took her sister by the shoulders and gently pushed her toward the ladder leading to the sleeping loft. “Greer, pack as quickly as you can for both of us. I’ll saddle the horses.”

  In the kitchen, Genny removed a loose brick above their domed ingleneuk. She slipped her hand into her secret kist and pulled out the leather pouch containing all the coins she had in the world, the majority of which were only coppers and brass.

  Dear Lord, what she wouldn’t give for another day so she might barter the wool and grain she’d been hoarding. She counted the coins. There was barely enough for a single passage to Ireland and mayhap a year’s bed and board, should their aunt have fallen on hard times. Or be dead.

  “Gen?”

  She turned to find Greer standing in the doorway, two satchels at her feet. “What’s wrong?”

  Spinning her ring, Greer looked at the floor. “I want to go to England. We’ve not seen Auntie since we were bairns. She could be dead now, for all we ken.”

  “She’s not dead. The family would have sent word.” At least she hoped they would have.

  “But what if a missive has yet to reach us? We’ll be adrift in a land we know naught about.”

  “Greer, we know naught of England, either, and if MacKinnon is the man I suspect him to be, he’d cross the border without hesitation, then leave no stone unturned until he lays hands on what he came for. Namely, you.”

  Tired of the arguing, still upset that her sister obviously hadn’t missed her as much as she’d missed Greer, Genny grasped her twin by the arms. “Are you certain you told no one about me?”

  Shrinking back, Greer nodded like a woodpecker. “Aye, I’m certain.”

  “Very well, then.” She released her sister and blew out a puff of air. “We can make Langford by gloaming. From there, ’tis an easy road to Annan, from which you can take a ship to Dublin.”