by Sandy Blair
“He shan’t. He never approved of my relationship with Alexander. I suspect he came under duress.”
“Be that as it may, we dare not risk that he won’t return early.”
Her twin, obviously still smarting from the cruel but truthful accusations Genny had hurled at her the day before, lifted her chin in haughty fashion. “Very well, then. Thank you for the coins.”
“I wish there were more.”
“’Twill do.”
God’s teeth. “I hate leaving you with all this anger festering betwixt us. ’Tis not right.”
When her sister just shrugged in response—her twin was naught if not stubborn—Genny picked up the satchel containing Greer’s finer kirtles, mantle and frippery and, heart heavy, crossed the threshold.
Behind her, Greer murmured, “You do look lovely.”
Genny stopped and, finding her sister now watching her, raised a tentative hand to her hair, dressed for the first time in elaborate braids and decorated with a delicate silver coronet. “Thank you. I shall take great care with your possessions.”
Greer nodded as if never doubting that Genny would. “Should I write when the bairn comes?”
You are breaking my heart, sister. “Of course you must write. But do so most cautiously for both your sakes.”
When Greer only nodded, Genny, tears welling, let the satchel containing her new identity slip from her hand and stepped forward with arms outstretched, intent on a last farewell embrace. But Greer, her face still vacant, put her back to her to again stare out the window.
Britt slammed a fist against Lady Armstrong’s cottage door. Not only had his morning porridge come with weevils and his abbey bed been naught but a slab of granite mounted into a stark chamber wall, but he’d had to suffer the annoyingly persistent Brother John, the hound-eyed monk determined to oversee his salvation.
Every damn time he’d turned around, there was Brother John whispering, “You must repent your sins, my lord.” Or “Killing, even in the name of the king, still breaks the Lord’s commandment.” And it mattered naught to Brother John the number of times Britt, with his teeth bared, glared, reminding the pest, “Some men deserve killing.”
He pounded on Lady Armstrong’s cottage door a second time and looked about her modest husbandland. To his left stood a stone dovecote, a pole barn and shearing shed. To the right of the cottage lay a fallow, walled kale yard tilled and ready for spring. Every farming implement and stone had its place. Someone—and he doubted it was Lady Greer—took great pride in the holding.
Next to the kale yard, in a forty-acre pasture, foraged a flock of about two hundred fat ewes alongside a shaggy cow and ox. Beyond that he could see a dozen small cot-holdings, their chimney pots already puffing wispy gray columns into the cold dawn.
A handsome holding all in all, and the likes of which he wouldn’t mind having himself.
Deciding enough time had passed for a legless man to respond to his knocking, he pressed the latch and opened the door. “Hello! Lady Armstrong, ’tis MacKinnon.”
Receiving no response, he stepped into the parlor. “What on earth…?”
The interior reeked, reminded him of the abbot’s ale house where he’d spent the better part of yesterday hiding from Brother John.
He found the culprit in the kitchen—fermenting dough, apparently left to rise and now overflowing its bowl.
Now why would a woman go to the trouble of making bread, then forget to bake it? She wouldn’t. Something had taken her from her task. She’d either fallen ill or been injured.
Within a heartbeat, he, fearing what he might find, was up the parlor ladder and peering into the sleeping loft, but the large pallet was empty, as were a line of clothes pegs.
So she’d packed.
A moment later, he jerked open the back door, scanned the yard, then headed for the stable.
But the stable stood empty, save for four scratching chickens and a large gray-and-white cat that studied him through narrowed yellow eyes.
Distinctly recalling a horse neighing when he’d ridden up two days ago and his destrier nickering in response, he looked into both stalls and crumbled the few droppings he found in his fist. “Two horses.” Neither of which had been in the barn for at least two days. So where were they?
Dusting the manure from his hands, he searched the distant pasture. Lady Armstrong would not have run off. She had no cause. Nor would she attempt to make the trip to Edinburgh alone, leastwise not with all her worldly possessions strapped to a pack horse which brigands could easily snatch. Which left only one possibility.
She—the king’s mistress—had been kidnapped.
Jaw clenched, he strode to the front of the cottage where he’d left his mount, his eyes sorting through hoof prints on the hard packed earth. Heads would roll when Alexander learned of this, and Britt’s would be the first. Unless he found her.
Genny jerked upright in her saddle and looked about in confusion, surprised to find the sun high and the crumbled ruins of Ballilock tower standing at her right. Good heavens, she’d fallen asleep in the saddle.
“Good lad, Toby, we’re almost home.” Praise God for the auld destrier’s barn sense, else God only knew where they’d have ended up.
Squinting into the sun, she picked up the reins and patted his neck. “Greer should be well on her way to Ireland by now.”
And she’d soon be home. Only five more miles and she’d pass the wee stone kirk in which she and Greer had been baptized and its surrounding collection of mottled headstones, two of which belonged to her parents. The path would then turn and she’d be able to see her cottage. Aye, just another few miles and she and Toby could head for their beds and—
“Lady Armstrong!”
Oh my God, ’twas MacKinnon.
Heart thudding, Genny twisted in the saddle, looking for him. Toby, ears alert, spotted him first on the tree-lined ridge above her. Hoping to appear guiltless, she waved as if happy to see him.
He barreled down the sloping pasture toward her. As he jumped his powerful stallion over a chest-high hedge, her breath caught. Had she attempted such a feat, she’d have broken her neck, and still he came, straight and proud in the saddle, the ground vibrating beneath his destrier’s huge hooves.
Obviously incensed, MacKinnon pulled up before her, his stallion snorting. “Where have you been? I’ve been scouring the width and breadth of yon hillock, scaring crofters and bairns out of their minds for miles about, thinking you’d been kidnapped.”
Oh dear. How long had he been hunting? Well, she couldn’t very well ask, and the best defense was often offense, or so her sot of a father had often bragged.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, hoping she’d mastered Greer’s haughty air. “And a pleasant good morn’ to you too, my lord.”
MacKinnon, apparently not the least impressed, glared at her. “Well?”
Genny rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I was bringing a babe into the world, one too big of head and shoulders for his poor mother’s—”
“Enough.” MacKinnon shuddered, then stroked his agitated destrier’s neck. “You should have left a missive.”
“I’ll be sure to do so should the situation ever arise again.”
Black eyes glinting, he growled, “Do so.” He then guided his stallion around Toby, his gaze raking her and her father’s swaybacked destrier. Spying her satchel, bow and full quiver secured to Toby’s saddle as he came up on her right side, he arched an eyebrow. “At least you’re armed and packed. You need to change mounts—per His Majesty’s orders—then we shall go.”
“Go?” The very thought of remaining in the saddle another minute made her chafed thighs throb. “Nay, I need settle the cattle on my nearest tenant, else the poor beasts starve in my absence.” Seeing the muscles in his jaw flex, she ran a quick mental inventory of her winter-depleted larder. “And surely you must be as hungry as I. We shall dine on chicken with chestnut dressing and apple tarts if only we delay just a wee bi
t.”
Please, please, I beg you, say aye.
MacKinnon blew through his teeth. “Very well. Then we leave.”
“Thank you.” Her relief knew no bounds until they arrived at her cottage and she waddled into the kitchen and found it reeking of soured dough. “Auch!”
By midday, the stuffed pullet she’d promised was ready to eat, and her livestock had been turned over to the herder’s family, all while under the ever-watchful eye of MacKinnon.
More disconcerting than his constant observation was his ability to take up most of the air in whatever room they happened to occupy, most markedly here in her wee kitchen.
Seated across from him, she poked at her meal while he devoured his with obvious pleasure and abandon, his large hands pulling bread and joints apart without effort. He sucked meat from bones rather than using his blade, and then licked his fingers while his gaze drifted slowly from her mouth to her décolletage. When his eyes took on a predatory glint, she felt heat bloom in her cheeks. Looking away, she tugged at the gown’s embarrassingly low neckline.
What on earth was wrong with her? True, a man had never looked at her in such fashion, but really!
When the last of the meat and gravy disappeared, MacKinnon leaned back. “Lady Greer, you are a splendid cook. Better, in fact, than any in Edinburgh.”
Unaccustomed to receiving compliments, Genny ducked her chin and rose before he could see her blush yet again. Her back to him, she murmured, “You exaggerate, but I thank you.”
“I must confess I find you having such talent surprising.”
Oh no. Her mind scrambled over all Greer had told her about court and finally recalled her sister’s warning that she would find no friends there. “Had any at Edinburgh bothered to learn much about me, you wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“True. Few have bothered, save the king.”
Not daring to comment on that observation, she placed what few meat scraps could be found into a small bowl, then threw the bones on the fire.
When she set the bowl on the back step for her mewling cat, he asked, “Why not just toss him the carcass?”
Happy he’d shifted his attention from her to the cat, she murmured, “Had I, the greedy beast would have no reason to hunt, and we’d be overrun with mice by the morrow.”
“Where is the ale-swilling dog?”
Huh? She frowned in confusion, then, realizing Greer had apparently made up some tale, she mustered what she hoped was a sad but resigned expression. “Shep died, and I’ve yet to find a pup to replace him.”
“Shep?”
Oh Lord, had she blundered again? Before she could come up with a reply, he shrugged and rose, towering over her. “We must take our leave now.”
“But—”
“Nay. Your cattle are in good hands, and your possessions secured. ’Tis time.”
“As you lust.” She squared her shoulders and, with head held high, glided as best she could ahead of him.
In the parlor, she stroked the back of the rocking chair her grandfather had crafted and again mentally cursed her stupidity for saying her parents had died. The chair, made with more love than craft, would now either be commandeered or chopped to kindling, depending on this cottage’s next occupant’s wealth. Reluctant to leave all she’d ever known, she murmured, “I really should check the loft one more—”
“My lady, you’ve checked this holding from chimney pots to floorboards no less than a dozen times. Enough.”
He snatched her sister’s fur-trimmed cloak from the peg by the door. Standing so close his boot tips disappeared beneath her skirts, he draped the weighty garment about her shoulders. Heat washed over her as he secured the brass clasp at her throat with calloused fingers twice the length of her own. He smelled of horse, leather and the wine they’d shared, and of something quite pleasant she couldn’t identify.
How much time passed before she realized his hands had stilled and he was staring down at her, she could not say. Was he already suspicious? Before she could venture a guess, he cleared his throat, placed a palm at the small of her back and firmly ushered her out the door.
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 bit. 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.