The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  From his expression, Montre was apparently surprised Britt hadn’t already done so, but he nodded.

  “Then off we go.” Britt jerked Montre to his shackled feet. “Into the cart and lie down.”

  The moment Montre was in, Britt buried him beneath a mound of straw, then jumped onto the driver’s seat.

  To his annoyance, the roadway out of Edinburgh was clogged with citizenry, cattle and heavily laden wagons. Britt didn’t begrudge those who would make a handsome profit from his liege lord’s demise—life did go on—but he was also most mindful of those who would soon give chase and couldn’t help but grind his teeth in frustration. He had to deposit Montre and then be away before the queen’s guards arrived at the shielding.

  Finally the roadway cleared before him, and Britt braced his feet against the footboard before shouting, “Hie now!” His destrier, none too happy about the cart poles shafting his powerful sides, tried to run out of them.

  Ten miles later, the isolated shielding he’d chosen for Montre’s rescue came into view. Britt pulled back on the reins and guided his agitated mount up the narrow, rutted path, then around the shielding and into the nearby piney copse, where he dropped the reins and jumped to the ground. Reaching under the straw, Britt took firm hold of Montre’s ankles, hauled him off the cart and onto his feet. “To the shielding. Move.”

  Montre, his stride limited by the foot of heavy chain, hobbled forward. The minute they were under cover and in shadow, Britt hit Montre between the shoulders, pushing him to the ground. When his prisoner, growling, flipped over onto his back, Britt pointed to the thorny brush to his far right. “I’ll leave the key to your shackles in yon weeds.” Finding the key would take Montre’s guards some time, enough at least for Britt to take his leave unnoticed.

  As he turned to leave, he stopped and looked back at Montre, who was now sitting up. “Should Her Highness ever again try to take her revenge out on Lady Armstrong, upon my honor I will see Yolande de Dreux dead.”

  Britt returned to the copse, unwound the leather straps securing the cart to his mount and pulled him free. Grabbing a fistful of mane, he vaulted onto his horse to wait and none too soon. No less than a dozen of Montre’s red-clad soldiers came around the hillock and thundered up the road. Spying the shielding, the man in the lead—likely Duval—pointed, and the riders turned as one and came racing up the hill. Britt, mission accomplished, turned his mount in the opposite direction.

  While Hildy dried her flame-colored hair in what breeze could be found within the mews, Gen paced before her. “’Tis well past gloaming. MacKinnon should have been back long by now.”

  “Back from where?”

  Gen shrugged. “That I don’t know.”

  Hildy waved a dismissive hand. “Then you’re acting the fool. For how can he be late if you have no notion of how far afield he’s gone?”

  “True, but—”

  Hearing hooves clip-clop behind her, Gen spun around. “Britt!” Entering on foot, leading his mount, he grinned and held out an arm in welcome. She ran to him. “I’ve been so worried. Did all go well?”

  He slipped his arm about her waist and gave it a squeeze as he led his destrier to the stable. In a whisper he said, “Aye. Montre is safe, and Her Highness has been informed.”

  “Wonderful. When shall we return to the castle?”

  “On the morrow, but only if you promise to keep from Yolande’s sight.”

  Genny’s steps faltered. “But how? I must return to court. You ken why.”

  “I do, and we shall ponder the how of it after I’ve board and rest.”

  “Of course. How thoughtless of me. I shall see to your meal while you tend to Valiant.”

  “To who?”

  Grinning, she pointed to his destrier. “Appropriate name, don’t you think?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re daft. You ken that, aye?”

  She laughed. “No more than you, sir.”

  Genny waited until Britt, muttering, disappeared into the shadows of the stable, then ran into the hostel in search of food. She’d been unable to eat what with all her fashing, and now that Britt had arrived unharmed, she too was famished.

  Finding no kitchen inside, she looked out the back door. Spying an outbuilding spewing fragrant smoke, she peered inside and found a rotund balding man stirring a pot simmering over the fire. “Hello?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, then rose. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

  Gen crossed the threshold. “I’m Lady Armstrong. Might that wonderful scent be hotchpotch?”

  He smiled, his gaze raking her from braids to slippers. “Aye, m’lady, ’twould be. I’m Alan MacRae.”

  “Good eve. Might I beg some dinner for myself and Sir Britt MacKinnon? He has just arrived and—”

  “Why didn’t you say so, lass? Wait right here.”

  MacRae disappeared into the hostel and returned with two loaves of brown bread. Using quick, deft fingers, he dug out the centers, and ladled a huge serving of the fragrant, mutton-rich stew into each bowl. Handing them to her, he said, “My compliments to MacKinnon.” He then peered out the door. Turning his attention back to her, he whispered, “And you’ll find MacLean’s best ale in the hidey-hole beneath the stairs.”

  Genny laughed, thanked him and carried her booty up to Hildy’s boudoir. By the time Britt, his hair wet and road dust knocked from his person, arrived, she also had two round-bottomed kelties of MacLean’s finest in hand.

  Taking a seat at the small table in the corner, he took one of the tall glasses from her hand. “Bless you, woman.”

  Noting she had no blade, he dug in his sporran and pulled out her sgian duhb. Gen gladly accepted her blade back and, after saying grace, asked, “So what took you so long? Did you take Montre to London?”

  Britt grinned around a mouthful of mutton, which tasted as divine as it smelled. “Worried were you?”

  “Aye, since you insisted on going alone. I spent these many hours fearful you’d been waylaid by any number of the queen’s guard.”

  “I was quite safe. I brought Montre to a shielding rarely used except during the droving season. His men arrived shortly thereafter and took him away. I then had to be sure the queen was informed her pet was in safe hands. May I?” he asked, indicating her uneaten bread.

  “Please. Take it.”

  He sopped up the last of his hotchpotch, then said, “Ross knows who you are.”

  Her pulse quickened with dread. “How?”

  “I told him. Now there’s no need to scowl. He demanded an explanation for my coming to your defense before the Council, and to be honest, I thought you could do with another friend within Edinburgh’s wall, should anything happen to me.”

  Her supper suddenly felt like a stone weight. “Did you tell him the reason for my being here?”

  Britt shook his head. “Like you, I’m still of the opinion the fewer who know that another heir is in the offing, the better for all involved.”

  Relieved but still shaken, she said, “Tell me more about Ross.” Britt’s friend struck her as a man of strong opinion and not one of a particularly compassionate nature. “He’s painfully gaunt. Is he ill?”

  “Nay, and if you think him gaunt now, you should have seen him when we broke him out of Rothwell.”

  She’d heard of the borderland fortress. According to her father, wars had been fought over it many times. “Had he been a political prisoner?”

  “In a way. He’d had the misfortune of falling in love with the wrong woman, a Sassenach lass who apparently had second thoughts about her elopement.”

  Oh! She loved tales of gallantry, and since meeting and becoming enamored with Britt, the more romantic, the better. Elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands, she leaned forward ready to be enthralled. “So, what happened?”

  “When Ross arrived at their secret meeting place, her father’s men were waiting for him. He spent the next four years in Rothwell’s dungeon.”

  Having suffered
through only one day, she found four years beyond imagining. “How did he get out?”

  Britt leaned against the wall and stretched his long legs before him. “Upon learning of Lyle’s capture, the king ordered John Talbot and me south to negotiate his release. We returned empty-handed and with even less liking for the Earl of Rothwell. Annoyed, His Majesty sent us back, fully expecting us to return with a ransom offer. We rode south again and were denied entrance. Learning of this, His Majesty, now incensed but hesitant to start an all-out war, offered a most handsome ransom for Lyle’s return, but when we brought the offer to the earl, he rejected it out of hand. ’Twas very apparent Rothwell was far more interested in making Lyle suffer for daring to reach beyond his station than he was in lining his pockets.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Britt nodded. “Aye. At this point, I’m well past ready to go to war and told Talbot I would recommend such to His Majesty. Lyle Ross was—and still is—my closest friend. Talbot, an odd sort but a thoughtful man much interested in the nature of things, said nay, we should advise caution, that a long-drawn-out siege would do no one—particularly Lyle—any good.

  “I was still seething the next morn when we left. Moments later, Talbot reined in on the riverbank across from the castle and pointed up toward it. He asked if I saw the main difference betwixt Edinburgh and Rothwell. I said I saw only similarities. They were both impenetrable, standing on high promontories surrounded on three sides by cliffs and water. He smiled, then said, ‘Aye, but Edinburgh stands on granite, whereas Rothwell stands on sandstone. Sandstone, my friend, we can tunnel into if we were of a mind and had the right men.’

  “It took several weeks before we could find experienced under-the-curtain-wall tunnel borers. Using the ransom we’d brought with us, we engaged three borers, one of whom was very familiar with the castle. Talbot headed home, and I set to work with the men, digging only at night.”

  “How long did the digging take?”

  “Two backbreaking years, but we managed to break in and rescue Ross, who by that point was near death.”

  Gen shook her head. “And he suffered all that because he’d loved and lost.” No small wonder Britt remained unwed. He’d not only suffered Cassandra’s rejection, but his best friend had been deceived. Well, she certainly did have her work cut out for her, but then she was made of hardy stuff. She knew to her bones precisely what she wanted, and it was sitting directly across from her.

  As if on cue, Britt stretched and yawned. “Augh, I’m tired.”

  “The bed is there for the taking,” she murmured, knowing he would decline, insist that she take the bed and that he sleep on the floor. She would remind him that he had the harder day and insist she take the floor. Chivalry would demand he argue, and then she would suggest they compromise. She would suggest she sleep below the covers and he above. She had no doubt that as tired as he was, he’d relent. Sleeping beside her should get him thinking about how pleasant sleeping together forever would be and make him ponder the possibilities. A perfect plan!

  Instead, he blinked like an owl and, if she wasn’t mistaken, paled just a wee bit. He abruptly rose. “I need check on my horse.”

  She came to her feet. “But you just said—”

  “With all these strangers about, I will not rest until I check.”

  He was out the door before she could catch her breath. “Well! That certainly didn’t go as planned.”

  At the window, she sighed, watching him walk to the stable. But sooner or later he would return, and then she could get on with her plan.

  And she waited.

  And she waited.

  Only when it became painfully apparent he was not returning did she huff in exasperation and gut the candles. She took off her gown and slipped under the scarlet, down-filled coverlet, sinking into the feather mattress.

  Sir Britt MacKinnon had no idea what he was missing.

  A cock crowing above his head brought Britt out of his fitful sleep. Opening his eyes, he found his destrier staring at him and sat up. As he knocked the straw from his hair, his mount snorted in derisive fashion. “I know. I’m a fool.”

  But had he remained in that bed chamber, Britt had no doubt he would have ruined her.

  He and Gen had spent far too much time in each other’s company for him not to recognize the signs. Gen Armstrong was a woman falling in love. And a woman in love paid no heed to the threat around her. She didn’t question the obvious, didn’t listen to her inner voice that warned of danger.

  Had she, she would have asked him days ago, “Why are you not married?”

  He scrambled to his feet and shook the straw from his tunic. He would have told her the truth. To spare her—and him, if he were truthful—further heartache. But did she ask? Nay. She focused only on what her heart desired. And coward that he was, he’d let sleeping dogs lie, taking what joy he could from each passing moment, knowing too soon she’d be gone from his life.

  His mount nuzzled his chest, and Britt ran a hand over the sleek black contours of its head. “She named you Valiant. Did you know that?” A most appropriate name for the beast. The stud had proved his worth many a time, had seen him through thick and thin. “You think me a coward, huh?”

  Behind him Gen said, “Good morn’.”

  Mustering a smile, he readied to face her ire, but to his surprise found her smiling at him.

  “You neglected to say good-night,” she said.

  “I apologize. It shan’t happen again.” His gaze raked her as she stood before the door in a pale blue gown, the dawn’s light creating a halo around her. She did take one’s breath away. When he could breathe, he told her, “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you, and your apology is accepted.” She peered into the stall. “Comfy was it?”

  Ah, she wasn’t letting him get away so easily after all. “I’ve slept in worse.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Have you broken fast yet?”

  “Not yet.” She said no more as he tended to his destrier’s needs. When his mount was fed and watered, he asked, “Are you ready to face the dragons?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Aye.”

  He grinned. “Then let us find something to eat and be on our way.”

  After a bit of bread and cheese, he held out his arm, and she placed her hand upon his wrist. The walk up the high street was pleasant enough, the roads having dried out after a day of sunshine. He had to lift her out of harm’s way only twice, once from before a dray wagon and then out of a sodden sot’s reach.

  Spying a greening rosebush, she pointed to it and murmured, “Mine should be blooming by now.”

  She obviously missed her home. “Where shall you go when you’ve accomplished your mission?”

  “To Ireland, I suppose… To be sure Greer is safe.”

  “Then shall you return to Buddle?” Why this was important for him to know, he dared not ponder.

  She shook her head. “By now someone about Buddle will have notified the earl that I’ve left and that my parents are dead. A new factor will be sent to occupy our cottage.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him. “Why? ’Tis not your fault that I’m homeless. If ’tis anyone’s, ’tis that of Greer and His Majesty, for if they hadn’t dallied, Greer would not now be with bairn, I’d not be here, and you’d not be racing about risking life and limb trying to set matters to rights.”

  “I haven’t minded in the least and would do it again.”

  She studied him for a long moment, her rich blue gaze warming his blood, before mutely turning away.

  Edinburgh’s stairs and gate loomed high before them. Feeling her slight tremor, he covered her hand with his and smiled down at her. “No faint of heart won fair battle, my lady.”

  “Nor fair lady, my lord.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “Touché.”

  Entering the great hall, Gen sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Let them stare and whisper behind their hands. She
’d done nothing wrong. The queen and her sister, aye, but not her.

  Across the room, Ross, his surprise in seeing her apparent, excused himself from the group with which he spoke and made his way through the close masses to greet them.

  Bowing before her, he said only, “My lady.” He then turned to Britt. “How did you get her out? Never mind. I don’t want to know, or I’d likely have to toss you into the dungeon.”

  Britt didn’t deny it. “How goes it?”

  Ross looked at her. “My lady, will you please excuse us?” Without waiting for an answer, Ross hauled Britt by the arm behind a nearby pillar.

  Gen looked about the crowed hall in hopes of finding someone who looked as lost as she felt. She dared smile at the few who glanced in her direction, but all abruptly turned their backs to her. She’d never felt so alone in a crowd. She was about to withdraw into a corner when someone tapped her arm. Thinking it Britt, she smiled automatically, only to have it dissolve finding herself looking into the steely eyes of Lady Campbell.

  “You must have bollocks the size of my husband’s prize bull,” Lady Campbell hissed in a whisper, “to return here after Her Highness has dismissed you.”

  Taken aback but in her heart of hearts having expected something of the sort, Gen kept her temper. “She dismissed me from her court. As a Scotch subject, I have every right to be within these walls and shall remain until I pay my last respects to His Majesty.”

  The woman curled her lip in derision. “One would have thought you’ve paid quite enough.”