The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  Good God’s porridge. What a life this woman leads.

  “So what, precisely,” Hildy asked, “has you fashing?”

  In for a copper, in for a pound sterling, my lass. “Do you swear not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you?”

  “Oh aye!” Hildy made the sign of the cross on her ample bosom.

  “All right, then. I love Britt MacKinnon and wish to wed him.”

  She told Hildy about her well thought out, step-by-step plan and her failed attempts to get Britt in bed with her. Hildy murmured a few hmmms on occasion but otherwise kept her own counsel. When Gen came to the end of her sad tale, she, elbow on a knee, rested her chin in her hand. “So there you have it, the whole tale. Two well-planned attempts and two miserable failures. I’m truly a sorry excuse for a woman.”

  ’Twas no doubt about it.

  Grinning, Hildy patted her back in motherly fashion. “M’lady, there’s naught wrong with you or what you’re wanting. ’Tis the way you’ve gone about it.”

  Gen straightened. “How have I gone wrong?” She’d spent hours ruminating over each and every step.

  “Well, to start—and I mean no offense—you’ve been acting the vestal virgin instead of the determined woman who kens what she wants.”

  “I have not.”

  Hildy snorted. “For heaven’s sake, you were planning on bundling with MacKinnon.”

  “Not so.” To bundle, she and Britt would have had to have been cocooned to the neck in a linen bag whilst fully dressed. She’d planned to simply lie beside him with her hair loose and in her nightshift beneath the counterpane whilst he lay next to her atop the counterpane. Sensible and safe for her whilst being thought-provoking for a man of Britt’s apparent appetites.

  “Close enough,” Hildy insisted, “and a charming custom for the young, but we both ken you and MacKinnon are well past first blush.”

  She was? MacKinnon certainly, but…

  Gen sighed, deciding the woman might be right. “So what do you suggest I do instead?”

  Grinning, Hildy said, “You take advantage of his every weakness and take no prisoners, m’lady.”

  Genny seriously doubted Britt had any weaknesses, but she was also at the end of her creative tether and had naught but Britt and her happily-ever-after ending to lose. “Tell me what I need do.”

  “The man that wants must take the trouble.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Twelve

  “Angus, a word, if you please.”

  Britt’s second in command—chosen as much for his brawn as for his level head, followed him into the shadow of the curtain wall. “Aye, MacKinnon?”

  “How goes it?”

  “Just two fights thus far resulting in a few cuts and severed wee finger, but little else.”

  “Good. I need a boon.”

  “Whatever you lust.”

  “I need you to keep an eye on Lady Armstrong, see that no harm comes to her whilst I attend the funeral.” Had women been allowed, he’d have insisted Genny go with him, but such was not the case.

  Angus arched a brushy dark eyebrow. “Hmm, seeing Lady Armstrong walking about, I thought the tiff with Her Highness—the one that resulted in her spending a day’s penance in the dungeon—was behind them. Do you anticipate more trouble betwixt the two?”

  Relieved the rumor he’d put forth had been accepted as truth, Britt said, “Where our queen consort is concerned, I prefer leaving nothing to chance.”

  She and Montre had yet to speak face-to-face, so Yolande had no idea on what fragile ice she treaded. That Britt would make good his promise to Montre and see her dead should she move against Gen again.

  Presently, the only thing the conniving witch feared was the Privy Council learning of her duplicity, which in his absence might not prove enough to hold her in check. Fearing she might arrange a kidnapping, then claim innocence, Britt said, “Assign Lady Armstrong a constant guard. She’s not to walk out these gates unescorted. Since being dismissed from court, she’s staying at MacLean’s. Do you know the place?”

  A brow arched, and a twinkle caught his eye. “Oh, aye, I know the place well.”

  “Obviously I pay you too much.”

  Angus laughed, then sobered as he looked about the crowded ward, at the hundreds of lounging warriors eyeing one another in suspicious fashion. “You can never pay me enough.”

  “True.” Angus would have his hands full keeping this lot occupied and away from each other’s throats. “Soon they’ll be gone.”

  “And none too soon.”

  Britt nodded. “Any questions?”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Three days at most.”

  When Angus nodded, Britt bid him good-night and made a final tour of the north wall and upper ward. Satisfied all was as it should be—that his men were well fed and as content as could be, surrounded by too many warriors they neither liked nor trusted—he crossed the ward to Saint Margaret’s Chapel, where his king lay.

  Inside, he ignored those kneeling in prayer and looked at the coffin now illuminated by dozens of candles, and his gut churned, whether from the reek of burning incense or from the sight, he wasn’t sure.

  On the morrow, he among many others would take their turns carrying Alexander upon their shoulders out of Edinburg. Upon reaching the Firth of Forth, they would place his coffin on a waiting ship and escort it across the water, and then carry it and their king to his final resting place at Dunfermline Abbey, a striking edifice of flying buttresses, columns and spires. ’Twould be a fitting place for a good but headstrong king who died, tragically, before his time.

  Britt, sighing, made the sign of the cross, and left. As much as he hated the need to do it, he’d delayed the inevitable—his heart-to-heart conversation with Genny—as long as he dared.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her again. But seeing her joyous countenance upon learning she owned the gray, seeing the look of admiration for him in her eyes, he’d been hopelessly lost. Wanting to share in her joy—nay, needing to share in her joy since he had so little to call his own—he’d pulled her close. And she’d melted into him, dissolving what little resolve he’d earlier mustered.

  But no more.

  He’d fallen in love with her, of that he had no doubt, but no more kissing. No more hugging. Hell, no more simply holding hands. He could no longer give in to his baser needs. He had to stand firm, or he’d hurt her beyond all forgiveness or redemption.

  As he reached the gatehouse, someone called his name, and he stopped to find the petite Lady Campbell standing in the shadows. “Good eve, Your Grace.”

  “Good eve, MacKinnon. I need ask a boon. May we speak in private?”

  Tonight was apparently the night for boons. “Of course.”

  Seeing the nearest gatehouse room vacant but well lit, he guided her in and closed the door, whereupon he discovered her cheeks were blotchy and her bonnie brown eyes red-rimmed. Concerned, he said, “Your Grace, how may I be of assistance?”

  “Uhmm”—she wrung her hands—“you know where Lady Armstrong is lodging, aye?”

  The fine hairs rose on the back of Britt’s neck. “I do.”

  She burst into tears. “I fear…I fear I’ve done something quite terrible.”

  Hildy pointed to the padded cottie stool before her mirror. “Sit and I’ll brush out your hair.”

  Genny, clutching the sheeting tight about herself, her middle in turmoil, sat. Beeswax candles Hildy reserved for the best of clients glowed, filling the room with delicate scent. Rose petals floated in the steaming hip bath. A heavy wineskin full of rich burgundy hung by what she’d come to think of as Britt’s chair. Looking at their simple supper of sausage, cheese and bread, she told Hildy, “I still think I should have made a stuffed pullet. He liked that very much.”

  “If he found midday fare awaiting him at this hour, he’d grow suspicious. Besides, a stuffed, satiated man sleeps, and you want him wide awake and thinking.”

  She did want
him thinking…about her and a future together. “But what if he takes one look at me and bolts for the barn?”

  Hildy snorted in unladylike fashion. “MacKinnon is a man. All man. If you do as I say, he won’t be able to breathe, much less bolt.”

  “I pray you’re right.” On the morrow, he would leave and be gone for she didn’t know how long. Meanwhile her courses would come, she’d make that known to the women who remained behind by groaning and whatnot, and then, with her mission accomplished, she’d have no reason to stay on. Not without his wanting her to stay.

  She might never see him again.

  An ache, deep and strong, took her breath away. Hunching forward, she wrapped her arms about her waist.

  Hildy knelt before her and parted the hair falling over Genny’s face. “Are you all right?”

  If only she could tell Hildy the truth, but she didn’t dare. “Just a wee bit frightened.”

  Hildy smiled. “Ah, I see. He is rather brawny, but ’tis no reason to fash. He’s experienced, has doubtless run into this problem before and will take care.”

  Good Lord, that wasn’t what she meant at all. But now that Hildy had brought up the matter of size—

  “Listen!” Hildy jumped up. “Someone’s coming.”

  Hearing gravel crunch underfoot in the yard, Gen stood, her legs suddenly quaking. Oh dear. ’Twas now or never.

  Hildy peered out the window. “’Tis MacKinnon!” She grinned at Gen and flapped her hands. “Hie now, into the bath. And remember, men are like bairns. Give them a glimpse of the sweets, and they’ll come back for more. I’ll leave the door open just a wee bit so you’ll hear the tread squeak. When it does, rise, and he cannot help but get an eyeful.” She gave the room a final glance, then blew Gen a kiss. “Good luck, m’lady.”

  “Good eve, mistress.” Britt’s gaze roved over Hildy in appreciative fashion. “You look most fetching tonight.”

  Hildy, smiling broadly, preened. “Why thank you, MacKinnon. I hope my gentleman thinks so, as well.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure he will. Is Lady Armstrong above?”

  “Aye. I do hate to say hello and good-bye in one breath, but I really must go, else I be late for my rendezvous. Have a good evening.”

  Before he could wish her well, she was gone, the door thumping closed behind her. Despite her occupation, Hildy truly was truly a good lass at heart. ’Twas sad knowing she’d soon be having a hard row to hoe thanks to her having already lost that blush of youth and innocence that Genny, a good few years Hildy’s senior, still retained.

  As he climbed the stairs, the notion of leaving Gen to her own devices—even with an armed guard—gnawed at him. She’d proved headstrong on more than one occasion and might prove too much for the man. She’d certainly proved too much for Lady Campbell, and the countess wasn’t easily cowed. He, on the other hand, could handle Gen. Would gladly shed blood for the privilege. If only he could relive his life and start anew, but alas…

  Beneath his boot, the stair tread screeched like a cat with its tail caught in a dog’s jaws. He really must remember to speak to MacLean about getting the damn thing fixed.

  At the landing, he found the door to Gen’s chamber slightly ajar, the sliver of light spilling out as if in welcome, and he smiled. Two long strides and he pressed his palm to the door, then froze.

  Sweet Mother of God and the Holy Trinity.

  Seeing Gen rise from her hip bath, her back to him, he gulped, his breath catching in his chest. Unaware of his heated perusal, she, humming quietly to herself, lifted her hair from her neck and arched her back. Water, sluicing like liquid diamonds off a sheet of gold, rolled over the gentle swell of her hips and glistening hurdies—as round and firm as polished silver globes in the candlelight—then fell in gentle streams down the length of her long, white thighs.

  Blood thundered toward his groin. His mouth went dry. He envied the water. Wanted to run his hands and tongue over the very paths it took, then lap up whatever drops remained from her pale skin made pink by the warm water.

  In an effort to breathe, he cleared his throat. She jerked at the sound and looked over her shoulder, her lush lips forming a perfect surprised O. Blushing scarlet, she immediately crossed one arm over her breasts, and the other slipped down to cover the golden apex of her thighs. She looked from him to the toweling sheet tossed out of reach on the bed.

  “Uhmm,” she said, in an obvious quandary.

  Had he been gallant—or of loose tongue—he would have apologized and backed out, closing the door behind him. But then he was neither. He’d spent too many wakeful nights imagining Geneen Armstrong in a state such as this.

  He walked into the room and closed the door.

  “It was supposing that destroyed the lady.” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

  Chapter Thirteen

  Oh dear! Genny gulped when Britt dropped the bar locking the door behind him. His gaze slid from her to the toweling lying next to her modest gown and shift on the large, inviting bed. She held her breath as he took his time picking up the toweling, then, with eyes hooded, crossed the too-small room toward her. A predator on the prowl.

  Sir Britt MacKinnon was definitely not adhering to the plan she and Hildy had set forth!

  Britt was supposed to have spied her rising like some Celtic goddess from the sea, and then, being a chivalrous knight of girth and sword, he was supposed to have quietly closed the door. He was to think upon what he’d seen out in the hall whilst she quickly dressed, and then he was supposed to knock, and she’d bid him enter. They would dine. He would bid her good-night as he was wont to do and go to the barn where he’d be unable to sleep. He would then return to her, profess his love and hitch to wed. She, in turn, would profess her love and bid him take her…body and soul. Getting Hildy to share those intimate secrets had been a bit of a headache. Genny did hate speaking ill of the dead but had had no choice but to lie and claim the king bedded her only to suckle…his wife being so sparrow-breasted and all. Hildy, grinning, had thought on this and said, “Aye, I’ve had one or two of those. Odd ducks, aye?”

  And what Hildy had told her about bedding! How she could get the most pleasure. My goodness, who would have ever kenned?

  So she’d planned and prepared well for everything…but this.

  “My lady?” He stretched out his arms, making a neck-high screen of the sheeting so she might step out of the hip bath.

  Not kenning what else to do, Gen tried to snatch the sheet from his hands. “Please let go.”

  To her annoyance, he grinned, keeping tight his hold. “Now why would I lust to do that? I rather like what I’ve seen thus far.”

  She huffed in exasperation, stepped out of the water and reached around the sheeting for her shift. Before she could grasp it, his arms closed about her, enfolding her in the soft fabric.

  “Do you taste as good as you smell?” he asked, lifting the wet strands clinging to her neck and back from beneath the sheeting. He pressed his lips to her neck, sending the most astounding skitters down her spine. “Ah, you do, a ghraidh.”

  She was most pleased he thought so but had bigger doves to pluck. Trying to ignore the delicious flutters tripping down her limbs, she looked over her shoulder, focusing on his countenance, hoping to discern more than simple lust. “You’ve called me a ghraidh before. What does it mean?”

  “It means…” He hesitated as if pondering whether or not to tell her, then murmured, “My love.”

  Delighted, she rotated in his arms to face him. “Truly?”

  His hands slipped to her hips, pressing her to him. Feeling his arousal, she had no doubt of his body’s needs, but what of his heart’s?

  “Truly,” he said. “Were circumstances different, I would have made my feelings for you known long before now and despite my having wanted to throttle you on more than one occasion.” She grinned, as did he; then he sobered. “I think us very well suited, Geneen Armstrong, but my life is in shambles. A total ruin.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve no
right to even speak to you thus, much less hold you in such an”—he glanced down to where her breasts pressed his chest—“intimate manner.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, then just as quickly disappeared. “May I ask you something?”

  “Ask anything you lust.” Ask for the moon. She would try to grant it. He loved her! The saints be praised, he loved her.

  “Do you lust for a home of your own and bairns?”

  He looked so forlorn, her heart lurched. She reached up and stroked his cheek, marveling that the dark shadow coating his wonderfully strong jaws wasn’t scratchy as her father’s had been but felt delightfully soft to the touch. “I do.” She ducked her chin. “I’ve been so bold as to imagine our bonnie sons, both with your countenance and stature, and mayhap a daughter or two for me to fuss over and you to fash over.”

  When he said naught, she looked up and instead of finding him grinning at her silly fantasies, she found his expression most grave. Before she could ask why, he said, “Then, a ghraidh, you must forget about me and find a better man. One who’ll be able to give you such…for I cannot.”

  “But—”

  Dumb ox! She had no need to ask why he said such things. She already kenned. How could she be so thoughtless, so dense?

  With Alexander dead, Britt now had no means by which to provide for a family. Whomever the Privy Council chose as regent would want his own man as captain of the guard. Britt, estranged from his father, would have no choice but to become a sword for hire, a mercenary. Something men of character are loath to do. Should none of the chiefs hire him, his choices would be reduced to starvation or going on crusade.

  Suddenly, place names—Syria, Damietta, Antioch and Tripoli—and horrors beyond description from her father’s many tales ran riot through her mind. The very thought of Britt dying in one such godforsaken place made her pulse race, her blood run cold.