The King's Mistress (28 page)

“Thank God.”

The parlor was just as she’d left it, save for the dust coating the floor and modest furnishing. Taking a shaky breath, she walked through the house and then checked the loft where she found her mother’s cedar chest—its contents undisturbed—still tucked under the eaves. In the dovecote, she found her secret stores of grain and wool. Not believing her good fortune, she returned to the cottage and collapsed in the rocking chair and burst into tears.

She’d lost Britt through vain stupidity, but God had granted her a boon by seeing to her and Greer’s future. Now she must make every effort to see that His efforts weren’t squandered. And all within a fortnight.

Much to Britt’s relief, Cassandra’s funeral proved a short and simple affair. An aunt and wailing woman from the MacDonald clan had come, much to everyone’s surprise, peered into the coffin and then extended their condolences to Britt and his sire. Under a clearing sky, the MacKinnon read a short but appropriate verse from what remained of the family bible, then Britt, as custom dictated, threw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin. When everyone returned to the keep for refreshments, Britt, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, turned toward the chapel.

Inside, he studied his mother’s black granite effigy. The stonemason had done a masterful job of not only capturing her beauty but her importance to his clan with the ornamentation of the MacKinnon and Campbell crests lying upon her chest in unyielding stone.

To her right, in the wall vaults next to his brothers, lay his son. Britt ran his fingers over the child’s delicate features carved in stone, then down the curve and swell of his gown, feeling small nicks and grooves that shouldn’t be there. Frowning, he leaned closer. The stonemason had offered to craft straight wee legs beneath the long gown, but Britt said nay, he wasn’t ashamed of his son. He wanted his child to appear as he had in life. But someone had tried to alter the stone.

“Britt, are you all right?”

He straightened at the sound of his father’s voice. “Aye.” Hand on the marks, he said, “Ian’s effigy has been defaced. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

His father drew closer and, looking to where Britt pointed, sighed. “Why did Cassandra do anything?”

Cassandra. Of course.

“What shall you do now, son? Will you remain?”

Britt shook his head. “Now that I’m free, I need to find Genny.”

“Damn beasts.” Sitting at her kitchen table, chin resting heavy in her hand, Genny counted again the meager coins she’d garnered from what remained of her grain stores after the mice had gotten into the bails. How wee vermin could consume so much in so short a time was beyond kenning. Worse than cleaning what grain she could salvage was the fact that the labor had proved tedious, giving her far too much time to think. Hour upon hour she’d thrashed and fashed over how her sister would take the news of the king’s demise, over Greer’s birthing, and worse, over her parting with Britt.

Never had she imagined it possible to miss anyone more than she missed Greer, but her longing for Britt went well beyond the ache in heart and mind she felt being separated from her twin. This new pain went bone and soul deep, to the point where she had no desire to eat, only to sleep, yet sleep proved elusive. She only wept. Chores that had to be done to secure her and Greer’s future were also proving nearly impossible to do. Her limbs felt heavy, as if lead had replaced their marrow. Had she not breathed without thought, breathing would likely have ceased.

If she were brave, she would write to him. Tell him how sorry she was for running as she had. She should have been woman enough to face him, admit her own complicity in their affair and listened to whatever explanation he might have. Hearing him out wouldn’t have made any difference—he was still married—but at least she would have had the satisfaction of knowing she wasn’t a coward. But she was a coward, hadn’t admitted her own complicity until Darby had made her see the light, so she hadn’t written and she wouldn’t.

She could only take comfort where she could. The grain was sold, and she and Greer would be safe in Ireland should war break out. That Britt would be in the thick of it should war come she dared not think about, for then her heart would surely stop.

Better she focus on the remaining tasks before her. She had only a week to clean her wool of mouse droppings and find a merchant who’d give her a fair price before making her way back to Stranraer. By sheer force of will she rose, gathered her coins and placed them in her hiding kist. If she missed O’Neil’s ship, she’d have to pay another captain for passage to Ireland, something she could ill afford.

Seeing Mittens studying her through narrowed eyes from the windowsill, she growled, “Don’t you be lookin’ at me like that. ’Tis your fault half my grain was eaten, and I’ve now wool to nitpick.”

The cat, stretching, yawned.

“Damn beasts.”

Feet dragging, she crossed the kale yard, her goal the dovecote and what would likely be hours of mindless nitpicking and hours of fashing. She sighed. Reaching for the door handle, she heard a familiar bleating, looked over her shoulder and found auld MacDuff, his huge horns curling about his head, standing on his hind legs, peering over the stone wall at her. “So, you’ve finally come to say hello.”

He bleated again, making her grin. Her wool forgotten, she crossed the kale yard, leaned over the wall and scratched MacDuff behind his ears. “So you missed me. Good to know someone has.”

He nuzzled her neck, then gave her shoulder a gentle butt. Taking him by the horns, she pulled his formidable head toward her and kissed his forehead. “I missed you as well, you scraggly auld thing. In fact, I’ve missed everything here.”

Silver nickered in his stall. “Hush, you. I’ll not have any jealousy here.” God knew she’d suffered enough just thinking about another woman lying in Britt’s arms to last her a lifetime. The gray apparently thought not and nickered again, this time shrilly. MacDuff, snorting, jerked away, his attention riveted on something behind her. A deep nickering filled the air. She spun in alarm only to have her heart leap into her throat. A black destrier, his huge hooves flashing in the sunlight, a dust storm rising behind, strode toward her. Atop him, riding straight and proud in the saddle, rode the man she longed for but never thought to see again.

Seeing Genny at the edge of the pasture, Britt, heart soaring, couldn’t believe his good fortune. She’d not gone to Ireland after all, but stood, a hand at her breast, not but a few hundred yards from him. Praying she’d not bolt, would hear him out, he put his heels to Valiant’s sides.

As he drew closer, Genny, to his monumental relief, grabbed her skirts in hand and started loping toward him. He reined in and leapt to the ground. Closing the distance between them, he saw that she was crying, and held out his arms. She crashed into him much as she had in the wood so many weeks ago, and he scooped her up in his arms. “I was right. You do kiss your beasts.”

Her arms flew around his neck. His hand burrowed beneath her hair and brought her lips to his. She tasted of oats and parsley, of salt and honey, of everything that was good in the world.

When they came up for air, her fingers fluttered over his scruffy jaw. As if not believing he was real, she asked, “How…why?”

He pressed her head to his shoulder and squeezed, wishing he could absorb her so she might never leave him again. “I so feared I’d not be able to find you.”

In unison, they said, “I’m sorry,” then laughed in awkward fashion.

She spoke first, saying, “I’m still angry with you, Britt. You should have told me.”

“You’ve every right.” Britt put her down but kept his arms about her. “And you’ve naught to be sorry about. I should have told you I was married at the very beginning.”

“Why hadn’t you?”

“I so treasured what little time I had with you that I couldn’t bear sullying it with…” He took a deep breath. “I hated her, Genny. Hated her with every ounce of my being. Just thinking about her and what she’d done was so beyond understanding. I just couldn’t speak of her. Not then, but she’s gone now.”

Genny, her winged eyebrows tenting, leaned back to better look at his face. “What did she do, and what do you mean by
gone
?”

Sighing, he took a step back, picked up Valiant’s reins, then took her hand. “The telling of Cassandra and me will take some time, so let’s first tend to my mount.”

Leading Valiant to the stable, he asked, “Why are you here? You told Hildy you were bound for Ireland.”

“I was.” She told him about the O’Neils, the storm and her decision to garner what coins she could before travelling on. “Why are you here?”

“You’d told Hildy only your aunt’s first name. I hoped to find her surname in yon kirk records or from one of your tenants. For no other reason than loneliness, I decided to stop here first, and glad I am that I did.”

She smiled up at him. “As I am.”

He shuddered to think they might have missed each other by only hours.

Once Valiant was fed and watered, he took her into his arms again. “God, you’re a

bonnie sight for these poor eyes.”

“To mine as well. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He kissed her again, this time taking them slowly into that lovely place of warm intimacy, his need for her pressing against her belly as their breath and skin heated. Realizing he’d be tossing her into the hay at any moment, he reluctantly pulled away and cleared his throat. “We need to talk before this goes any further.”

Inside her parlor, she bid him take a seat and fetched them wine. Having done naught but sit in a saddle for days on end, he paced.

When she returned with clay goblets in hand, he bid her sit in the odd chair with stave rockers and, kneeling before her, took her hand. “You need know I never meant to take advantage of you, that before you ran off I’d already queried the archbishop about an annulment. Wanting to marry you, I’d formulated a plan to make it so.” He ran his thumb over her palm. “I never meant to hurt you, Genny. Truly.”

“Please tell me about Cassandra.”

He released her hand, rose and resumed pacing. “In the isles, we’ve harsh weather and little arable land. One storm can ravage a year’s crops or destroy a fishing fleet, so the wise—ever mindful of starvation—trade, hoard and curry the goodwill of their neighbors through marriage.” He knew what he was about to tell Genny would hurt her, but he’d have no more lies betwixt them. “Such was not the case when the lord of the isles and my father brokered my marriage to Cassandra, the MacDonald’s niece.

“I was eight and ten years and she a year younger when we were introduced at a gathering. I am not a man of extremes but was immediately smitten. She was as exuberant and gay as a filly. Finding her attractive, I thought myself most fortunate that she returned my favor. During our short courtship, I chalked up her outrageous pouts and tantrums to youth and her being a pampered wench. I thought time and the responsibilities of marriage and family would settle her. But such proved not to be the case.

“Three months into our marriage, she fell ill, her moods swinging from outrageous highs to new dramatic lows as never before, so I, frantic, summoned our
Cailleach.
” When Genny frowned, he said, “Our medicine woman.”

“Ah. So what did she say?”

“She announced Cassandra with child and then, using her herbs and a string swung in loops above Cassandra’s middle, said we would have a strapping laddie. My joy knew no bounds. Nor did Cassandra’s. As she grew more ponderous, her frantic activity slowed but not so her babblings or blind rages. Then the day of the blessed event came. I’ll not lie. I not only anticipated the birth of our son but the cessation of her constant weeping and throwing of things at my head.”

Praying he was doing the right thing by laying bare his soul, he took a gulp of wine, then said, “Cassandra’s labor was long and arduous, but finally our laddie came into the world. Hearing his lusty cry from where I paced in circles a floor below, I raced up the stairs and into the solar just as the
Cailleach
held up our son for Cassandra’s inspection.

“Upon first sight of our babe’s sadly deformed legs and feet, Cassandra screeched in horror, declared wee Ian the devil’s spawn and refused to touch him.

“I couldn’t understand it.” Feeling tears burning at the back of his throat, he turned from Genny and looked out the window. “He was such a bonnie, pudgy lad, with her auburn hair and my dark eyes. A full day went by. All the poor wee lad did was keen for lack of milk. At my wit’s end, I finally gave up trying to make Cassandra see reason and summoned a wet nurse.”

Genny rose and took hold of his hand. “Oh, Britt, I’m so sorry. You need not speak of this if it’s too painful.”

“You need hear it all…to understand.” He took another drink, readying himself for the worst. “Five months passed. Cassandra’s blind rages had turned into sulking silence, then into what appeared to be contented musing.

“Meanwhile, Ian bloomed under the wet nurse’s care”—and his love—“growing into a charming bundle of joy, one who could sit on his own and finally creep about.”

He let go of her hand and resumed his pacing as she watched from before the window. “Oh, don’t mistake me. I had no delusions. I knew life would be hard for a lad unable to walk, but within Ian’s dark brown eyes I saw an innate intelligence, mayhap even his grandsire’s canniness. With the MacKinnons at his back, I had nay doubt our wee bairn
would
make his own way, mayhap by following his forbearers into the Abbey of Iona to become a scholar or mayhap by taking over our clan’s correspondence and complex trading ledgers, but he would succeed.

“Then one day, the wet nurse had to leave the babe for just a moment to fetch clean nappies from the line and left him, fresh from his bath, in Cassandra’s care, and Cassandra…”—his voice cracked and he cleared his throat—“drowned our child.”

“Oh dear God!” Genny, her bonnie blue eyes wide in alarm, pressed a hand to her heart. “How could a mother…?”