The King's Mistress (9 page)

“Depends. If you’re tired, we can spend the night at a friend’s croft and arrive by afternoon. Or we can keep going and be there by midmorn’.”

Middle beginning to quake, she weighed her options. Edinburgh was but a few hours away, and she’d yet to pose her most pressing questions to Britt for fear of the answers. She looked at the waxing three-quarter moon. Her courses were due any day. Saddle sore, she would have welcomed the reprieve of a night on a pallet, but she hadn’t the luxury of time. “We should continue on.” She then looked behind. Montre, his hands and feet bound and head covered by a feed bag, had slumped forward in the saddle in sleep. Or was he simply feigning? Not knowing but needing answers to her questions, she whispered, “Why have you agreed to help me?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I don’t doubt that you do, but how can I trust that you won’t name me an imposter the moment we pass through Edinburgh’s gates? Have me thrown into the dungeon?” The very thought made her blood run cold.

He made a thick sound at the back of his throat, then murmured, “Scotland needs a legitimate heir born of Yolande if we’re to keep the peace and keep England at bay. You proving yourself not to be with child, then going away will squelch any rumor that there could be a contender—any other heir but hers.”

His response made sense, but dare she risk her life on it? She sighed. Given her circumstances, she really had no choice but to do so.

Now to the question that had been keeping her awake these past two nights. “Are you in love with my sister?” She couldn’t blame him if he was. Greer was most accomplished, could charm the birds from the trees when she set her mind to it.

He laughed, a quiet but deep rumble that caused her heart to inexplicably trip. “Nay, my lady. Your sister—and Alexander’s obsession with her—have been the bane of my existence for nigh on to a year now.”

How curious. “Then why did you kiss me?”

He said naught for a long moment, then said, “Why do you ask?”

Dare she tell him? Aye, she’d best, or she’d never get any sleep. “Because you kissed me as if…well, ’twas not a peck, some meaningless kiss good-bye.” There, she’d said it, and the devil take her. His kiss had seared her, had felt as if he’d hated parting from her. That he cared. Not for her, of course. He hadn’t known who she—Genny—was at the time.

“If you must know, I kissed
you
, a woman for whom I had no name but whom I’ve very reluctantly come to admire.” Surprised, she twisted in the saddle to better judge if he spoke the truth, and he shrugged. “Truth to tell, I had to know what you tasted like…in the event I never returned.”

Oh my. “I would have sworn you wanted nothing more than to strangle me.”

He grinned. “That has crossed my mind as well.”

She grimaced and faced forward. “I can well imagine it has.”

Saddle leather squeaked as he leaned forward, his warmth and decidedly masculine scent washing over her. “So why did you kiss me back?”

She snorted. “I did not.”

His breath caressed her ear, setting sparks dancing down her spine. “You most certainly did so.”

’Twas true. She had kissed him back. Had melted into his warmth and strength like a wanton, but rather than admit such, she muttered, “You took me by surprise.”

Britt pulled the destrier to a sudden halt. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

She glanced back at Montre, who now sat upright, alert in the saddle. “He’s awake.”

Britt nodded. “Likely has been for some time.” He untied the rein securing the palfrey to his destrier and handed it to her, whispering, “Quick, lead the gray and Montre into yon trees whilst I see to the rider.”

She nodded, not sure what was happening. The moment her feet hit the ground, Britt kicked his destrier forward. She’d barely gotten the growling Montre and her reluctant palfrey into the wood when she heard someone shout, “MacKinnon?”

Grinning, Britt slapped Lyle’s back in greeting. “What in God’s name are you doing about at this hour?”

Lyle grimaced. “Randy Sandy is on the loose again.”

“Heads are going to roll for this.”

Lyle waved a dismissive fashion. “You should know better than any that you can’t get a man to do his job when his job depends on him not doing it.”

Britt made a derisive sound at the back of his throat. ’Twas true. His Majesty did not take being thwarted kindly. Heads tended to roll. Literally. “So what happened this time?”

“One of Her Majesty’s ladies arrived with a missive. Not long after, he raced to the stables. Your men were fast on his heels, but his mount was already saddled and waiting whilst theirs were not. When Angus came to me with the news, I went to the solar and discovered the missive on the desk.” Lyle grinned. “’Twas from the queen and vague, but I do suspect we may have a loaf in the oven, my friend.”

Britt blew through his teeth. “’Bout friggin’ time.” This would make Geneen’s mission and escape all the easier. “So he’s off to Kinghorn, then?”

“I suspect so and sent men after him.” He looked about and frowned. “I thought you were supposed to be fetching Lady Armstrong back to court.”

“Oh shit.” How could he have left her alone with Montre for so long? Britt immediately turned his destrier around. “Come.”

Rounding the granite outcrop, he shouted, “’Tis safe, my lady. You can come out now.”

When Geneen came into view, Lyle murmured, “Good Lord, what happened to her, and who’s that tied on the gray?”

“Montre.”

Lyle scowled. “Care to explain?”

“As soon as I find out why the bastard is falling off the palfrey.”

As Britt dismounted, Lyle murmured, “My lady.”

Geneen shoved hair out of her eyes and executed an awkward curtsy. “Good eve—or rather night, my lord.”

While Lyle took in her disheveled appearance, Britt pulled Montre upright in the saddle. When his hands came away slick with fresh blood, he jerked the hood from Montre’s head. Seeing a broken nose and battered mouth, he looked at Geneen. “What happened to him?” Surely she hadn’t taken a club to him?

Geneen, obviously vexed, threw out her arms. “He started to shout for help. I had to do something. So I swatted the gray’s rump…and a low-slung branch did the rest.”

Britt shook his head. “Remind me never to cross you.”

After replacing the hood and checking the ropes binding the again slumbering Montre, he told Lyle, “Yestermornin’, he and two of his men attacked us.”

“On orders from Yolande?”

“How else? When Montre confronted Lady Armstrong at sword point, he told her she’d become an
inconvenience.
”

“Yolande will not be pleased to find her favorite in our dungeon.”

To his left, Geneen muttered, “She should have thought of that before she set him on this mission. He shot Britt!”

Lyle’s right eyebrow arched in question. Not knowing if his friend’s surprise was due to Gen’s use of his Christian name or from the fact that he’d let the bastard get the better of him, Britt, ignoring Lyle, glared at Geneen. “’Tis only a flesh wound.”

To his annoyance, she thrust her hands on her hips and glared back. “Do
not
take that tone with me, Britt MacKinnon. ’Tis more, and well you ken it.” She then pointed an accusing finger at his bound middle. “There, Sir Lyle, see? The arrow was still imbedded in his side when I found him.”

Lyle, his countenance an expressionless mask, looked from him to Geneen, then back again. “Why do I sense there’s more here than meets the eye?”

Geneen, huffing and muttering, stomped off toward his destrier, and Britt growled low in his throat. With his gaze locked on his annoying charge, he asked Lyle, “If you think Alexander is headed to Kinghorn, why are you riding south?”

Lyle’s gaze returned to Geneen. “On the chance I’m wrong and Alexander is on his way to meet Lady Margaret.”

Ah. A prearranged tryst would explain Randy Sandy’s horse being saddled. “Very well. Take care. We’ll talk at length when you return.”

Lyle picked up his reins. “Count on it.”

When Lyle disappeared, Geneen slumped against his destrier. “Oh Lord, I thought he’d never leave.”

“You did well. But henceforth, could you please refrain from pointing out my shortcomings to my friends?”

“I never pointed out—oh, you mean my telling him you were wounded?” When he continued to glare at her, she heaved a sigh. “Henceforth I shall try to restrain myself.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Teeth clenched—not believing for a moment she’d be able to keep her pledge—Britt hoisted her up and into the saddle. As he settled in behind her, she asked, “Why did Ross stare so at me? Do you think him suspicious?”

God grant me patience. Of course he’s suspicious!
Her sister would never have been so outspoken. But there was no point in telling Gen that. She’d only grow agitated and fearful. “He stared because he’s accustomed to seeing a perfectly turned out Lady Armstrong…and you are anything but, at the moment.”

“I pray you have the right of it.”

“I do.”

“So who is Lady Margaret? I don’t recall Greer mentioning her.”

Should he tell her? Aye, better Gen learned the truth now rather than discover it on her own later. God only knew what she’d say. “She’s one of the king’s mistresses.”

“
What?
” She twisted in the saddle to look up at him. “Nay, that cannot be. He’s told Greer he loves her.”

Ack, poor woman. “I imagine he tells all his mistresses such.” Thinking to ease the blow, he added, “But he does hold your sister in the highest regard.” Much to Britt and Her Highness’s annoyance.

Looking aghast, she asked, “How many mistresses are there?”

“Six, to my knowledge.”

“Six.” She stared at him for a moment, then faced forward. “I suppose you of all people should know.”

Suspecting she’d have gladly killed the messenger had she the wherewithal, he whispered, “I’m truly sorry, Gen.” When she remained mute, he tilted her chin so he might better see her face and found her magnificent blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Ack, why do you cry?”

“Greer is an even greater fool than I ever imagined.”

He brushed a tear from her cheek. “Love can make fools of us all, Gen.” It certainly had made a fool of him.

“But he lies…just as our father did. And she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it!”

“Aye, he lies, but you can use that knowledge to your advantage.”

Why he felt compelled to comfort her or, for that matter, knew to his bones that he’d do all in his power to keep her from His Majesty’s clutches, he couldn’t say. She regularly annoyed him beyond speech.

After silently brooding for what felt like hours, she asked, “Do all men lie when they tell a woman they love her?”

“Nay.”

“Have
you
ever been in love?”

“Once…a long time ago.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“She lied.”

Then tore my heart out.

With Edinburg Castle looming ever larger, Genny tried to focus on her upcoming trials but instead kept ruminating over Britt’s admission of having loved and lost ages ago, although why this should be the case, she couldn’t for the life of her imagine. She hadn’t kenned him at the time. Nor did she ken the woman in question. But still her questions persisted.

How could a woman not return Britt MacKinnon’s love? He was exceedingly handsome and stronger than any man Gen had ever beheld. He was intelligent and had proven himself an able warrior. And thank God for that, or she’d be dead. As Captain of the King’s Guard, he also had status and the wherewithal to provide for a family. Aye, and he laughed. Something she’d rarely seen men do.

Better yet, even when furious, he kept a civil tongue—and God kenned she tested him often enough to know. Oh, he glared and threatened, but he’d done her no serious harm…although he could have, and had, by his own admission, given serious thought to it.

And he smelled wonderful. And his kiss…

She sighed. Just recalling the feel of his lips on hers made her middle waver and her heart thud erratically. Aye, there had to be something terribly wrong with that woman.

Unable to stand not kenning a moment longer, she asked, “What was her name?”

“Who?”

“The woman who lied to you.”

“Why do you ask?”

She decided to be honest. “So I might kick her in the shins should our paths cross…on your behalf, of course.”

Chuckling, he brushed a loose strand from her forehead and kissed her temple, sending warmth coursing through her limbs. “I thank you for the thought, Gen, but you shan’t have chance to meet.”

“Then what harm is there in you telling me her name?” She’d have no peace until she kenned at least that much.

He was quiet for a long moment, then muttered, “Cassandra.”

Hmm, a witch named Cassandra. “Thank you.”

“Enough about her. Tell me again how you proceed to the queen’s apartments.”

They’d entered Edinburgh, were now trotting toward the steep roadway which led to the formidable castle. To her right and left stood dozens upon dozens of stone and plaster and wattle cottages. Ahead, some structures were an amazing three stories high, just as Greer had described. Underfoot scampered stray pullets and tatter-eared dogs with tails tucked betwixt their legs. To her right, a caged goose honked in alarm at their quick passing. A black-as-night cat eyed them from atop a stack of ale casks. Cows lowed in plaintive fashion, and doors slammed. Metal screeched, and an unseen woman keened, “God preserve us!” Cattle dung made the going slick, and she wished Britt would slow before his destrier ran over someone or lost its footing, but then the stench of so much life and death in one place was overwhelming, so she said naught.

“Gen, have you forgotten already?”

“Forgive me. ’Tis just so much here to take in all at once.” Ahead, a door opened, and three giggling bairns spilled into the roadway. “I enter the great hall, walk its length, then climb the stairs I’ll find behind a hunt tapestry. On the third level, I go through the doorway to my left. Then through that chamber and into the next, and I’m there. But won’t you be accompanying me?”