The King's Mistress (2 page)

Had she also gone to court, she might have prevented this nightmare.

Genny slammed a fist into the dough. “Were I king,
love
would be outlawed. People would only be allowed to breed by strict husbandry. Good solid stock”—she thumped the dough—“would only be bred”—she thumped it again—“to good solid stock. The rest would be gelded or left barren.”

Greer made a derisive sound at the back of her throat, then muttered, “You only say that because you’ve never been in love.”

“True, and I diligently pray that I may return to my Maker many years hence still ignorant of it.”

Love. What a sorry excuse for Greer spreading her legs for a man she knew could not commit to her, much less for her stealing the affections rightly belonging to another woman.

Which of the two was the greater sin, Genny dared not ponder.

But she was certain of one thing—she, Mary Geneen Elliot Armstrong, would never lie with a man who was not free to marry her, to proudly call her wife before one and all. To protect her and any bairns they might have together.

Her sister huffed. “You truly are most cynical.”

“Nay, not cynical, but sensible.”

“Are you still collecting the taxes and tithes?”

Genny nodded as she flipped the dough into a greased bowl to let it rise. “And will until such time as our new earl discovers Father died, which, pray God, will not be for a very long time.”

By all rights and heaven, she should have written to the earl last spring informing him of their parents passing, but having no place to go, Genny had quietly slipped into her mother’s shoes assuming the role of trackman. The new Earl of Kerr—now unfortunately only a very distant blood relation—apparently cared little about what happened on his estates so long as his tenants kept the peace and sent in their rent tithes in timely fashion. Which she took great pains to do, lest they be left homeless and impoverished.

Her sister pulled the steaming kettle from the hook above the fire and poured hot water into the bowl of dried sliced apples at Genny’s side. “I’ve had my fill of bannocks and dried fruit. I can barely wait for fall, for fresh apples and pears.”

“And the babe.”

Greer set the kettle on the hearth. “And the babe.” After a moment, she murmured, “Should I decide to remain here, are you absolutely certain you can handle the birthing?”

Genny dusted flour from her hands. “I’ve assisted the birthing of all manner of beasts, from cattle to kittens. They’re all much alike.”

“But a howdie—”

“We’ve already discussed this, Greer. Asking Old Maude to assist your delivery is out of the question. She’s the worst of gossips. Without a husband pacing seven times sunwise around this cottage or standing before the door shooting arrows east to west ’til he empties his quiver to ease your pain…”

“Aye, aye. Everyone for a hundred miles around will be speculating on who the father is.”

“Precisely. ’Tis why you need to seek shelter with Lady Macintyre. She has the room. More importantly, I’ve often heard Irish howdie-wives are far more skilled than ours.” A lie to be sure, but she had to convince Greer that going to Ireland was her safest course. If push came to shove, Genny could act as howdie-wife—she’d been discreetly questioning mothers since learning of Greer’s predicament—but she’d much prefer not to attempt it. The babe could be breech or too big. Or Greer could bleed beyond what was expected…

“But this is the king’s—”

“Nay!” Genny spun and glared at her sister. “This is
your
babe, yours alone. And you’d best not forget it, or one day you’ll say the wrong thing and find the bairn taken from you.”

Greer blanched. “Never. This babe will never go through the hell his father went through.”

Genny had no idea what hell her sister referred to and truthfully didn’t care. All she cared about was her sister’s safety and that of her unborn babe. Softening her tone in hopes of making her sister see reason, she said, “You ken Auntie loves you.”

“Aye, but Ireland is so far away. I’d never see you.”

“I’ll miss you as well, dearest, but the farther away you are, the safer it is for the babe.” Their great aunt, Lady Macintyre, would surely take Greer under her wing if she believed Greer to be recently widowed, heartbroken and in need of a change. “And it’s not as if you’ll be traveling alone. I’ll be with you until you settle in.”

Greer pouted in pretty fashion, something Genny had never managed, and settled on her stool. “I still don’t see why I can’t remain here. What difference does it make if I pretend to be a widow here or there?”

Lord have mercy, her sister could be so bullheaded at times. “What if the babe has his ginger hair and brown eyes?”

Greer, looking mutinous, crossed her arms over her swelling breasts. “He could just as easily have our blonde hair and blue eyes.”

“Aye, but by all accounts, all of the king’s previous bairns bore his stamp. And unless you are known to have slept with another ginger-headed, brown-eyed man at court—”

“
Oh!
How can you even think that, much less say it?”

“You’ve just made my point. Everyone at court can count to nine and kens that you were sleeping with
him.
”

Greer, her expression crumbling, leaned forward, cradling her head in her hands. “I hate you sometimes. I truly do.”

Heaving a sigh, Genny knelt and wrapped her arms about her distraught sister. “I understand, dautie. At times I hate myself.” But her sister had to face the hard cold truth: so long as their new queen remained barren, Greer and her babe were in mortal danger. No amount of wishful thinking or well-practiced wheedling or pouting on Greer’s part could change that. Or the fact that her bairn could still be in danger even if the queen did give birth. Heirs to thrones—legitimate and otherwise—too often had very short lives.

She slipped a finger beneath Greer’s trembling chin so she could look into her eyes. “Dearest, you showed great courage when you realized you were with bairn and came home without anyone suspecting why. I have no doubt you can be courageous again.”

Salty rivers coursed over Greer’s blotchy cheeks. “Oh, Gen, I’m so terribly frightened.”

“I know, dautie, believe me, I know.”

As her sister wept in inconsolable fashion, the cold knot of fear that had settled in Genny’s middle upon learning of her sister’s dilemma bloomed into pure black terror.

If Greer chose to remain here or died in childbirth…

From the moment Genny had taken her first breath, her sister had been there, waiting. Not a moment in childhood had passed that she hadn’t shared it with Greer. Then Greer had left for Edinburgh, taking the laughter and music with her. Finding joy in the mundane had proved difficult enough with Greer living so far away. Life without Greer in it was beyond comprehension, would be impossible. Greer was their light, the balance to Genny’s own darker, more plodding nature and practical sensibilities. She’d lose the very best half of herself if she ever lost Greer and would thus lose her mind, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. The decisions were Greer’s alone.

“Genny, someone’s at the door.”

Startled by the panicked note in her sister’s voice, Genny dashed tears from her own cheeks and looked about. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen. Someone is beating on the door.”

Someone was, and with a hammer, by the sound of it. Heaving a sigh, Genny rose and pulled off her apron. “Stay here. ’Tis likely the smithy. I asked him to make a new latch for the front door months ago, and he’s probably just gotten around to it.”

In the parlor, Genny sniffed back the last of her tears—wouldn’t do to have a tenant see she’d been crying—smoothed her bodice and opened the door, only to gasp, finding the largest man she’d ever laid eyes upon standing on her granite stoop.

“Good morn’, Lady Armstrong,” the armor-clad mountain barked. “His Majesty requests the pleasure of your company back in Edinburgh.”

The wise man is deceived but once.
~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Three

Britt had never seen a lass turn so white in his life. Humph! Mayhap the lady wasn’t as enamored with Randy Sandy as His Majesty presumed. ’Twould serve him right.

The king’s paramour wavered in the doorway, and Britt grabbed her arm, fearing she might topple. “Lady Greer, are you all right?”

She swallowed in gulping fashion and jerked her arm away. “Fine. I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“Excellent.” She didn’t look the least fine to him. In fact, she looked totally distraught, not to mention dowdy in her plain tunic of gray homespun and with her pale, waist-length tresses caught in a simple braid, but then she hadn’t been expecting him. “May I come in?”

Her right hand flew to the long white column of her throat. “In?”

“Aye,
inside.
”

“Oh. Aye, please come in.”

“Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold as Lady Greer scurried backward, her cornflower-blue eyes growing as huge as tankard tops, her gaze raking him from boots to hair roots as if she’d never set eyes on him before. Knowing that not to be the case, he tensed and immediately scanned the whitewashed room and the open sleeping loft above for an intruder. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he murmured for her ears alone, “Is something amiss, my lady?”

“No!” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m simply surprised to be summoned…so soon.”

“Ah.” He relaxed his stance. “His Majesty trusts that whatever crisis took you from his side is now resolved?” The queen had not deemed it necessary to tell anyone why Lady Greer had gone home.

“They died.”

He scowled at her. “I beg your pardon? Who died?”

“Father and Mother. Both of them.”

“Oh. My deepest condolences, my lady. May I be so bold as to ask how?” The last thing he wanted to do—orders or no—was to escort a contagious Lady Armstrong back to Edinburgh.

She wrung her hands. “A carriage accident.”

He nodded. Good. Well, not good for her parents, of course.

He looked about the modestly furnished room, this time taking note of the basket filled with skeins of green and yellow wool, the odd chair, the bench and small bowl overflowing with dandelions sitting on the stone hearth, of the oil lamp, a handful of well-worn texts and a few candlesticks. There was little enough of a personal nature. One trunk at best, which his destrier could easily carry. “Your father was trackman in service to the earl, I believe.”

“He was.”

“So, with a new man coming and nothing left to hold you here, am I correct in assuming we can pack up and be on our way before gloaming?”

“Umm, umm…” Lady Greer looked about in panicked fashion. “But I’ve yet to say good-bye to the animals, sir!” She blushed to a pretty rose, something he couldn’t recall her ever doing in the past, then waved in dismissive fashion. “I meant to the tenants, of course.”

“Of course.” Grief could make idiots of us all, he supposed. And likely explained why her voice sounded deeper then he recalled it being. Aye, she was likely hoarse from weeping, although weeping didn’t explain why she spoke in such stilted fashion.

“Sir, I’ve yet given thought to what I should take or leave behind.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I need a full day to pack and set my affairs in order.”

Since he was in no hurry to return her to their king, he said, “Why not take two? You have many a woolly beast in yon pasture you doubtless wish to kiss good-bye.”

Her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “Doubtless.”

“But please be mindful of my horse as you pack. He’ll also be carrying me.”

“Does that mean my taking the rocking chair is out of the question?”

“Absolutely!” He huffed, then realized she was only taunting him, that she was trying not to grin, then lost the battle, which brought light into the low-ceilinged room and an odd sensation to his belly. My God, he’d always found Lady Greer pretty but had never thought of her as truly beautiful… Until now. That smile. Absolutely captivating. Why hadn’t he noticed it or the dimple in her right cheek before? No wonder his liege had become so enamored.

His gaze drifted down the long column of her neck to the gentle swell of her breasts. Feeling heat rise in his loins, he gave himself a hard mental shake and cleared his throat.

Christ’s blood. Lusting after his king’s prime flesh could prove a fast route to the gallows. He blew through his teeth.

He’d need a place to bed down for two days. Randy as he felt and without her having a chaperone, his staying here—even in the barn—was definitely out of the question. “Whilst you settle your affairs, I shall be at the small lodging I passed in the village.”

Her lovely eyes went wide again. “Oh no! Not there. No, no. The place is crawling with fleas. Loads and loads of fleas. Bucketsful.”

“Bucketsful?”

“Oh, aye.” She made a delicate shudder, setting the golden wisps framing her face to fluttering. “You’ll be far more comfortable staying at the abbey in Morehead. Simple but clean. Much nicer, truly. And you’ll not be getting weevils with your porridge…as you could expect at Mr. Bailey’s.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Bailey has fleas
and
weevils?”

“Aye, ’tis a terrible place. Truly.”

He couldn’t help but grin. She looked so earnest, but he suspected her defaming poor Mr. Bailey was more likely due to a female aversion to anything crawly rather than to the actual number of crawlies Mr. Bailey might have. Britt had stopped at the establishment to quench his thirst, and the hostel hadn’t appeared any worse than most. But to be assured he wouldn’t be munching weevils when he broke his fast, he said, “As you lust, my lady. Please direct me to the abbey.”

The moment she closed the door on their unexpected visitor, Genny collapsed against it, tears springing to her eyes.

Why on earth had she blurted that her parents were dead? Now the earl would learn the truth; she’d be evicted, and with nowhere to go…

Saint Bride and Columba preserve us.

“Oh dear God, Gen!” Her sister rushed to her side. “I thought I’d faint when I heard his voice.”

“
You?
I nearly expired on the threshold. Who, pray tell, is that man?” She’d never seen anyone so tall, so broad of shoulder or so muscled of limb in all her days. And the way he studied her with those pitch-black eyes! A dozen times she’d readied to scream, certain he was about to snatch her up by the hair and declare her an imposter. Certain, that was, until he began teasing her. As if she’d kiss her sheep good-bye. Well, mayhap Ol’ Duffy. She did cherish her old ram, stiff-legged and grumpy as he’d grown.