The King's Mistress (8 page)

She had only one clear target, thanks to his helm and armor. If she missed, he’d be upon her before she could nock a second arrow.

He sprang; she gasped and released.

The arrow hit its mark. The man screamed and fell on his side, his hands reaching for his face.

As the man went deathly still, the bow slipped from Genny’s hand. Sobbing, her stomach roiling at the sight of her arrow protruding from his helm, she edged closer to see if his chest still rose and fell. It did, while blood pumped from what remained of his right eye. She hadn’t killed him outright as she had so many hares and quail, thank God. To kill an animal for the table was one thing. To kill a man, another entirely.

But her relief was short-lived with the realization he could regain consciousness, and then she wouldn’t stand a chance. He
would
kill her. She paced before his inert form, wringing her hands. “What to do, what to do?”

She couldn’t kill him with a second arrow as he lay there defenseless, she just couldn’t. But then she couldn’t allow him to get up, either. And she had to find Britt. He could well be alive, just as the man lying before her was. She looked about. A length of rope hung from the destrier’s saddle. Mayhap she could truss the man as she would a hog going to market. Nay. The very thought of touching him made her ill.

Legs quaking, she ran to the destrier and grabbed his reins. She would decide what to do with the bastard later. First she had to find Britt.

Branches snapped several yards to Britt’s left. Careful not to jar the arrow imbedded in his right side, he pressed his back to the nearest tree and held his breath. Someone was moving fast, mindless of the racket they created. Most likely the queen’s confidant Montre, the bastard who’d left him for dead. Had he found the Armstrong lass? Or did she remain safe in her hidey-hole?

“MacKinnon!”

God’s teeth, ’tis Lady Armstrong!
She was alive, praise the saints, but she’d get them both killed if she didn’t stop shouting.

Having no idea where Montre might be lurking, Britt wrapped his fingers around what remained of the arrow after snapping off the shaft and silently jogged toward her. A flash of blue, then the black and gold of his destrier’s livery peeked through the dense underbrush.

“MacKinnon! Oh God, please answer me!”

Please, woman. Please stop shouting.

He whistled as loud as he dared. His mount nickered, and Lady Armstrong yelped. A heartbeat later, the pair crashed through the undergrowth, his snorting destrier in the lead, the gray behind them.

Lady Armstrong, tear-streaked and dirty, tangled braids falling about her shoulders, spying him, dropped the reins. He was nearly knocked off his feet as she slammed into him. Throwing her arms about his neck, she cried, “Thank God, you’re alive! He said that he’d killed you.”

“
Shhh
, m’lady.” He pulled her back into the protection of the ancient tree. “I told you to stay hidden. Do you ever mind?”

“On occasion, but you were gone so long—”

“Who said I was dead?”

She stroked his cheek and studied him, as if not believing her eyes. “I’ve no idea. He’s large but not so tall as you. He came up behind me with sword in hand and said you were dead. He said I’d become a serious inconvenience to the queen and then tried to kill me!”

Wondering how she managed to escape, he asked, “Where is he now?”

She blanched and pointed behind her. “Back there. I shot him…in the eye. Heaven help me, I only meant…”

“Is he dead?”

“Nay, but badly wounded and—Merciful God, you’re bleeding!” She was staring at his blood-drenched side and the broken shaft protruding from it.

“Aye, but we’ll tend to it after I deal with the blackguard.” Men like Montre could take an arrow to the heart and still keep fighting. Britt pushed off the tree and took her hand. “Come.”

At the outcrop of rock where he’d left Lady Armstrong, he found Montre helmless and covered in blood, an arrow lying at his side. At the grisly sight, Lady Armstrong keened and staggered away, a hand over her mouth. Britt leaned over Montre and discovered the man still lived.

Hmm. Should he put the bastard out of his misery now or haul him back to Edinburgh where he could answer to a furious Alexander? The first option held the most appeal, given the bastard’s arrow was still imbedded in his side. But His Majesty needed to know of what level of duplicity—of what lengths—his new queen was capable.

Teeth grit, Britt reached up and pulled the rope from his saddle, then bound Montre hand and foot. Once satisfied Montre would be most uncomfortable but secured should he awake, he took his wound kit from his saddlebag. “M’lady, a moment of your time, please.”

Lady Armstrong, her coronet and braids askew, dashed the tears from her bonnie blue but now red-rimmed eyes. Taking pains not to look at Montre, she asked, “Aye?”

“I need your help removing this arrow.”

Her brows tented as she looked at his bloodied side. “What would you have me do?”

He held out his
sgian duhb
. “Hit the shaft firmly with the blade’s hilt so I might remove this damn arrow.”

“Uhmm…of course.”

Britt handed her the blade, then, wincing, pulled his right arm free of both chain mail and shirt.

Nodding like a sandpiper, she wiped her palms on her skirts, bent and explored his side with tentative fingers. “Dear God above, MacKinnon. The tip has another two inches to travel.”

“Aye, just give it a hard whack and drive the point through. I’d do it myself, but as you can see, the shaft is at an angle I can’t readily hit.” When she made no move to do his bidding, he glanced over his shoulder and found her gnawing her lower lip. Hoping to distract her from the task at hand, he murmured, “And I thought we agreed to call each other by our Christian names.”

A single tear spilled over her thick lashes as she took a shuddering breath. “My name is Geneen. Greer is my twin.”

Ah ha! As he suspected. “How do you do?”

She dashed the wetness from her cheek. “Not at all well at the moment, if you must ken.”

He grinned. “Nor I, but let’s be done with this, shall we?”

Britt faced forward so as not to make her anymore anxious than she already appeared and grit his teeth. And a good thing he did. Geneen Armstrong held naught of her eight stones back when she finally struck the shaft. Muscle and flesh tore with searing intensity. When he could finally breathe again, he gripped the fully exposed steel tip with his right hand and pointed with his left to the leather pouch at his feet. “In there you’ll find what you’ll need to bind the wound.”

As Lady Geneen hauled whisky and bandages from the pouch, Britt again gritted his teeth and jerked the arrow free. Before his heartbeat could steady, his best whisky was burning its way through his flesh. “God’s teeth, woman, enough!”

“Hush! ’Lest you end up doing this yourself.”

He huffed, then glanced at Montre. Seeing he was still out cold, Britt murmured, “You’re quite the iron maiden, Geneen Armstrong.”

“Iron to the core, MacKinnon.” She tied off his dressing and then, heaving a sigh, took a step back. He twisted a wee bit to test the dressing. Satisfied it would stanch the bleeding, he murmured, “My thanks.”

“’Twill hold?”

“Aye.”

“Good.” Her lovely blues eyes then rolled back in her head, and to his utter astonishment, she fainted dead away at his feet.

“Ouch!” Merciful heavens, her head hurt.

“My apologies, my lady, but the compress is needed to stem the bleeding.”

MacKinnon! Her eyes flew open. The day came rushing back in one awful flash when she found Britt staring down at her. Their argument, the attack, her shooting Montre, her driving an arrow through Britt’s side, then…nothing. “What happened?”

And why was she prostrate on Britt MacKinnon’s lap? She struggled to sit, but his arm tightened about her waist.

“Nay, be still. You fainted. Right now we need talk…before Montre awakens.”

Oh Lord, not now. She looked away. “Talk of what?”

“Are you daft?” He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his handsome face. “Why did the two of you not just hie off? Why go to all this trouble masquerading as your sister? From what I’ve seen of you, ’twill be most obvious to the king that you are not Greer the moment he tries to bed you.” He huffed, then nodded toward Montre. “And you do realize he’s
not
Her Highness’s only henchmen, aye? You need tell me what you’re about before you get us all killed, your sister included.”

He’s right, damn him.
She did need his protection and therefore had no choice but to confide in him…to a point. Genny took a shuddering breath and whispered, “Greer’s with child.”

“Are you certain?”

“Aye, most certain. The babe will arrive by Samhain.”

“Where is she?”

Oh no! That she wouldn’t tell him. “I’m taking Greer’s place at court for only a short while.” She cleared her throat. “For only as long as it takes to prove I am
not
with child, and then I’ll take my leave.”

Britt looked incredulous. “And what makes you think you’ll be allowed to leave at will? If the king says you’re to remain at court, you remain. And doubtless in his bed.”

“None will wish me to remain.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the packet she’d carefully wrapped in a scrap of oiled cloth. “This will make everyone most happy to see me gone.”

Watching her open the packet, he asked, “What is it?”

“A poison nettle. When the time comes, I need only rub its sap on my skin to make large painful boils rise within hours. I’ll look like I have pox.”

After a moment, he nodded. “They are most protective of their well-being, so ’twill work.”

Relieved he thought her plan would work, Genny pocketed the nettle.

Britt rose, then helped her to stand. “And in the meantime? Can you sing, dance? Play the lute or play the whor—”—he cleared his throat—“courtesan?”

Heat infused her cheeks at the very notion of him thinking her
that
kind of woman. “Nay. To
all.
”

“Humph.” He looked about. “We need go.”

Happy he’d ended his inquisition, she pointed to the queen’s assassin. “What of him?”

“We’re taking him with us.”

She shuddered at the thought. “But…”

Before she could give voice to her fears, Britt tossed the bleeding Montre onto her pretty palfrey, then grabbed her by the waist and set her onto his destrier. She shifted sideways. Before she could hook her right leg around the wide pommel, his fingers closed about her ankle.

“Nay, Geneen.” His thumb stroked her instep, sending a shiver skittering up her leg. “You need ride astride so we ride as one.”

“But—”

“Trust me. Should we be set upon again and I have to spur this horse, you’ll thank me.”

Reluctantly, she swung her right leg over the destrier’s neck, mindful that her skirt rode up and that both her legs were now exposed to God and country up to her knees.

Praise the saints her mother wasn’t alive to see it.

Britt slipped into the saddle behind her and picked up the reins.

Within minutes—and despite both trying to keep a modest few inches betwixt them, his groin pressed against her hurdies thanks to his well-worn saddle. Good Lord! Was that long firmness what she thought it was? Aye! ’Twas.

She glared over her shoulder at him.

“My apologies, my lady, but I am a man.”

She huffed and faced forward. “So I noticed.”

Please, merciful God, keep dear Anton safe.

Seven agonizing days had passed since he’d taken leave to deal with the whore.

Having done all that her mentor and guardian suggested, the time had come for Yolande to carefully pen the lie that would save her life. She dipped her quill in ink, then took a deep, settling breath to steady her shaking hand.

My beloved and honorable husband,

I have a most important and joyful secret to share. I pray for your quick and safe arrival and that my tidings will bring you as much joy as they do your devoted servant and loving wife.

Yolande, Queen of Scots

She dusted and carefully folded the parchment, then lit her sealing-wax candle. When a sizable puddle took shape along the fold, she pressed her signet ring into the red wax. “Evette, I’ve a task for you.”

In the nearby window alcove, her cousin looked up from her reading. “
Oui
?”

Yolande held out her sealed missive. “Please see that this is delivered to His Majesty—and only to him—as soon as possible.”

Evette, grinning, came to her side. “I’ve been wondering how long you could keep your secret to yourself.”

Yolande blinked in owl fashion as if caught off guard. “And what secret might that be?”

Evette rolled her eyes. “That you’re with child, dearest. Your entire court has suspected such for a while.” She slid a sidelong glance to the ladies Campbell and Fraser, who were embroidering before the roaring fire. “In fact, I wouldn’t be the least surprised to learn the news has already reached Sir Lyle’s ears.”

Yolande, suspecting as much, still stiffened. “And to the king’s?”

Surely he would have come to her by now had he heard. His doing so was imperative to her truly begetting a child.

Evette shook her head. “Ross is no fool. He knows the king would be affronted learning others in Edinburgh knew of the upcoming blessed event before he did.”

Relaxing, Yolande wrapped an arm about her cousin’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeezing. “Thank you for reminding me that I’d be foolish to think I could ever keep anything secret here.”

 
“
Fighting is better than fear.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Eight

The vivid hues of gloaming had been swallowed by the deep soot of night when Britt murmured, “See yon light?”

Gen looked in the direction he pointed and saw a faint yellow flicker against the black mountains. “Aye?”

“’Tis the watch fire on Edinburgh’s southern wall.”

“Oh.” Now that they were within sight of their destination, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Around a tight dry throat, she asked, “When will we get there?”