The King's Mistress (13 page)

“What? I don’t understand.”

His heart thumped heavily within his chest. “You have not the
Gaidhlig
, then?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

Praise God. He’d told her he loved her. At what point his feelings had shifted from pure lust to so much more, he could not have said. They just had. Worse, had she understood his words, then she would hold him in no higher regard than she did their dead king when she finally learned the truth about Cassandra. Of that he had no doubt. Losing her high regard he could not bear. ’Twas all he’d ever be able to claim, truly have.

He managed a smile. “Woman, how can you be a Scot and not ken your native tongue?”

She laughed, husky and sweet. “’Tis because I’m Scot, you heathen, that Scot
is
my tongue.”

He laughed then. “Brave talk for a lass behind bars.”

“Aye, and I’d much appreciate you putting an end to it.”

He kissed her fingers, all he could reach with a four-inch-thick door betwixt them, then reluctantly stepped away. “
A ghraid,
I shall get you out if I have to tear down the walls with my bare hands.”

As his footsteps echoed down the corridor, Genny sniffled back the tears that had been threatening to spill since hearing Britt shout her name. How could she have ever doubted him? What a goose she’d been to think he’d abandon her after all they’d already been through. “’Twas just fear making me as addle-brained as Greer.”

She put her back to the door, thankful Britt had left the wee window open, and looked about her filthy cell. How many had anguished, wasted away and died here?

Praise God and the saints, Greer, by now safely at Benbirk with their aunt, would be enjoying far better accommodations. Had her sister been the one locked away…

Genny shuddered. Her twin, for all her teary blustering and being the elder, was at her core naught but a willful bairn who, afraid of the dark, searched for constant light and laughter. God only kenned how Greer, already frightened out of her mind, would have managed here.

Thank God she had Britt. Recalling how frightened she’d been when she’d first set eyes upon him standing so tall and proud on her stoop, she sighed. That he’d nearly been killed trying to protect her still set her hands to shaking when she thought on it, his chivalry and courage still astounding her but no more so than his kiss. Who could have guessed a kiss could turn one’s legs and brain to pudding and cause one’s blood to run so hot it seared the limbs? She sighed as the truth settled over her.

She’d fallen hopelessly in love with Britt MacKinnon, a man who’d sworn never to love again. Just her luck.

But then again, he did act most fond of her. She’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in each kiss and had heard it in his voice when he’d sworn to set her free. As importantly, his character and form made him the perfect sire for bairns she thought she never craved but now, for some mysterious reason, she dearly wanted…with him. She could well imagine them. Brawny laddies with the look of him, mayhap three, and then perhaps twin girls as fair as she and Greer.

Hmm. Given enough thought, she could quite possibly make this dream come true. All she had to do was convince him that he wanted their union as much as she did.

Out of long habit—and admittedly being not one easily denied once she’d set her mind to a task—Genny methodically divided her problem into logistical parts. When she had each neatly aligned in her mind, she asked the rat eyeing her from the filthy rushes, “So, first I must seduce him.” Given the scarceness of priests, none cared—save those royal—if a couple tupped before signing their names to a ledger. After all, there was no church edict against tupping, for ’twas as natural as heather. There was only a law against adultery and with good reason. She sighed. Greer was certainly paying the wages for that sin and would keep on paying upon learning her lover was dead.

The yellow eyes watching her from the corner blinked.

“So you agree. But how exactly does one go about seducing a man?”

 
“
Twixt the stone and the turf.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Eleven

Britt entered the great hall, which had been emptied of all but two guards and thirty-two of the forty-plus liege lords who would eventually make up the full Privy Council. Leaning toward the battle-tested guard manning the main staircase, he whispered, “How goes it?”

Macpherson shrugged. “They’ve agreed on no less than six trumpeter heralds for the processional and to having one bagpiper from each clan preceding the coffin. They’re now arguing over who shall serve as first pallbearers and for how long before the second and third teams take over.”

Britt rolled his eyes, looked around the hall and found Ross, who, having already spied Britt, was making his way toward him. Coming abreast, his friend whispered, “We’re in closed session, Britt.”

“Aye, but I’ve a most urgent petition to put before Comyn.”

Ross waited for an explanation. When Britt offered none, he frowned but walked over to the Earl of Buchan and whispered in his ear. Comyn nodded, which meant Britt would have his hearing, but he would have to wait.

Hours ticked by, men argued, men agreed and men yawned. Finally, Comyn signaled Britt forward. He bowed before the men who’d come together to decide Scotland’s future, most of whom were earls but a few who were landed knights as he himself would one day be upon his father’s death. After recognizing the assemblage, he said, “Our clanswoman, Lady Armstrong, has been locked below in Edinburgh’s dungeon on orders of Yolande de Dreux without due process, without a public declaration of her offense and without redress. I humbly beg you order the queen consort relinquish the key to Lady Armstrong’s cell forthwith, so she might be set free until such time as she—if need be—goes through a proper and public trial before the Privy Council.”

Despite the assemblage considering themselves good and just men, Britt wasn’t the least surprised that not one raised a hue and cry over the injustice he’d outlined. All understood the cause for Yolande’s distaste of Greer Armstrong, and many felt it justified. What they didn’t know, and Britt couldn’t tell them, was that the queen had imprisoned the wrong woman.

Comyn, at least, had the decency to glare at those who snickered, then turned his attention back to Britt. “MacKinnon, we have far more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. When the Council officially convenes, we shall be happy to take the matter under consideration, but not until
after
we finish with the business of Scotland.”

“But, Your Grace, ’twill be days before the Southerland and the MacDonald arrive and the full council can convene. Then more days shall be lost in endless discussion. Nay, you cannot let the lady languish so long in a dark, dank cell when she is innocent of any and all crimes. Your Grace, I know—”

Comyn held up a hand. “Sir, you have my answer. You are excused.”

Teeth clenched, Britt turned on his heel. At the stairs, Ross caught up with him, and Britt hissed, “The outside of my loof to you all.”

Ross grabbed his arm. “Whoa, now. Tell me what’s going on, or I swear I’ll have you tossed into the cell next to Lady Greer.”

Britt glared at the steely fingers gripping his arm. “’Tis not Greer Armstrong in that cell.”

Scowling, Ross released his arm and motioned for Britt to follow him up the stairs. Finding the first floor landing empty, he stopped, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “If not Greer Armstrong, then, pray tell, who is she? I swear you’ve not been in your right mind since fetching that woman.”

Britt took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders in an effort to ease the tension running up his neck. “The woman in the cell is not Greer Armstrong. ’Tis her twin, Geneen.”

Ross, brow furrowing, straightened. “Ah, that explains her behaving so oddly.”

“You see now why we need set her free? She’s an innocent. I grabbed the wrong woman.”

“So why did you not tell the Council this?”

Britt sighed. “’Tis complicated.”

“
Humph
. What I see is that you’ve come to care for this Geneen, want her for yourself.” When Britt didn’t deny it, Ross grumbled, “As you lust, but do us all a favor. The moment she’s released, take her somewhere private and tup her blind. Take a day or two. I don’t care. Just get her out of your system, then send her home.” Ross huffed and started down the stairs. “All hell is about to break loose, my friend, and I need you with a clear head.”

Fists clenched, Britt watched his friend disappear. What to do now? He would love to do as Ross suggested, ached to do so, but ’twas impossible. He could not simply tup Gen, then send her on her way. Kissing her had been mistake enough. The simple act had given him a taste of what might have been had he not allowed himself to be led by the bollocks so many years ago. ’Twas too late to correct that mistake, but he’d be damned if he would make another. Should he be so foolish as to take Ross’s advice—should he and Gen become lovers—Britt knew to his bones he would never be able to give her up. And that would destroy her.

He gave himself a hard mental shake, shifting his attention to the most pressing problem at hand. He had to somehow manage Gen’s release on his own.

Regrettably, he had no advantage over the queen. And then there was the problem of Montre. Now that his king was dead, Montre had become a liability, one better dead than set free—

Or was he?

Britt thought back to the last time he’d seen Montre and Yolande de Dreux in whispered discussion on this very staircase. Yolande had been in an obvious royal temper, doubtless over something she’d seen in the hall betwixt her husband and Lady Greer. At one point, she’d burst into tears, and Montre had taken her into his arms, patted her back as he whispered urgently into her ear. After a moment, Yolande, apparently appeased, dashed at her tears and nodded. The moment she turned, Montre rolled his eyes as if to say,
Women! I’ll never understand them.

Or perhaps he’d done so because he knew her
too
well. As a father might his daughter.

They were not lovers. Of that he was certain. The ladies Campbell and Fraser would have reported such had they even suspected a liaison. Aye, there was definitely more betwixt Yolande and Montre than a simple relationship of chief guard and queen.

“Aye, and quite possibly I’ve found the other way to skin this fox.”

He jogged up the stairs to the queen’s apartment, where he found one of her guards before the door. “Sir Britt MacKinnon to see the queen consort.”

The guard’s bored expression shifted to one of distain. “Her Highness is not to be disturbed.”

“Tell her I bring word of Montre.”

Within two breaths, Britt was ushered into the presence chamber, where he found Yolande standing pike straight before her perpetual fire, the door to her private chamber and nosy court closed. “You have news of Montre, sir?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He looked over his shoulder to be sure the guard had closed the apartment’s exterior door behind him.

Sweat that had little to do with the stuffy room trickled betwixt his shoulder blades. The stakes were high. If his instincts were correct, what he was about to say could very well so unsettle their queen that she could lose the bairn she carried, the heir Scotland so desperately needed, but there was no hope for it. He could stand guard at Gen’s cell door for days on end if need be, provide her with food and drink, but he could not protect her from the rats’ nightly forays. One bite and Gen could die of purulence and fever before the Council had time to hear her case.

“Your Highness, Montre has been in my keeping since he and his two henchmen attempted but failed to kill Lady Armstrong and myself.”

Yolande blanched. “This is outrageous! You must bring him to us immediately.”

“I shall…after you give me the key to Lady Armstrong’s cell.”

Yolande gaped at him, her cheeks now sporting vivid red blotches. “No! You shall bring Montre to me this instant. I am your queen. You shall do as I order.”

Britt snorted. “You are naught but a queen consort, one who—the Council would be most interested to learn—has tried and failed to kill two of His Majesty’s subjects without his knowledge or consent whilst he still lived.” Britt blew through his teeth. “My king is now dead, but soon too will be your bodyguard if you do not hand over that key to Lady Armstrong’s cell.”

Yolande staggered back, hands blindly reaching for the chair behind her. Collapsing onto it, she hissed, “You would not dare.”

“I not only would dare but
will,
since none would be any the wiser, for only I and Lady Armstrong know he did not meet his end on the road but is now my prisoner.” A blatant lie, since Ross, MacLean and Hildy also knew he held Montre, but she had no way of knowing this.

“Is he well?”

“He is injured, Your Highness.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Grievously?”

“With proper care, he will survive.”

As she ruminated, gnawing on her trembling lower lip, Britt, his middle churning, waited. Finally, she reached into her pocket and pulled forth the large iron key he sought. Holding it close to her sparrow’s bosom, she said, “I have your word that Montre is alive and that you shall bring him to me?”

“He is alive, but I shan’t bring him here, for that would raise questions you doubtless do not want asked. I shall bring him to a safe place where your men may find him and then take him to Kinghorn, where he can be tended to properly and in private.”

“But how shall I know where?”

Britt weighed his safest options. “I shall send word of the locale through my squire.”

His quiver empty, Britt held his breath. He could do naught now but pray. Finally, she held out the key. “Take it, but know I shall not suffer Lady Armstrong in my presence. You must send her away.”

Hell, he’d not anticipated that. Taking the key, he said, “Your Majesty, our custom demands Lady Armstrong remain within Edinburgh until
after
the funeral.” In truth only Scotland’s chiefs and those clansmen from within one hundred miles were expected to show their respects by attending the burial.