The King's Mistress (17 page)

She smiled. “Not in the way you mean and not for my lack of my trying, I can assure you. He’s easy on the eye.” She winked, then shrugged. “What I meant to say is men like MacKinnon need to take wives to beget legal heirs but only
rent
mistresses. You’ve seen my boudoir
.
You’d do well to get what you can whilst you can.” A smile played about her lips, then abruptly disappeared. “I’m not being cruel, my lady. ’Tis simply that I can tell you’re new at this, despite you having been with the king. I guess what I’m trying to say is that your pretty face won’t last forever, any more than mine will. You need keep that in mind as you pick and choose whom you bed.”

Oh dear Lord, she thinks I’m a whore…like her!

Gen opened her mouth to correct the woman’s dreadful misconception, then, thinking better of it, clamped down on her tongue. Here was the perfect opportunity to learn something of value, something she needed…but she must be very careful acquiring it.

Hildy cocked her head. “You want to ask something. Go on. No need for shyness betwixt birds of a feather.”

Augh. Gen took a deep breath. “All right. How does one ken for certain that you’ve…uhmm, garnered a man’s interest? That he wants you?”

Hildy looked at Gen as if she’d sprouted feathers. “Oh my, you
are
green as grass if you need ask that.”

Gen waved a dismissive hand. “I ken when a man is in…”

“Rut?” A grin danced about Hildy’s full lips. “And how might you ken that exactly?”

Feeling heat rise up her neck, Gen made a vague motion below her waist. “His…uhmm—”

“Cock?”

“I
was
going to say rod.”

“Ah, as in ‘his rod and his staff, they comfort me’.”

“Hildy!” Lord God and Saint Bride preserve her. Talking to this woman was impossible. That she even knew the psalm was shock enough.

Gen turned on her heel to leave, but Hildy reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Stay. Please. I kenned what you meant and was only taunting you. Please stay. I’ve so few women to talk with as it is.”

Gen huffed. She did want answers. “As you lust, but be warned, not another word of blasphemy, or I leave.”

“Not another word, I hitch.” She grinned and patted the cottie stool beside her. “Sit and tell me what has you so…
perplexe.
”

Gen settled on the stool, her thoughts in a tumble as to where to begin. “I ken the nature of breeding. Do ken which parts go where, as it were, but ken aught about the…heart of it. He lusts, aye.” She grinned sheepishly, recalling her and Britt’s mutual discomforts while riding tandem. “But he has yet to speak a word of his feelings, nor has he tried to bed me.”

“Hmm. Could it be that he thinks of you only as the king’s property?”

“Nay, he has kissed me.”

This was apparently of great interest, for Hildy stared at her. “Has he now?”

Unable to keep from blushing, Gen looked away. “Aye, and on three separate occasions.” But not once since their time at the stable, and certainly not last night nor the night before.

“My, my. In my experience, kissing usually leads to bedding. Leastwise with the furry ones.”

Gen didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help herself. “What furry ones?”

“You ken the ones donning fox, ermine and such. They like their kissing before they sink their coc—rod.” She shrugged. “The burghers, on the other hand, are usually in a hurry and prefer it like their whisky—quick and neat—but they pay well, so who am I to complain.”

Good God’s porridge. What a life this woman leads.

“So what, precisely,” Hildy asked, “has you fashing?”

In for a copper, in for a pound sterling, my lass.
“Do you swear not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you?”

“Oh aye!” Hildy made the sign of the cross on her ample bosom.

“All right, then. I love Britt MacKinnon and wish to wed him.”

She told Hildy about her well thought out, step-by-step plan and her failed attempts to get Britt in bed with her. Hildy murmured a few
hmmms
on occasion but otherwise kept her own counsel. When Gen came to the end of her sad tale, she, elbow on a knee, rested her chin in her hand. “So there you have it, the whole tale. Two well-planned attempts and two miserable failures. I’m truly a sorry excuse for a woman.”

’Twas no doubt about it.

Grinning, Hildy patted her back in motherly fashion. “M’lady, there’s naught wrong with you or what you’re wanting. ’Tis the way you’ve gone about it.”

Gen straightened. “How have I gone wrong?” She’d spent hours ruminating over each and every step.

“Well, to start—and I mean no offense—you’ve been acting the vestal virgin instead of the determined woman who kens what she wants.”

“I have
not.
”

Hildy snorted. “For heaven’s sake, you were planning on
bundling
with MacKinnon.”

“Not so.” To bundle, she and Britt would have had to have been cocooned to the neck in a linen bag whilst fully dressed. She’d planned to simply lie beside him with her hair loose and in her nightshift beneath the counterpane whilst he lay next to her atop the counterpane. Sensible and safe for her whilst being thought-provoking for a man of Britt’s apparent appetites.

“Close enough,” Hildy insisted, “and a charming custom for the young, but we both ken you and MacKinnon are well past first blush.”

She was? MacKinnon certainly, but…

Gen sighed, deciding the woman might be right. “So what do you suggest I do instead?”

Grinning, Hildy said, “You take advantage of his every weakness and take no prisoners, m’lady.”

Genny seriously doubted Britt had any weaknesses, but she was also at the end of her creative tether and had naught but Britt and her happily-ever-after ending to lose. “Tell me what I need do.”

 
“
The man that wants must take the trouble.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Twelve

“Angus, a word, if you please.”

Britt’s second in command—chosen as much for his brawn as for his level head, followed him into the shadow of the curtain wall. “Aye, MacKinnon?”

“How goes it?”

“Just two fights thus far resulting in a few cuts and severed wee finger, but little else.”

“Good. I need a boon.”

“Whatever you lust.”

“I need you to keep an eye on Lady Armstrong, see that no harm comes to her whilst I attend the funeral.” Had women been allowed, he’d have insisted Genny go with him, but such was not the case.

Angus arched a brushy dark eyebrow. “Hmm, seeing Lady Armstrong walking about, I thought the tiff with Her Highness—the one that resulted in her spending a day’s penance in the dungeon—was behind them. Do you anticipate more trouble betwixt the two?”

Relieved the rumor he’d put forth had been accepted as truth, Britt said, “Where our queen consort is concerned, I prefer leaving nothing to chance.”

She and Montre had yet to speak face-to-face, so Yolande had no idea on what fragile ice she treaded. That Britt
would
make good his promise to Montre and see her dead should she move against Gen again.

Presently, the only thing the conniving witch feared was the Privy Council learning of her duplicity, which in his absence might not prove enough to hold her in check. Fearing she might arrange a kidnapping, then claim innocence, Britt said, “Assign Lady Armstrong a constant guard. She’s not to walk out these gates unescorted. Since being dismissed from court, she’s staying at MacLean’s. Do you know the place?”

A brow arched, and a twinkle caught his eye. “Oh, aye, I know the place well.”

“Obviously I pay you too much.”

Angus laughed, then sobered as he looked about the crowded ward, at the hundreds of lounging warriors eyeing one another in suspicious fashion. “You can never pay me enough.”

“True.” Angus would have his hands full keeping this lot occupied and away from each other’s throats. “Soon they’ll be gone.”

“And none too soon.”

Britt nodded. “Any questions?”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days at most.”

When Angus nodded, Britt bid him good-night and made a final tour of the north wall and upper ward. Satisfied all was as it should be—that his men were well fed and as content as could be, surrounded by too many warriors they neither liked nor trusted—he crossed the ward to Saint Margaret’s Chapel, where his king lay.

Inside, he ignored those kneeling in prayer and looked at the coffin now illuminated by dozens of candles, and his gut churned, whether from the reek of burning incense or from the sight, he wasn’t sure.

On the morrow, he among many others would take their turns carrying Alexander upon their shoulders out of Edinburg. Upon reaching the Firth of Forth, they would place his coffin on a waiting ship and escort it across the water, and then carry it and their king to his final resting place at Dunfermline Abbey, a striking edifice of flying buttresses, columns and spires. ’Twould be a fitting place for a good but headstrong king who died, tragically, before his time.

Britt, sighing, made the sign of the cross, and left. As much as he hated the need to do it, he’d delayed the inevitable—his heart-to-heart conversation with Genny—as long as he dared.

He shouldn’t have kissed her again. But seeing her joyous countenance upon learning she owned the gray, seeing the look of admiration for him in her eyes, he’d been hopelessly lost. Wanting to share in her joy—nay,
needing
to share in her joy since he had so little to call his own—he’d pulled her close. And she’d melted into him, dissolving what little resolve he’d earlier mustered.

But no more.

He’d fallen in love with her, of that he had no doubt, but no more kissing. No more hugging. Hell, no more simply holding hands. He could no longer give in to his baser needs. He had to stand firm, or he’d hurt her beyond all forgiveness or redemption.

As he reached the gatehouse, someone called his name, and he stopped to find the petite Lady Campbell standing in the shadows. “Good eve, Your Grace.”

“Good eve, MacKinnon. I need ask a boon. May we speak in private?”

Tonight was apparently the night for boons. “Of course.”

Seeing the nearest gatehouse room vacant but well lit, he guided her in and closed the door, whereupon he discovered her cheeks were blotchy and her bonnie brown eyes red-rimmed. Concerned, he said, “Your Grace, how may I be of assistance?”

“Uhmm”—she wrung her hands—“you know where Lady Armstrong is lodging, aye?”

The fine hairs rose on the back of Britt’s neck. “I do.”

She burst into tears. “I fear…I fear I’ve done something quite terrible.”

Hildy pointed to the padded cottie stool before her mirror. “Sit and I’ll brush out your hair.”

Genny, clutching the sheeting tight about herself, her middle in turmoil, sat. Beeswax candles Hildy reserved for the best of clients glowed, filling the room with delicate scent. Rose petals floated in the steaming hip bath. A heavy wineskin full of rich burgundy hung by what she’d come to think of as Britt’s chair. Looking at their simple supper of sausage, cheese and bread, she told Hildy, “I still think I should have made a stuffed pullet. He liked that very much.”

“If he found midday fare awaiting him at this hour, he’d grow suspicious. Besides, a stuffed, satiated man sleeps, and you want him wide awake and thinking.”

She did want him thinking…about her and a future together. “But what if he takes one look at me and bolts for the barn?”

Hildy snorted in unladylike fashion. “MacKinnon is a man. All man. If you do as I say, he won’t be able to breathe, much less bolt.”

“I pray you’re right.” On the morrow, he would leave and be gone for she didn’t know how long. Meanwhile her courses would come, she’d make that known to the women who remained behind by groaning and whatnot, and then, with her mission accomplished, she’d have no reason to stay on. Not without his wanting her to stay.

She might never see him again.

An ache, deep and strong, took her breath away. Hunching forward, she wrapped her arms about her waist.

Hildy knelt before her and parted the hair falling over Genny’s face. “Are you all right?”

If only she could tell Hildy the truth, but she didn’t dare. “Just a wee bit frightened.”

Hildy smiled. “Ah, I see. He is rather brawny, but ’tis no reason to fash. He’s experienced, has doubtless run into this problem before and will take care.”

Good Lord, that wasn’t what she meant at all. But now that Hildy had brought up the matter of size—

“Listen!” Hildy jumped up. “Someone’s coming.”

Hearing gravel crunch underfoot in the yard, Gen stood, her legs suddenly quaking. Oh dear. ’Twas now or never.

Hildy peered out the window. “’Tis MacKinnon!” She grinned at Gen and flapped her hands. “Hie now, into the bath. And remember, men are like bairns. Give them a glimpse of the sweets, and they’ll come back for more. I’ll leave the door open just a wee bit so you’ll hear the tread squeak. When it does, rise, and he cannot help but get an eyeful.” She gave the room a final glance, then blew Gen a kiss. “Good luck, m’lady.”

“Good eve, mistress.” Britt’s gaze roved over Hildy in appreciative fashion. “You look most fetching tonight.”

Hildy, smiling broadly, preened. “Why thank you, MacKinnon. I hope my gentleman thinks so, as well.”

He laughed. “I’m sure he will. Is Lady Armstrong above?”

“Aye. I do hate to say hello and good-bye in one breath, but I really must go, else I be late for my rendezvous. Have a good evening.”

Before he could wish her well, she was gone, the door thumping closed behind her. Despite her occupation, Hildy truly was truly a good lass at heart. ’Twas sad knowing she’d soon be having a hard row to hoe thanks to her having already lost that blush of youth and innocence that Genny, a good few years Hildy’s senior, still retained.

As he climbed the stairs, the notion of leaving Gen to her own devices—even with an armed guard—gnawed at him. She’d proved headstrong on more than one occasion and might prove too much for the man. She’d certainly proved too much for Lady Campbell, and the countess wasn’t easily cowed. He, on the other hand, could handle Gen. Would gladly shed blood for the privilege. If only he could relive his life and start anew, but alas…