The King's Mistress (18 page)

Beneath his boot, the stair tread screeched like a cat with its tail caught in a dog’s jaws. He really must remember to speak to MacLean about getting the damn thing fixed.

At the landing, he found the door to Gen’s chamber slightly ajar, the sliver of light spilling out as if in welcome, and he smiled. Two long strides and he pressed his palm to the door, then froze.

Sweet Mother of God and the Holy Trinity.

Seeing Gen rise from her hip bath, her back to him, he gulped, his breath catching in his chest. Unaware of his heated perusal, she, humming quietly to herself, lifted her hair from her neck and arched her back. Water, sluicing like liquid diamonds off a sheet of gold, rolled over the gentle swell of her hips and glistening hurdies—as round and firm as polished silver globes in the candlelight—then fell in gentle streams down the length of her long, white thighs.

Blood thundered toward his groin. His mouth went dry. He envied the water. Wanted to run his hands and tongue over the very paths it took, then lap up whatever drops remained from her pale skin made pink by the warm water.

In an effort to breathe, he cleared his throat. She jerked at the sound and looked over her shoulder, her lush lips forming a perfect surprised O. Blushing scarlet, she immediately crossed one arm over her breasts, and the other slipped down to cover the golden apex of her thighs. She looked from him to the toweling sheet tossed out of reach on the bed.

“Uhmm,” she said, in an obvious quandary.

Had he been gallant—or of loose tongue—he would have apologized and backed out, closing the door behind him. But then he was neither. He’d spent too many wakeful nights imagining Geneen Armstrong in a state such as this.

He walked into the room and closed the door.

 
“
It was supposing that destroyed the lady.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Thirteen

Oh dear! Genny gulped when Britt dropped the bar locking the door behind him. His gaze slid from her to the toweling lying next to her modest gown and shift on the large, inviting bed. She held her breath as he took his time picking up the toweling, then, with eyes hooded, crossed the too-small room toward her. A predator on the prowl.

Sir Britt MacKinnon was definitely not adhering to the plan she and Hildy had set forth!

Britt was
supposed
to have spied her rising like some Celtic goddess from the sea, and then, being a chivalrous knight of girth and sword, he was
supposed
to have quietly closed the door. He was to think upon what he’d seen out in the hall whilst she quickly dressed, and then he was
supposed
to knock, and she’d bid him enter. They would dine. He would bid her good-night as he was wont to do and go to the barn where he’d be unable to sleep. He would then return to her, profess his love and hitch to wed. She, in turn, would profess her love and bid him take her…body and soul. Getting Hildy to share
those
intimate secrets had been a bit of a headache. Genny did hate speaking ill of the dead but had had no choice but to lie and claim the king bedded her only to suckle…his wife being so sparrow-breasted and all. Hildy, grinning, had thought on this and said, “Aye, I’ve had one or two of those. Odd ducks, aye?”

And what Hildy had told her about bedding! How she could get the most pleasure. My goodness, who would have ever kenned?

So she’d planned and prepared well for everything…but this.

“My lady?” He stretched out his arms, making a neck-high screen of the sheeting so she might step out of the hip bath.

Not kenning what else to do, Gen tried to snatch the sheet from his hands. “Please let go.”

To her annoyance, he grinned, keeping tight his hold. “Now why would I lust to do that? I rather like what I’ve seen thus far.”

She huffed in exasperation, stepped out of the water and reached around the sheeting for her shift. Before she could grasp it, his arms closed about her, enfolding her in the soft fabric.

“Do you taste as good as you smell?” he asked, lifting the wet strands clinging to her neck and back from beneath the sheeting. He pressed his lips to her neck, sending the most astounding skitters down her spine. “Ah, you do,
a ghraidh.
”

She was most pleased he thought so but had bigger doves to pluck. Trying to ignore the delicious flutters tripping down her limbs, she looked over her shoulder, focusing on his countenance, hoping to discern more than simple lust. “You’ve called me
a ghraidh
before. What does it mean?”

“It means…” He hesitated as if pondering whether or not to tell her, then murmured, “My love.”

Delighted, she rotated in his arms to face him. “Truly?”

His hands slipped to her hips, pressing her to him. Feeling his arousal, she had no doubt of his body’s needs, but what of his heart’s?

“Truly,” he said. “Were circumstances different, I would have made my feelings for you known long before now and despite my having wanted to throttle you on more than one occasion.” She grinned, as did he; then he sobered. “I think us very well suited, Geneen Armstrong, but my life is in shambles. A total ruin.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve no right to even speak to you thus, much less hold you in such an”—he glanced down to where her breasts pressed his chest—“
intimate
manner.” A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, then just as quickly disappeared. “May I ask you something?”

“Ask anything you lust.” Ask for the moon. She would try to grant it. He loved her! The saints be praised, he loved her.

“Do you lust for a home of your own and bairns?”

He looked so forlorn, her heart lurched. She reached up and stroked his cheek, marveling that the dark shadow coating his wonderfully strong jaws wasn’t scratchy as her father’s had been but felt delightfully soft to the touch. “I do.” She ducked her chin. “I’ve been so bold as to imagine our bonnie sons, both with your countenance and stature, and mayhap a daughter or two for me to fuss over and you to fash over.”

When he said naught, she looked up and instead of finding him grinning at her silly fantasies, she found his expression most grave. Before she could ask why, he said, “Then,
a ghraidh,
you must forget about me and find a better man. One who’ll be able to give you such…for I cannot.”

“But—”

Dumb ox! She had no need to ask why he said such things. She already kenned. How could she be so thoughtless, so dense?

With Alexander dead, Britt now had no means by which to provide for a family. Whomever the Privy Council chose as regent would want his own man as captain of the guard. Britt, estranged from his father, would have no choice but to become a sword for hire, a mercenary. Something men of character are loath to do. Should none of the chiefs hire him, his choices would be reduced to starvation or going on crusade.

Suddenly, place names—Syria, Damietta, Antioch and Tripoli—and horrors beyond description from her father’s many tales ran riot through her mind. The very thought of Britt dying in one such godforsaken place made her pulse race, her blood run cold.

She clasped his face betwixt her hands. “Britt, I need you to promise me something.”

He grinned. “Anything you lust.”

She thumped his chest with a palm. “’Tis serious.”

He covered her hand with his, pressing it to his chest. She felt his heart take an erratic thud before he murmured, “All right. What is it you would have me promise?”

“Promise me that you will never go on a crusade.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, but his heart steadied beneath her palm. “Upon my honor, I promise never to go on crusade.”

“Thank you.” Much relieved and having taken care of that fear, she readied to broach her greatest. What she would do or say should his answer not be what she wished to hear, she dared not imagine. She could only pray for dignity, to take the blow without falling apart. She took a deep breath. “If your circumstances were different, would you still wish me to find another?”

The muscles along his jaw twitched, and his arm tightened about her. “Nay, never.” He ran a finger along her lower lip, his expression dark. “Upon my honor, if I were free to do as I lust…if I could change what is, I would take you to wife before the cock’s crow.”

’Twas all she needed to hear. He loved her! And now to put his fears to rest.

“You admired my cattle and sheep, aye?” When he nodded, she said, “I bred them. I ken husbandry as few others do. I’ve the best wool. We can breed your destrier. I ken just the mare. Their foals will be the finest, fetch small fortunes. And we can trade for a few of the earl’s lambs.”

Her mind filled with possibilities. Together they had the skills to turn any holding, no matter how humble, into not only a loving home but a profitable one. He would never again have to raise his sword save for in defense of hearth and clan. And who kenned, mayhap she and their bairns might even become a force in bridging the rift twixt Britt and his father.

Heart soaring, she rose on tiptoes and boldly pressed her lips to his. He groaned and deepened the kiss, taking control, his tongue sweeping past her lips as his hands swept over her in urgent fashion, setting her blood afire and her bones to pudding.

’Tis glorious, this meeting of mind, heart and body.

This was what she’d been longing for on those long, confusing nights in Buddle when she hadn’t been able to sleep. A man to love.

Too soon he ended the kiss and released his hold. Smiling down at her in wistful fashion, he took a step back. “As much as it pains me, I need go,
a ghraidh
. Else I make the biggest mistake of my life.”

She blinked in confusion. He had no cause to leave. She loved him. He loved her. He’d said so. He wanted her. She wanted him. So how could his staying and bedding her be a mistake? “But…?”

He shrugged as if to say he didn’t understand either and, sighing, turned away.

She clutched the sheet to her aching breast. Tears burned at the back of her throat and pooled in her eyes as he reached for the latch. “Britt?”

His hand froze. With his back still to her, he said, “Please…I beg you.”

“I’m a woman of few wants who loves you. Please look at me.” She released her hold on the sheeting and let it drop to the floor so he might see her as she truly was, a simple woman who loved and wanted to be loved, without care for trappings, so he might put his pride aside and listen to his heart. When he finally turned, she saw hunger and an unaccountable longing in his eyes.

Heart tripping, she whispered, “Was our king not proof that gold can’t purchase happiness? Was his death not proof enough that we can’t count on a morrow? That all we have is our here and now?”

They stared mutely at each other for what felt like a lifetime.

Undone by the tears streaming down her cheeks, Britt closed his eyes.

This woman he had no right to love had bravely put forth on the line of battle every weapon in her arsenal. Her hopes, her fears and her pride. She’d held naught back, then committed to battle without hope of escape. How could he now deny her her victory?

He could not.

Heart thudding a hard tattoo against his ribs, Britt closed the distance betwixt them and took her into his arms. “There’s no need to weep,
a ghraidh,
for I do love you.”

With every ounce of my being and knowing full well this love sets my place at hell’s table.

He scooped her up and carried her to the bed, where he laid her down gently, then brushed the tears from her cheek. “You’re certain?”

She nodded. “Most certain.”

His gaze roamed over the lush curves he’d so often dreamt of but never dared believe he might actually one day touch, as he tore off his breastplate, his
breachen feile
, mail and shirt and tossed them aside. Standing naked before her, letting her drink her fill of him, he waited with bated breath. More than one woman had found his proportions intimidating. He had to be sure that if Gen found them so as well—had a change of heart—he gave her ample time to bolt. To his relief, she, nibbling her bottom lip, patted the ticking next to her.

Lying down beside her, he caused the mattress to trough. She, warm and flushed, rolled toward him and wrapped her arms about his neck. “I’ve dreamt of this.”

He pulled her close and draped a thigh over hers, cocooning her. “I’ve longed for this moment since first setting eyes on you.”

She grinned in shy fashion. “I fear I can’t say the same.”

Not a talker in bed but suspecting she needed time, he asked, “So when was it that you started to fall in love with me?”

“You’ll laugh.”

He kissed her brow. “Nay, tell me.”

“When you drank the milk, looked like a pup with a mouthful of stink bug.”

He grinned. The stuff had been foul. “And when did you ken for certain?”

“Whilst in the dungeon, when I feared I might not live to see you again. The very thought was more terrifying than any impending torture or death.”

He’d expected her to say when he’d gifted her with the gray. What a curious creature she was. Truly guileless and wonderful. “I kenned the same, finding you behind those bars…but now you’re here.”

She murmured
hmmm,
and he brought his lips to hers, taking his time memorizing the soft, smooth contours, his hands doing the same over her back and hurdies. Her hands burrowed into his hair as she pressed closer, her breath coming in shorter and shorter heated pants.

Aye, she wanted him, but he would not cross
that
line. He would bring her to the ultimate pleasure, then, satiated, she would fall asleep, and he, as much as it would pain him, would take his leave.

He rolled, taking her with him so that he rested on her, his heart’s desire. Looking into her bonnie blue eyes, he silently told her,
Oh, but that I could make you mine before God and man.

He kissed her as if such were the case, trailing kisses down her body from graceful neck to glorious breasts, then lower still as he rocked above her. To his great pleasure, she grew feverish, her breath coming in quicker and quicker gasps. Sooner than he expected, she began to moan and clutch at him. He rolled to his side so he could stroke her most intimate place, bring her to her pinnacle. She gasped at his touch and, keening his name, arched. Kenning where she soared, wishing with all his heart he could follow but not daring, he delved deeper into her mouth, relishing the warm confines, capturing her ragged breaths…