The King's Mistress (19 page)

“Oh! Oh! Britt!”

As she shuddered and slowly fell back to earth, he froze.

Somehow, some way during their lovemaking, she’d cocked her leg above his hip, and he, in the heat of passion, had come to her, was now well within her. Fully engorged and throbbing.

Oh shit!

How on God’s green earth had this happened?

She nuzzled his neck and rocked her hips. Wrapped in warm, delicious slickness, his shaft slid deeper. Gasping, he grabbed her hurdies. “Do
not
move.”

Oh God, he was in so much trouble. The thought was immediately replaced by a more pressing one. He arched back to better see her face. “Did I hurt you, lass?” She grinned up at him, her hand gently stroking his chest. “Nay, Hildy gave me her special oil.”

Hildy. No small wonder he slid into Gen with such ease. He was going to kill that woman. Genny, sighing, rocked again. Teeth grit, he locked her hips against his. “I said stop that.”

He had to extricate himself very carefully, or he’d shoot his full quiver, but how? Mayhap if he tried to relax, counted the painted grapes on the walls, he’d go flaccid. Anything was worth a try at this juncture. Dear Saint Bride, why did he have to think
juncture
?

He looked down and found her watching him through glazed, half-opened eyes. “Hmm,” she murmured, “Hildy said you would like it when I moved thus.”

“’Tis precisely the problem.” He liked it far too much. And Hildy, bless her conniving little heart, was definitely not long for this world.

Genny sighed, causing her breasts to jiggle ever so enticingly against his heaving chest, then licked her lips. “What of this, then?”

To his utter astonishment, her satin sheath, wet and hot, pulsed repeatedly around his engorged shaft.

Oh Lord God, he was bound for hell.

Blood thundering in his ears, his mouth closing over Gen’s, he exploded with a roar on the next heartbeat, deep within her.

Britt flopped onto his back, carrying Gen with him. She, more content than ever she could recall being, rested her head on his chest. Listening to the slowing rhythm of his heart, she ran her fingers through the dark, silky hair that made a delightful triangle on his chest, then tapered to a thin line down his abdomen. This magnificent man was hers. Needing to share the wonder she felt, she whispered, “I love you.”

“And I you.” After a moment he asked, “Are you sure you’re all right? That I did not hurt you?”

“I’m sure. ’Twas ever so lovely. Truly.” And to think she’d yet to experience all that Hildy had told her she had in store! Amazing.

His chest muscles, which had been rigid beneath her cheek, relaxed, and his hand slid from the small of her back to her bottom. Stroking her, he murmured, “Aye, ’twas definitely that.”

“Is tupping always so grand?”

“Nay, not in my experience.”

Hmmm. She would not ask what went on betwixt him and that Cassandra witch. ’Twas no concern of hers. Britt now loved her, and ’twas all that mattered. And speaking of love…or rather a lack thereof. “Britt?”

“Hmm?”

“I need tell you something.” She really didn’t want to, but…

“What?”

“I had words with Lady Campbell. I fear I was rather caustic.”

“I know.”

She lifted her head from his chest and gaped at him. “You do?”

Eyes still closed, he grinned. “Aye, she took me aside this evening and asked me to tell you she’s most sorry for what she said.”

’Twas the last thing Gen had expected to hear. Dare she trust this change of heart? “Did she say why?”

He stroked her back. “Only that sisters of the Gaul need stay together.”

“Of the Gaul? How odd. I’m obviously of Saxon blood, not Plantagenet.”

“I thought her comment odd as well. In any event, she said you have a friend in her at court, and I lean toward believing her. Lady Campbell is not only astute but a good woman. She makes no bones about whom she dislikes, but if she befriends you, she has the reputation for proving a friend through thick and thin. She begs an audience with you before the funeral procession leaves on the morrow and gave me a packet to give you as proof of her sincerity.”

“What’s in it?”

He shrugged. “’Tis in my sporran.”

He started to rise, and she placed a hand on his chest. “Nay, I’ll get it.”

Her curiosity piqued, Gen pawed through the mound of clothing Britt had tossed on the floor in his rush to bed her and came up with his sporran, his pouch made from an otter, head, paws and all.

From behind her, he said, “Open it,
a ghraidh.
I’ve naught in there that will bite. Her gift is the package wrapped in silk.”

Gen pulled out the grass green packet secured by a fine cord of silver. “This?”

“Aye. She said ’tis a treasured heirloom and would appreciate its return in the morn.”

Gen sat on the bed and untied the cord. “You’re sure this lady can be trusted?”

He rose on his elbow, his curiosity apparently also piqued. “I’m quite certain.”

She parted the silk and found the finely crafted silver shell the size of an egg the lady had been wearing just the day before. Dangling the small globe by its delicate chain, she said, “’Tis lovely. Do you think it a reliquary?” From what little she kenned of them, she expected a glass window so one could see the sliver of saint’s bone or hank of hair within, but the shell had none.

“Mayhap. Try to open it.”

Genny ran her finger along the fluted edge opposite the hinge and found a wee indention. Placing the shell flat on her palm for fear of spilling whatever it might contain, she held her breath and carefully separated the halves. “Oh my.”

In the bottom half in a puddle of solid silver sat two perfect cream-colored pearls of identical size nestled side by side. On the other half, she found an inscription.

Iona et Isla

I, V, MCCXXX

Iona and Isla, the 1
^st
of May in the year of their Lord 1230.

Genny’s heart stopped and then kicked hard before resuming a harried beat. Two pearls, two names, one date.

Twins.

She snapped the shell closed. “Do you happen to ken Lady Campbell’s Christian name?”
Please God, don’t let this be so.

Peeking over her shoulder, he said, “Mary, I believe.”

Ack! Half the woman in Christendom had been baptized Mary—Mary Louise, Mary Agnes, Mary Elizabeth. Given the date, Lady Campbell could be Mary Isla or Mary Iona. But then again, Lady Campbell looked to be no more than thirty. Mayhap her mother had been a twin. Highland lasses were rumored to often wed upon having their first course.

He took the shell from her numb hands and examined the exterior carving. “What a lovely wee treasure. Italia made, I think.”

Oh dear God in heaven, what if Lady Campbell kens I’m not Greer?

Britt held the locket out to her, and she took it with shaking hands. He sat up and draped an arm about her waist. “Is something amiss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He might trust the lady, but did she dare? “I’m just surprised Lady Campbell would part with this even for a wee while. Do you not find anything odd about it?”

When he shook his head, she kissed his cheek. “Mayhap ’tis just my imagination.”

“And what are you imagining?”

“That she kens I’m an imposter.”

Heavily muscled arms enveloped her. He pulled her close and, looking most serious, assured her, “She has no means to ken who you truly are, Gen. Ross would not have told her, and I certainly didn’t.”

“You’re right. I’m being foolish.” When he continued to scowl at her, she forced a smile. “Truly, I’m fine.”

At least she hoped to be, once she found out what the woman wanted. If Lady Campbell had blackmail on her mind, the woman was about to be sorely disappointed. Genny hadn’t a brass plack’s shaving, much less a piece of silver, to her name…but then she did have the silver-and-jet necklace. Surely Greer wouldn’t fault her for using it to protect them both if need be.

Genny wrapped the shell back in its protective silk, stood and placed it in the deep pocket of the kirtle she planned to wear on the morrow, then took a steadying breath. Soon enough she would learn what was on the lady’s mind. Until then she would distract herself with positive thoughts about her and Britt’s future together. Which would now take a good bit of planning.

She’d been so distraught finding Britt on her doorstep that day and then so distracted getting Greer to safety that she’d left Buddle with very little. Not only had she left her mother’s thimble, horn spoons and tongs, but she hadn’t given a thought to the linens she’d managed to adorn in the event she should marry. They were still in the cedar marriage box beneath the eaves. And then there were her flax combs and the spinning wheel.

Well, they could get them when they retrieved the lambs. But first things first. There could be no wedding until after they’d posted banns.

Finding Britt studying her again with hungry appraisal, she swatted his arm. “Cease that.”

Grinning, he reached for her. “Cease what?”

“You ken wh—eee!”

Strong arms scooping her up, she tumbled onto his broad chest. Before she could catch her breath, he flipped, and she was on her back with Britt nestled betwixt her thighs, looming over her. “You were saying?”

Laughing, she tugged on a lock of hair that had fallen over his handsome face. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Mam said much the same thing, but she loved me anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mothers tend to do that.”

His good humor suddenly dissolved, his mouth shifting into a hard line. “Not all.”

She frowned, wanting to understand. “Why do you say that?”

He shook his head as if to clear it, then smiled. “Best we not dwell on the past.”

“As you lust.” She would get the information out of him later. Hoping to regain their lighter mood, she asked, “We shall think only of the future. What say you to a date?”

“For what?”

“To marry, you goose. Do you think it necessary to pay the cryin’ siller in both your kirk on Skye and to mine? I should think paying and posting banns in one should be sufficient.” Bigamy was rampant in Scotland, and kirk officials were doing their utmost to curtail it, but since neither she nor Britt—

“Gen, we can’t post banns right now.”

She studied his grave countenance. “Oh, how thoughtless of me. You’ve yet to lay Alexander to rest, are still grieving, and here I am making marriage plans.”

Britt brushed a lock from her forehead. “’Tis not that,
a ghraidh.
”

He rose and sat on the edge of the bed. She touched his back and found it as rigid as steel. “Britt, what is it? You’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to, but you need ken something.”

“What?” Could he not have bairns? Was he in debt? What?

“A decade ago, when I was but eight and ten years—”

Bammm! Bammm! Bammm!

Britt was on his feet with sword in hand facing the door before Gen, startled near to death, caught her breath.

“MacKinnon! Are ye there, sire?”

Britt blew through his teeth and relaxed his stance. Looking over his shoulder at her, he murmured, “’Tis only my squire.” He waited until she dove under the covers, then opened the door. “What is it, Ian?”

His squire, breathless, said, “MacLean bids ye come.
Now
, m’lord. The Gunns and the MacDougalls… They were gaming, then fists were flying. Then the MacDonalds joined the fray, and the lieges… ’Tis awful, m’lord. Tall Angus bids ye hie.”

She heard Britt rumble a curse, then say, “Wait below.”

Hearing the door close, she threw back the bedcovers and found Britt already in his boots and shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for his chain mail. “I’ve no notion of how long this will take.” The mail chattered down around him. He then drew his
breachen feile
about him, secured it with a weighty broach and broad belt, then slung his scabbard and sword onto his back.

Pulse racing, she knelt, pulling the bedcovering about her. “Promise to be careful.”

He leaned over and quickly kissed her. “Aren’t I always?”

Kenning the opposite to be true, she shook her head. “Come back as soon as you can.” She’d not rest easy until she was sure he was safe and they’d finished their conversation. He’d been on the verge of telling her something important, something she greatly feared she didn’t want to hear.

Britt stroked her check. “I shall. Lock the door after me.”

The moment the door closed, she rose and saw that he’d left his breast armor on the floor.

Dear God, protect him.

 
“
One funeral is worth twelve communions.
” ~ An Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Fourteen

Hearing the ring of steel on steel and men shouting, Britt took the stairs into Edinburgh two and three at a time. Whoever started this mayhem would be spending a month of Sundays living on naught but bread and water.

He pulled his broadsword free as he passed beneath the raised gate and into the lower ward, where he found no less than one hundred men in armed combat, while others stood on the sidelines cheering them on. To his right he saw Angus knock the wind out of one warrior, then clout the fallen man’s opponent over the head. As the man dropped like a stone, Angus looked up, spotted Britt and shouted, “Nice of you to come.”

Britt grabbed his squire by the arm. “Tell MacFee to get up there.” He pointed up to the top of the curtain wall. The bagpipe’s drone would get these bastards’ attention as nothing else would.

As Ian took off running, a pair of combatants crashed into Britt’s back. Without a thought to who was who, he slammed the hilt of his claymore into the closest man’s head, then, spinning, swung his blade, pulling back just as the steel made contact with the other warrior’s chest. “Move and I swear I’ll cleave you in half.” The man, a full head shorter than Britt and chest heaving, froze. “Drop the blade and sit.”

Teeth bared, the Gunn warrior did as he was told, collapsing next to his opponent.

Britt strode to the next battling pair, which, having dropped arms, were rolling on the ground pummeling each other. He kicked the top man’s arse to get his attention. When he reared back, fist at the ready, Britt pressed his blade to the man’s neck. “Enough!” He nodded to his right. “The pair of you to the wall. Sit and don’t you dare move.”