The King's Mistress (24 page)

Britt couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so pleased to see Edinburgh Castle standing proud above the mist that so often clung to the stinking moat surrounding the castle mount. High above the stench, he’d find Gen, the love of his life, the woman he would take to wife.

He kicked his rented mount in the sides in the hope of getting the swaybacked beast to pick up the pace and, as with every past effort, the lop-eared sumpter ignored him. Any other time he would have purchased a quality mount, but now, mindful of his purse and the coins he’d need to garner his freedom, he’d bartered for the cheapest cattle in the stable.

The sumpter stumbled, and Britt rolled his eyes. “I could run home faster than this, you miserable excuse for a horse.”

Halfway up the road, well within view of the castle gates, the sumpter suddenly sat…like a dog. Cursing, Britt slid off and glared at the beast. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He jerked on the reins, trying to pull the animal to its feet. In response, the sumpter only rolled his eyes and turned his head. “You miserable—”

Britt dropped the reins in disgust. The beast could follow, should he have a mind, or rot where he sat. Britt no longer cared.

Approaching the gate, he heard laughter and glared at his men. “Enough! One of you fetch that sorry excuse for a horse and put him in the stable.”

He would decide on the morrow which of these laughing jackals would have the pleasure of returning the beast to its owner. Right now all he cared about was finding Gen, who, given the hour, should be taking her midday meal.

Entering the hall, he scoured the room for her and, not finding her, strode over to where Lady Campbell sat among the queen’s court. “My ladies, pardon my intrusion, but do you happen know where Lady Armstrong is?”

“Sir Britt, so good to see you.” Lady Campbell rose and said to her companions, “If you’ll excuse us.” She placed her hand on Britt’s wrist and hissed, “We need speak in private.”

The fine hairs on his neck rose. At the far end of the hall, he asked, “Has something happened to Genny?”

“You could say that. The queen told her you were married, and she did not take this well.”

Oh Lord, no. He would kill that bitch. He truly would.

Lady Campbell, obviously annoyed, slapped his arm. “Why didn’t you tell her? You are a sore disappoint, MacKinnon.”

“Never mind that. Where is she?” He could make this right. He had to.

“I’ve no notion. She said she needed a breath of air. When she didn’t return after several hours, I went in search of her and learned from the guards she’d ridden out on what she told them was a mission for Her Highness, which we both know was a lie. I sent one of my clansmen—”

Without waiting to hear more, Britt raced across the hall. At the stable, he learned Genny had taken the gray. Praying she’d gone to MacLean’s to lick her wounds, he strode down the crowded line of horseflesh and untied Valiant, shouting to the closest groom, “Get my saddle!”

The moment the groom arrived with his saddle, he snatched it from the lad’s hands. “Get my tack. Hie now!”

Before the lad could catch his breath, Britt was riding through the gate at a breakneck speed, slowing only to make the turn into MacLean’s mews. Without waiting for Valiant to come to a full stop, he jumped off and ran into the hostel.

Please let her be here!

Upstairs, he found the door open and Hildy hunched in the middle of her bed, weeping her eyes out. Seeing Gen’s gowns and female doodads gone, his heart sank. “Where is she? Where’s Lady Armstrong?”

Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Hildy straightened and glared at him. “I can’t believe you did this! You broke her heart, MacKinnon. How could you?”

“’Twas never my intent.” And why was he justifying his actions to Hildy?

“Right.” Sniffling, she crawled off the bed. “You’re just like all the rest. Love ’em and lose ’em is the only thing your ilk know.”

He raked his hands through his hair and ground out, “Hildy, where has she gone?”

“Home, if you must know.”

“To Buddle?”

“What Buddle? She’s gone to Ireland, you rutting heathen. To her aunt’s.”

Ireland? Why the hell would she go—ah, her sister! She’d gone to be with Greer. “What’s the aunt’s name?”

“Why do you care?” She tried to brush past him, and he grabbed her by the arms. Bending at the knees, he looked her in the eyes. “Listen to me carefully. I love her beyond reason and intend to make this right if it kills me, but I need to know where she’s going in order to do so. What’s her aunt’s name?”

Hildy, cheeks blotchy and her nose red as a berry, studied him for a long moment. “You’d best not be lying to me, MacKinnon.”

“I swear to God I’m not.”

Hildy sighed. “All right, then. Her name is Lady Margaret.”

“And her surname?”

“How should I know?” Hildy tried to pull away. “She only said Lady Margaret.”

Christ’s blood. There could be two hundred Lady Margarets in the whole of Eire, for all he knew. “By which way is she traveling?”

“By horse.”

“By which
road
, woman?” If Gen was taking the route they’d taken to get to Edinburgh, he could catch her but could only pray that he’d do so before she was set upon by thieves.

Hildy shrugged. “She turned left at the end of the mews, and I saw her no more.”

East? Oh God, she was heading to the harbor and a ship. And she had a full day’s lead on him.

He wrenched Hildy to him and pressed a kiss to her salty cheek. “Bless you.”

Britt thundered down the narrow stairs.

Minutes later, Britt would have trampled a dozen guilders, merchants and fishmongers if not for their agile feet in his rush to reach the crowded harbor. Praying the ship Gen had booked passage on had yet to weigh anchor, he dismounted and grabbed the nearest stout bairn he could find. “Are you honest, lad?”

The lad, his ragged jerkin a good two years’ growth too small, bristled at the question. “I am.”

“Grand. Keep watch on my destrier until my return, and you’ll earn yourself three bawbees.”

The lad blinked in surprise, then grinned from ear to ear at the thought of earning what was likely for him a month’s wage unloading fish. “Three? Aye, then I will.”

Britt tossed him Valiant’s reins and started down the waterfront dotted with stone quays, past dozens of storehouses reeking of tar, hides, wool and spice. Good Lord, there were so many ships.

After asking at the first three ships and learning they were bound for ports of call other than Ireland, he spotted a prosperous-looking man scribbling in a ledger before a stone storehouse. “Sir, might you know which ships are bound for Ireland?”

“I do.” He bowed. “MacPherson, port’s chandler. What name does she go by?”

Britt shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m looking for a fair and fulsome lady”—he held out a hand to mid-breastbone—“of this height, with blonde hair, who wants to book passage to Ireland. She may have a gray palfrey with her.” If Gen hadn’t sold the gelding to garner her passage. “Have you seen her?”

“A lady with a gray palfrey.” He thought for a minute and then nodded. “She passed by last eve, as I recall.”

“And the ship?”

He checked his ledger. “I’ve no means to know, but the
Galway
left on the even’ tide, and the others, the
Fian
and the
Turoe
, should be weighing anchor as we speak.”

Praying she hadn’t left on the
Galway
, he asked, “Which quays?”

The man pointed to his left, and Britt ran. The
Fian
had raised its gangplank but had yet to be towed from its berth and into the Firth of Forth where it could catch the wind. Calling up to the captain, Britt shouted, “Have you a Lady Armstrong onboard?”

The captain leaned over the rail. “No ladies, m’lord. Only coal.”

Damn. “Do you know the
Turoe
?”

“To your right, fifth down. She’s as green as Eire. You can’t mistake her.”

Britt thanked the man and, his hope rising once again, ran. His heart sank when he reached the quay. A good hundred yards out in the firth floated the green cog,
Turoe
, her huge square sail already unfurled and beginning to billow as she caught the wind, her towboat oarsmen already heading for shore. At mid-ship on the rail, he could see a woman, her long blonde tresses flying.

’Twas her! He would recognize that carriage, that wonderful hair, anywhere.

Waving like a madman, he jumped at the end of the quay. “Genny!
Genny!
”

His heart leapt when she shielded her eyes and looked directly at him. Thank God she’d heard him. Frantically waving, he again shouted, “Genny!”

If it took his every coin, he would get the oarsmen to bring him out to her. She had to hear the whole sordid truth about his marriage from his lips and learn what he was now doing to rectify it. But first he had to get her to stop the cog’s forward progress. Get the captain to drop sail. “Gen! Hail the captain!”

To his horror, she put her back to him, bent forward as if in pain and covered her ears.

“
Nay!
” She had to listen.

The
Turoe
chose that moment to catch the wind and surged forward, waves breaking around her proud bow.

Nay! He would not lose her like this. She couldn’t leave without knowing the truth, ugly and painful as it was.

Determined she would listen, Britt shouted until blood thundered in his ears. Shouted until his burning eyes felt they would bleed, waved until his heart was near to bursting, and still she kept her back to him. The
Turoe
and its crew, mindless of his anguish, continued their forward charge, the ship seemingly shrinking in size with his every breath.

Gasping, he stared at the cog and the wee blue spot that was Genny.

He’d lost her.

Heart splintering, Britt collapsed to his knees on the hard stone and head thrown back, roared, “
Genny!
”

 
“
Lights are not meat, nor buttermilk milk.
” ~ Old Scottish Proverb

Chapter Sixteen

Why on earth had Britt followed her?

Throat raw from crying, Genny clutched the ship’s thick rail with both hands as the
Turoe
, its sail bulging, surged over another wave and broke free of the Firth of Forth, entering open seas.

Why could he have not just let her go in peace? Was it not bad enough that he’d broken her heart? Shattered the dreams she’d come to cherish? Of them working side by side, forging a home and creating a family together? Why had he come, then stood there screaming her name? Had he no pity at all?

A firm hand settled at the small of her back, startling her.

“Here,” said a masculine voice, but one not as deep and rumbling as Britt’s. Looking over her shoulder, she found the man who had welcomed her onboard holding out a handkerchief. Taller than she by a hand and blond, he’d told her his name, but distracted and heartsick, she’d not paid any heed.

Murmuring her thanks, she took the handkerchief—hers was so wet with tears she could have swabbed the deck with it—and dabbed her nose.

His short jerkin opened to the wind as he moved to her side, where he placed broad, tanned hands on the rail. In a lilting cadence, he asked, “Who might the blackguard be?”

She saw no point in asking to whom he referred. Britt had been bellowing like a skewered bull, his voice carrying across the water like thunder for any and all to hear. “No one important.” Not anymore. So why did her heart feel like a crushed thing heavy in her chest?

“Hmm. Well,
no one important
has certainly caused ye to keen. Any more tears and we’ll be bailing for our lives.”

Sniffling, she nodded. She had been carrying on—acting more like Greer than herself—and that simply would not do. “My apologies. This has not been one of my better days.”

She tried to hand him his handkerchief, but he shook his head. Blue eyes crinkled at the corners where only moments before white lines that paid tribute to days at sea had radiated over his clean-shaven cheeks. “I’ve a feeling you may have more use for it.”

Pride stiffened her back. Oh no, she wouldn’t. She was quite over that lying behemoth, Britt MacKinnon. And mayhap if she said this often enough, not only would her head believe it, but so too would her aching heart.

“Hmm,” he said, “think he’ll follow ye?”

“Nay.” Britt wouldn’t dare.

“Given the way he was bellowing, I dare say he will.” He turned to his crew of eight and shouted, “What say ye, men? Will the giant follow the lassie or nay?”

Good Lord! Was he trying to do what her broken heart could not? Embarrass her to death?

To the man, they all laughed and shouted, “Aye, Captain, he will.”

Looking from one weathered brown face to another, noting the look in the men’s eyes as they laughed at her expense, as their collective gazes swept over her body, Gen felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck quiver. She slipped a hand into her pocket and grasped her
sgian duhb
. She’d been in such a hurry to get away from Edinburgh and gain passage to Ireland, she’d not given a moment’s thought to whom else might be onboard the
Turoe
. She was the only female in sight. And would be for days.

Had she, in her hurt and fury, just jumped from the skillet into burning coals?

“Leave the lassie be, O’Neil!”

Genny spun at the sound of a female voice. A plump woman of mayhap thirty years, her curly titian locks flying in all directions in the wind, stood wiping her hands on a soiled apron in the doorway of the cog’s forecastle.

Grinning, the woman crossed the deck on steady legs, shooing the men in her path away. Taking hold of the rail next to Gen, she dipped in a brief curtsy. “Darby O’Neil, m’lady. Ship’s cook and wife”—she cocked her head in the direction of her laughing husband’s back—“of yon lout, the ship’s captain, Brian O’Neil.”

“My great pleasure to meet you.” The woman would never know how great. “I’m Lady Armstrong, formerly of Buddle.”

The woman beamed at her. “Lovely to have ye onboard, and please, pay no heed to the men. The oafs mean ye no harm.”