The King's Mistress (32 page)

He rolled his eyes. She’d been so busy hieing hither and yon in an effort to build their treasury—so great was her fear of war and losing all she held dear—that they’d barely had time to talk, much less breed themselves. But they finally succeeded. His joy knew no bounds, while Gen’s was slightly tempered by the fact that she hadn’t heard back from her sister since sharing her good news.

So now they waited for both the birth and for the Privy Council to decide who among the battling chiefs would become regent for the recently summoned Princess Margaret of Norway, since Yolande had sent word that she’d given birth to a stillborn before fleeing to France.

“Love, ’tis time.”

Britt looked up and found Genny standing, plump and lovely with child, in their solar doorway, and smiled. “Time for what,
a ghraidh
?”

His wife placed a hand on her bulging middle, a habit he found most endearing. “The babe is coming. Please summon the howdie-wife.”

Now? “Holy Columba, are you certain?”

Genny, suddenly grimacing, grabbed the door frame. “Aye, quite.”

“Oh Lord!” He raced to her side, scooped her into his arms and gently set her down in the middle of their tall, canopied bed. Placing a pillow beneath her head, he asked, “What can I get you? Need something to drink? Another pillow?”

Curling like a hedgehog, she growled, “The howdie, Britt. Now!”

“Right! Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Oh God, his son was on the way.

He flew down the stairs, raced into the crowded hall and, grabbing the first lad he spied, shouted, “Go fetch the
Cailleach.
Now!”

Around him, conversation ceased. Raking his hands through his hair, feeling totally useless, he told them, “Lady MacKinnon is birthing.”

Three women squealed in delight and, chattering like locusts, fled the hall.

Good, they would know what to do. He hoped. But what if they didn’t? What if the babe came before their wise woman arrived? What if, despite Genny’s lovely wide hips, the babe had trouble coming into the world? What if Genny started bleeding and the women couldn’t stop it? What if she developed childbirth fever? Oh God.

He raced back up the stairs. Inside the solar, he found the three women from the hall undressing Genny and cooing encouragement as they readied for the next MacKinnon’s arrival. Spying him, Genny made a shooing motion. Britt, ignoring it, crossed the threshold and kissed her. Tasting salt from fresh tears leaking out from beneath her lashes, he whispered, “I love you more than life itself,
a ghraidh,
would do this for you if I could.”

Making a barely perceptible nod, beads of sweat taking shape on her furrowed brow, she squeezed his hand to the point of whiteness. Good God almighty, how could she be in so much pain so soon? This couldn’t be normal.

When she finally relaxed and produced a wan smile for him, he reluctantly allowed himself to be ushered out into the stairwell, whereupon he bellowed, “Where’s that damn witch!”

Below, his father came into view. Looking up the stairs, the MacKinnon shouted, “Son, calm yourself. She’s coming. Now get down here and do what any decent husband with any sense does at a time like this.”

“And what the hell might that be?” If the old man suggested he walked crossways to the sun about the keep muttering incantations, he’d commit patricide.

“Drink, son. Whisky.”

Whisky. A brilliant idea if ever there was one. “I’m coming.”

After three grueling hours of listening to Gen’s distant keening, Britt couldn’t take anymore and rose from his place before the fire. “Da, I’m going to the chapel.”

If he could do naught else for his beloved, he could pray.

In the chapel, he knelt before Ian’s marred effigy. “You’ve a brother on the way, laddie. ’Twould be lovely if you could keep an eye on him. And if you’re of a mind, would you be so kind as to say a prayer for Genny? You’d have liked her very much, and she would have loved you.”

Resting his forehead on the cold stone, he told his firstborn, “I’m so sorry I failed you, lad.” Not once but twice. First, in choosing the wrong mother for him, and then by underestimating the extent of her madness. “I shan’t take anything for granted ever again.”

As the sun moved across the sky on its journey west and his wife labored hour after hour, he prayed for her safety, for that of their child and for Scotland.

The chapel was dim when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Son, come.”

He shot to his feet. “My lady, is she alive?”

“Very much so, but I expect you’d like to confirm that with your own eyes.”

“And the babe? Is it well?”

His father laughed. “Go on. I’ll not be answering questions you should be asking your ladywife.”

Taking the steps to the solar two and three at a time, he raced to the top, reminding himself with every step that surely his father wouldn’t have been smiling if something had gone awry.

At the solar threshold, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs, he hesitated in order to drink in the sight of his beautiful wife lying on her side, grinning down at the infant suckling her breast. A more loving and lovely sight he could not imagine. “Hello.”

Genny looked up, her grin turning into a radiant smile. “Come meet your daughter.”

“A daughter?” That the babe might be a lass had never entered his mind. Heart near exploding, he bent and kissed Genny. “How are you feeling?”

“Amazingly well, truth be told. In fact, I do believe I could go to war at the moment. So, what do you think of her?”

He bent closer. “I can’t tell. She’s covered head to toe.” Genny pushed back the blanket, exposing his daughter’s downy head. He laughed, seeing a mass of blonde wisps. “She has your hair.”

“Aye, and straight as a mast, but I think she has your dark eyes. She should grow into quite a striking young woman.”

Augh.
Men who would lust after her, would try—

Mindless of his newfound worry, proud of the bundle in her arms, she asked, “What shall we name her?”

Stroking the soft blonde fuzz atop her head, he suggested, “Mary Geneen, after you.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking Britney, since she has your appetite. She’s taken to breast as if starved. Mhairie says she’d not seen the like.”

He hated asking but had to know. “And her limbs?”

Genny, her lower lip caught betwixt her teeth, looked up at him with solemn eyes, then gently detached the babe from her breast and placed the infant on her back next to her. The babe’s cute bow lips grimaced at being so rudely interrupted, but she made no sound, just watched him solemnly from dark blue eyes as if daring him to find fault as Genny carefully opened the swaddling. As the layers peeled away, the old fear for his child and its future skittered up his spine. Seeing perfect arms and hands, he released the breath he’d been holding, his hopes rising. Then the babe’s pudgy legs came into view, and he saw that they, although perfect in length, were tucked up and bowed. Tears taking shape, he closed his eyes. Would he and this precious infant now go through the anguish of the past? Would this innocent go through all that poor wee Ian had? Would Gen now go mad too?

Please dear God…
He felt Genny’s hand on his cheek.

“Britt, look at me.” Reluctantly he did and found to his surprise only love radiating from her eyes. “She’s not perfect, Britt, but beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

Smiling, he kissed his lassie’s velvet brow, then leaned toward Gen. “You are absolutely beautiful.” He kissed her then, hoping to impart all the joy, pride and hope he felt for her and their wee bairn.

Their prayers had been answered.

Author’s Note

This tale is a work of fiction, but much within the story is based on fact. The ship carrying home three-year-old Margaret, Princess of Norway, new Queen of Scotland, made an as-yet-to-be-explained stop in Orkney. The next morning, infant Margaret was found dead. To this day no one knows the cause of death, but most historians suspect she was murdered to prevent Edward I (you might know him as “Longshanks” from the movie
Braveheart
) from becoming regent.

But Scotland still needed a king, and no fewer than thirteen men stepped forward to claim the crown. When the dust settled, two men were at the fore—Balliol and the Bruce—and neither party would relinquish his claim. In England, Edward I smiled, and the rest, as they say, is history.

As for the queen consort, Yolande, she fled to France. No grave of the stillborn infant she claimed to have birthed has ever been found nor was a stillbirth recorded. The queen eventually remarried in 1292 to Arthur II, Duke of Brittany. Together they had one son and five daughters.

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Sandy

About the Author

Award-winning author Sandy Blair has slept in castles, dined with peerage, floated down Venetian canals, explored the great pyramids, lost her husband in an Egyptian ruin (she still denies being the one lost), and fallen (gracefully) off a cruise ship.

Winner of Romance Writers of America’s © Golden Heart and the National Readers Choice Award for Best Paranormal Romance, the Write Touch Readers Award for Best Historical, the Golden Quill and Barclay awards for Best Novella, nominated for a 2005 RITA and recipient of Romantic Times BOOKReview’s 4 ½ star Top Pick rating, Sandy loves writing about Scotland’s past.

This is her fifth novel.

When not writing, Sandy, a resident of New Hampshire, teaches international on-line courses on writing and fundraises for Habitat for Humanity.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank:

Editor Linda Ingmanson and the staff at Samhain for turning this manuscript into a reality bound between two beautiful covers;

Paige Wheeler, Agent extraordinaire, for her invaluable advice and enthusiasm for this work;

Scott Blair, Husband and lover, who encouraged me to take the premier office space in our new home so I might write faster;

Alex Blair, Son and computer wizard, for keeping a straight face every time I misplace a manuscript in my computer;

dearest friends and critique partners Suzanne Welsh and Julie Benson (again, I couldn’t do this without you),

my fabulous Foxes, whose enthusiastic support and goading even at a distance keeps me going;

DARA for teaching me how to write,

The Wet Noodle Posse, aka Golden Heart Class of 2004, and the terrific authors of Romance Unleashed for providing insight and humor whenever it’s most needed;

Billie Jo Case, the brilliant mind behind the Fan Club, and to all the wonderful members who go there each morning to visit with me, in particular avid romance readers Joy Brown, Danny Bruggeman, Sandy Marlow (my fabulous video trailer artist), Pam Pellini, Julia Pham, Dawna Richard, Michelle Siudut, Lynn Rettig, Marie Sherman, Jennifer Yates, and Ivka Vuletic;

and lastly my heartfelt thanks to all of you who took the time to once again suspend your disbelief and travel back with me into the past.

Most sincerely,

Sandy

Life is cheap. So is death.

Maiden Lane

© 2011 Lynne Connolly

Richard and Rose, Book 7

With Rose expecting again, it should be a joyous time for her and Richard. Yet old enemies and new come out of the woodwork, seemingly intent on using whatever means possible to destroy their happiness. Not only is the legitimacy of their marriage called into question, a young man steps forward claiming to be a by-blow of Richard’s dark, wild past.

Closer to defeat than he has ever been, Richard musters all his friends and allies to defend against this attack on his own ground. However, no amount of incandescent lovemaking and tender care seems to keep Rose out of harm’s way.

Then a mutilated body turns up on their doorstep—and all fingers point at Richard. Rose has no choice but to emerge from his near-smothering concern to do what she must to save the love of her life. Even if she must appear to work against him.

As she lays her heart on the line, Richard fights to keep the violence that marks his past from claiming her life. For if he loses Rose, with her will go his humanity.

Warning: Rose gets her mad on, and Richard gets turned on. Contains married love, married sex and married fooling about. And pink coats with lace ruffles. And swords. And wicked goings-on.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Maiden Lane:

Warm, held close and safe, I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through the windows in our bedroom, sending a shaft of pure light across the patterned carpet. Morning already. I could tell without turning over that Richard was still asleep. His breath heated the space between my shoulder blades and one arm lay heavily around my waist. The baby, or babies, moved sluggishly inside me and then quieted down once more. For now, and to avoid complications, I thought of the child in the singular. For all I knew and despite my suspicions that I harboured more than one child, my larger size could simply be a larger baby.

I liked to feel the gentle movements. It reassured me my child was safe and well. It must be so tiny. My belly was swollen, but not greatly so, and much of that was the water he swam in, keeping him safe. I refused to think of the baby as “it”, and tended to apply a sex to the child arbitrarily, one day deciding on “he”, another on “she”.

I lay content, still dreamy, happy to count my blessings. Soon I would get up and visit my daughter upstairs in her nursery before going out shopping and socialising, while Richard visited the coffeehouses and the clubs, both of us collecting gossip, being seen, doing our jobs.

Sometimes I wished we could forget everything and spend the whole day in each other’s company, as we did sometimes in the country. I loved him now as much as I had when I met him, and I had full proof of his devotion to me. I accepted it now. He could have had anyone for his wife. He was the scion of one of the greatest houses of England, leader of fashion, accomplished, sophisticated but he chose me, shy, ordinary Rose Golightly, and helped me to gain all the confidence and assurance I needed to prove myself worthy of him and the position I’d married into. Underneath his sophisticated exterior he was all man, warm, loving, with as many self-doubts as anyone else, and he loved me.