The King's Mistress by Sandy Blair

pleasure.” Lord, lies were all but tripping off her tongue of late.
    “My lady.” The hosteller tugged his forelock, then turned his attention to Britt. “How long will his nibs be with us?”
    Britt shrugged. “Depends on the king. A week at most.”
    Frowning, MacLean shoved the secret door closed and then kicked hay before it, masking the drag marks. “You’ve not heard, then?”
    Britt scowled in turn. “Heard what?”
    “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but the king is dead, MacKinnon. Went over the cliff near Kinghorn, they say.”
    “Nay!” Genny gasped for air as her knees buckled.

  “ Three that come unbidden—love, jealousy and fear. ” ~ Old Scottish Proverb
    Chapter Nine
    Nay, his king could not be dead. Alexander was only four and forty and an excellent horseman.
    Realizing Genny was sliding to her knees, Britt wrapped a tight arm about her shoulders and hauled her upright. Why did she keen? She felt no love for the man. If she felt anything, ’twas most likely loathing.
    Unable to think with his canny friend eyeing him, Britt signaled to MacLean to leave. Without a word, his friend grabbed Hildy by the arm and led her into the hostel.
    The moment the door closed, Genny sobbed, “Oh dear Lord, Britt. What are we going to do? Greer’s babe is now an heir. An heir! Dear God above and the saints preserve him. He’ll never be safe now.”
    Britt pulled Genny into his arms. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, he whispered, “Nay, you’re here to prove there is no bairn for others to fear.”
    “But…but how? Without the king’s protection, how can I escape the queen’s vengeance until such time as I do prove it? She’s already tried to kill me—Greer—once and did so knowing she risked Alexander’s wrath. What’s to stop her now?”
    A problem to be sure. “I vowed to keep you safe, and I shall.”
    She pushed off his chest and, wringing her hands, began to pace. “You’ll have no choice but to do her bidding, and if she bids me imprisoned—”
    “Genny, stop.” When she did, he forced a smile. “Do you trust me?”
    “Aye, I suppose.”
    “You suppose? ” He cursed in vivid French, his native tongue being most lacking at moments like these.
    Here he’d lost control of his life sometime during the night when his careless king had charged over a precipice and all because of her, and she supposed she trusted him? “Christ’s blood, woman! If it weren’t for me, you’d be under the sod of truth as we speak! Two men are dead, Genny, at my hand. Not yours. Mine. ”
    “Augh, ’tis true. I’m sorry, so, so sorry… I didn’t mean—” A wretched sob shook her.
    Oh God, he was acting a wretched ass taking his anger out on her. He pulled her into his arms. Aye, he’d lost his king and would ready for war, but she’d lost not only her king but now feared the loss of her sister and the babe. “Nay, Genny, I’m the one who should be sorry. Hush now.”
    In hopes of reassuring her, of needing comfort himself, he hooked a finger beneath her chin. Her lovely face, now mottled red, lifted, and he kissed her as he’d wanted to do since kissing her behind the boulders but out of necessity had sworn never to do again. He hadn’t the right.
    He wasn’t free.
    As his tongue swept past her full, sweet lips and into the warm confines of her mouth, she groaned. His heart soared. Aye, lass, you ken that I need reassurance as well, don’t you? To know that all is not lost. That the sun shall rise on the morrow. That men and women will eventually cease their weeping and new lives will again be born. That my beloved Scotland will endure this tragedy.
    With his arms about her, he staggered back a step and hit a wall. His hands swept down her lithe back, settling on fine hurdies. He pressed her hips so she might feel his bone-deep need for her through her layers of skirt. As if in answer, she groaned in that soft purr that was hers alone.
    Dear God, why hadn’t I met you years