Free The King's Mistress by Sandy Blair

saddle horn.
    Within a heartbeat, she had her quiver on her back and had nocked an arrow. Feeling immeasurably better, she heaved a sigh, only to startle when a heavily accented voice said, “Good day, Mademoiselle Armstrong.”
    Terror surging within her breast, Genny spun, bow rising. From long habit, her arm pulled back, and the bow went taut. Heart hammering, she stared at the stranger dressed in chain mail from crown to boots, a steel helm masking all but his eyes.
    “Drop the bow, mademoiselle.”
    “Where’s Britt?”
    He snorted in derisive fashion. “So now ’tis Britt, huh?”
    Heart hammering, fearing the answer but needing to know, she screamed, “Answer me! Where’s Britt?”
    His head jerked to the left. “If you must know, MacKinnon is dead, an arrow in his gut. Now put the bow down.”
    She shook her head. “You lie.” Britt couldn’t be dead, but then the man did have a huge crossbow hanging on his back. Waving a thin rapier slowly before him, he took a step forward.
    “ Halt or I’ll shoot!”
    He stopped but laughed. “You forget, mademoiselle, I’ve seen you at games. You couldn’t hit a curtain wall if it fell on you.”
    Who is this man? Why had he killed Britt, and why was he now threatening her…or rather her sister? “What do you want?”
    “You’ve ceased being a mere embarrassment to our queen and are now a serious inconvenience.”
    Oh dear God above, did he know Greer carried the king’s bairn? Did the queen? Aye, they must, and they fully intended to see her dead.
    She had only one clear target, thanks to his helm and armor. If she missed, he’d be upon her before she could nock a second arrow.
    He sprang; she gasped and released.
    The arrow hit its mark. The man screamed and fell on his side, his hands reaching for his face.
    As the man went deathly still, the bow slipped from Genny’s hand. Sobbing, her stomach roiling at the sight of her arrow protruding from his helm, she edged closer to see if his chest still rose and fell. It did, while blood pumped from what remained of his right eye. She hadn’t killed him outright as she had so many hares and quail, thank God. To kill an animal for the table was one thing. To kill a man, another entirely.
    But her relief was short-lived with the realization he could regain consciousness, and then she wouldn’t stand a chance. He would kill her. She paced before his inert form, wringing her hands. “What to do, what to do?”
    She couldn’t kill him with a second arrow as he lay there defenseless, she just couldn’t. But then she couldn’t allow him to get up, either. And she had to find Britt. He could well be alive, just as the man lying before her was. She looked about. A length of rope hung from the destrier’s saddle. Mayhap she could truss the man as she would a hog going to market. Nay. The very thought of touching him made her ill.
    Legs quaking, she ran to the destrier and grabbed his reins. She would decide what to do with the bastard later. First she had to find Britt.
     
    Branches snapped several yards to Britt’s left. Careful not to jar the arrow imbedded in his right side, he pressed his back to the nearest tree and held his breath. Someone was moving fast, mindless of the racket they created. Most likely the queen’s confidant Montre, the bastard who’d left him for dead. Had he found the Armstrong lass? Or did she remain safe in her hidey-hole?
    “MacKinnon!”
    God’s teeth, ’tis Lady Armstrong! She was alive, praise the saints, but she’d get them both killed if she didn’t stop shouting.
    Having no idea where Montre might be lurking, Britt wrapped his fingers around what remained of the arrow after snapping off the shaft and silently jogged toward her. A flash of blue, then the black and gold of his destrier’s livery peeked through the dense underbrush.
    “MacKinnon! Oh God, please answer me!”
    Please, woman. Please stop shouting.
    He whistled as loud as he dared. His mount nickered, and