The King's Mistress Read Free

the hook above the fire and poured hot water into the bowl of dried sliced apples at Genny’s side. “I’ve had my fill of bannocks and dried fruit. I can barely wait for fall, for fresh apples and pears.”
    “And the babe.”
    Greer set the kettle on the hearth. “And the babe.” After a moment, she murmured, “Should I decide to remain here, are you absolutely certain you can handle the birthing?”
    Genny dusted flour from her hands. “I’ve assisted the birthing of all manner of beasts, from cattle to kittens. They’re all much alike.”
    “But a howdie—”
    “We’ve already discussed this, Greer. Asking Old Maude to assist your delivery is out of the question. She’s the worst of gossips. Without a husband pacing seven times sunwise around this cottage or standing before the door shooting arrows east to west ’til he empties his quiver to ease your pain…”
    “Aye, aye. Everyone for a hundred miles around will be speculating on who the father is.”
    “Precisely. ’Tis why you need to seek shelter with Lady Macintyre. She has the room. More importantly, I’ve often heard Irish howdie-wives are far more skilled than ours.” A lie to be sure, but she had to convince Greer that going to Ireland was her safest course. If push came to shove, Genny could act as howdie-wife—she’d been discreetly questioning mothers since learning of Greer’s predicament—but she’d much prefer not to attempt it. The babe could be breech or too big. Or Greer could bleed beyond what was expected…
    “But this is the king’s—”
    “Nay!” Genny spun and glared at her sister. “This is your babe, yours alone. And you’d best not forget it, or one day you’ll say the wrong thing and find the bairn taken from you.”
    Greer blanched. “Never. This babe will never go through the hell his father went through.”
    Genny had no idea what hell her sister referred to and truthfully didn’t care. All she cared about was her sister’s safety and that of her unborn babe. Softening her tone in hopes of making her sister see reason, she said, “You ken Auntie loves you.”
    “Aye, but Ireland is so far away. I’d never see you.”
    “I’ll miss you as well, dearest, but the farther away you are, the safer it is for the babe.” Their great aunt, Lady Macintyre, would surely take Greer under her wing if she believed Greer to be recently widowed, heartbroken and in need of a change. “And it’s not as if you’ll be traveling alone. I’ll be with you until you settle in.”
    Greer pouted in pretty fashion, something Genny had never managed, and settled on her stool. “I still don’t see why I can’t remain here. What difference does it make if I pretend to be a widow here or there?”
    Lord have mercy, her sister could be so bullheaded at times. “What if the babe has his ginger hair and brown eyes?”
    Greer, looking mutinous, crossed her arms over her swelling breasts. “He could just as easily have our blonde hair and blue eyes.”
    “Aye, but by all accounts, all of the king’s previous bairns bore his stamp. And unless you are known to have slept with another ginger-headed, brown-eyed man at court—”
    “ Oh! How can you even think that, much less say it?”
    “You’ve just made my point. Everyone at court can count to nine and kens that you were sleeping with him. ”
    Greer, her expression crumbling, leaned forward, cradling her head in her hands. “I hate you sometimes. I truly do.”
    Heaving a sigh, Genny knelt and wrapped her arms about her distraught sister. “I understand, dautie. At times I hate myself.” But her sister had to face the hard cold truth: so long as their new queen remained barren, Greer and her babe were in mortal danger. No amount of wishful thinking or well-practiced wheedling or pouting on Greer’s part could change that. Or the fact that her bairn could still be in danger even if the queen did give birth. Heirs to thrones—legitimate and otherwise—too often had