Read Online The King's Mistress by Sandy Blair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandy Blair
Ads: Link
trying to outflank him.
More worrisome than not knowing their number was the bastards’ lack of stealth. Their orders apparently weren’t to capture the king’s mistress but to kill her.
Britt heaved a hefty rock into the undergrowth to his right. The man closest to him bolted toward the sound. When he drew within striking distance, Britt rose from behind the bramble masking him, his broadsword gripped in both hands.
Tempered steel sliced through flesh and muscle as if through fresh bread, then vibrated, hitting bone. The man gaped in surprise. Before he could topple, Britt was off on silent feet after the next would-be assassin.
Entering a stand of dense wood, he sheathed his broadsword and palmed his short sgian duhb . Rocks clattered and leaves crunched to his immediate left. Britt lunged and landed on the man, who, lighter than he by a good five stones, fell flat on his face, air whooshing from his chest, a blade falling from his outstretched hand. A flick of Britt’s wrist and the man was dead. Britt stood. Two down. He looked about, then cocked his head, listening. Nothing. Mayhap he’d taken down the last—
Searing pain took his breath away. He looked down in surprise as his knees buckled. His hands instinctively closed around the thick shaft protruding from beneath his chest armor. Damn. Why hadn’t he heard the telltale ratcheting of the bastard’s crossbow? Black spots danced before his eyes, and he toppled onto his side, jarring pain exploding in his middle.
Lady Armstrong. He had to get back to her.
The mossy ground beneath his cheek began to vibrate with the weight of rushing footfalls. He let his body go limp and held his breath. A boot slammed into his ribs mere inches above the arrow, and he had all he could do to keep from screaming, writhing in agony.
Deep in the boulder’s shadow, Genny pressed shaking fingers to her lips. Why would thieves try to kill them? They’d had the element of surprise. They could have simply taken what valuables she and Britt had and then been on their way. But then again, they had no way of knowing that Britt would fight to the death rather than run the risk of her being captured. He still had no certain proof that she wasn’t the king’s mistress.
And why had Britt kissed her? She’d deceived him at every turn. And why had her body and heart responded? She’d felt naught when the butcher had accosted her, had slammed his wet mouth against hers that May Day and summarily suffered the consequences. Deciding this was all too complicated to fathom in her current agitated state, she focused on what she could do—stay alive.
She strained to hear something, anything, beyond her damp hidey-hole. Surely Britt had dispatched the villains by now. But what if they’d—
Nay, she’d not even think it. He stood head and shoulders taller than any, would prove stronger than any. He would return. But what if they found her before he returned? Britt had her blade. Her bow and quiver were still hooked over the gray’s saddle horn. She had no means by which to defend herself should the knaves find her before Britt returned.
She couldn’t just sit here hoping for the best.
She crawled forward into mottled sunshine, where the unearthly silence continued—not a bird twittered, not a leaf moved.
Palms sweating, she came to her feet, pressed her back to the cold stone, her gaze scouring the forest for signs of friend or foe. Seeing neither, she slowly edged around the boulders and found Britt’s destrier amazingly still in his absence, whilst her mount, its ears pinned back, upon spying her began prancing in agitation at the destrier’s side. She darted to the destrier, taking what comfort she could from his massive size and armor-curtained sides. Praying her palfrey’s antics wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, she eased beneath the destrier’s neck and stroked her pretty mount’s side. The gray immediately settled, and she lifted the bow and quiver from the
More worrisome than not knowing their number was the bastards’ lack of stealth. Their orders apparently weren’t to capture the king’s mistress but to kill her.
Britt heaved a hefty rock into the undergrowth to his right. The man closest to him bolted toward the sound. When he drew within striking distance, Britt rose from behind the bramble masking him, his broadsword gripped in both hands.
Tempered steel sliced through flesh and muscle as if through fresh bread, then vibrated, hitting bone. The man gaped in surprise. Before he could topple, Britt was off on silent feet after the next would-be assassin.
Entering a stand of dense wood, he sheathed his broadsword and palmed his short sgian duhb . Rocks clattered and leaves crunched to his immediate left. Britt lunged and landed on the man, who, lighter than he by a good five stones, fell flat on his face, air whooshing from his chest, a blade falling from his outstretched hand. A flick of Britt’s wrist and the man was dead. Britt stood. Two down. He looked about, then cocked his head, listening. Nothing. Mayhap he’d taken down the last—
Searing pain took his breath away. He looked down in surprise as his knees buckled. His hands instinctively closed around the thick shaft protruding from beneath his chest armor. Damn. Why hadn’t he heard the telltale ratcheting of the bastard’s crossbow? Black spots danced before his eyes, and he toppled onto his side, jarring pain exploding in his middle.
Lady Armstrong. He had to get back to her.
The mossy ground beneath his cheek began to vibrate with the weight of rushing footfalls. He let his body go limp and held his breath. A boot slammed into his ribs mere inches above the arrow, and he had all he could do to keep from screaming, writhing in agony.
Deep in the boulder’s shadow, Genny pressed shaking fingers to her lips. Why would thieves try to kill them? They’d had the element of surprise. They could have simply taken what valuables she and Britt had and then been on their way. But then again, they had no way of knowing that Britt would fight to the death rather than run the risk of her being captured. He still had no certain proof that she wasn’t the king’s mistress.
And why had Britt kissed her? She’d deceived him at every turn. And why had her body and heart responded? She’d felt naught when the butcher had accosted her, had slammed his wet mouth against hers that May Day and summarily suffered the consequences. Deciding this was all too complicated to fathom in her current agitated state, she focused on what she could do—stay alive.
She strained to hear something, anything, beyond her damp hidey-hole. Surely Britt had dispatched the villains by now. But what if they’d—
Nay, she’d not even think it. He stood head and shoulders taller than any, would prove stronger than any. He would return. But what if they found her before he returned? Britt had her blade. Her bow and quiver were still hooked over the gray’s saddle horn. She had no means by which to defend herself should the knaves find her before Britt returned.
She couldn’t just sit here hoping for the best.
She crawled forward into mottled sunshine, where the unearthly silence continued—not a bird twittered, not a leaf moved.
Palms sweating, she came to her feet, pressed her back to the cold stone, her gaze scouring the forest for signs of friend or foe. Seeing neither, she slowly edged around the boulders and found Britt’s destrier amazingly still in his absence, whilst her mount, its ears pinned back, upon spying her began prancing in agitation at the destrier’s side. She darted to the destrier, taking what comfort she could from his massive size and armor-curtained sides. Praying her palfrey’s antics wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, she eased beneath the destrier’s neck and stroked her pretty mount’s side. The gray immediately settled, and she lifted the bow and quiver from the
Similar Books
