Love Wild and Fair (72 page)

He lifted her out of the tub and set her gently on the rug before the fire. Several large Turkish towels hung warming on the oaken rack. Removing one, he dried her carefully. Tilting her small, heart-shaped face to his, he smiled down on her. “There, my darling, that was nae so terrible, was it?”

“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Tenderly he put his arms about her and stood silently for a few moments while her shining head rested against his broad chest. Then he loosed her, saying, “I stink of horses, my pet. ’Tis your turn to wash me.” And before she could protest he had pulled off his clothes and was climbing into her tub. He tried to settle himself for a soak. Looking at the great masculine animal attempting to lounge against her white porcelain tub with its dainty gold border and floral decor, his knees sticking out above the water, Cat giggled.

“And what,” he asked in an aggrieved voice, “is so funny, madame?”

The giggles became a silvery peal of laughter. She laughed until the tears came to her eyes. Unaware of the cause of her amusement, but very relieved to hear her laughter after these many months, Bothwell laughed too. Finally controlling herself, she managed to gasp, “Francis! Ye look so silly in my little tub amid the little, pale flowers.”

For a moment he looked disgruntled, then he gave her a wry grin. “I probably do, sweetheart,” he agreed. “I miss the great oak tub we had at Hermitage.”

For a moment they were silent, remembering the blissful days they had spent at his great border house before the king had exiled him from Scotland. Then Bothwell rose from the tub and said quietly, “Wash me as ye used to, Cat.”

Shyly, she took the soap, losing it momentarily in the water, retrieving it, and then touching his back with shaking hands. As her fingers moved lightly over his skin she felt the familiarity of him return, and as she grew bolder, her hands became surer. He felt the lukewarm water sluicing down his back, and he turned to face her. Faintly amused, he watched as she scrubbed his chest, his flat belly, and then bravely moved lower to soap his genitals.

As he responded to her touch she gasped softly, color flooded her cheeks, and her eyes flew upward. He stood perfectly still, barely breathing. Regaining her courage, she rinsed him off. Stepping from the tub, he took his towel, dried himself, and asked, “Are ye brave enough to proceed, Cat?”

She nodded. Going to their bed, she dropped her towel and slid between the sheets, holding them open for him. He slipped beneath the sweet silk and drew her into his arms. She was as stiff and as unyielding as an oak staff. He held her gently, and when several minutes had passed she began to relax.

“I am so afraid, Francis,” she whispered.

“I know, my darling,” he answered, “but ye must remember that I hae never hurt ye, and I will not now.”

“But ye want me.”

“Aye, sweetheart, I want ye.”

“Yet ye will not force me. Why?”

“Because I do love ye, Cat. Because I know that ye hae been cruelly used. Ye hae every right to your fear, but I swear to ye, love, I will not hurt ye.”

Suddenly he felt her body shaking, and tipping her face up he saw that it was wet with tears. “Cat!” The word was an anguished plea. Then she felt his mouth closing over hers, and before she could think she found her body melted against his.

As the warmth of his love penetrated her, she felt her fears sliding away. Memories fell away as his lips kissed her. There were only the two of them now. All else was unimportant. Tenderly he ran his tongue along her lips, and felt them open, her warm breath rushing into his mouth. Gently he explored her, as though for the very first time, feeling her quivering against him.

“Look at me, Cat! Open your eyes, my darling. I am Francis, no one else, and I love ye!”

Shyly her dark-gold lashes lifted off her cheeks, and she looked at him. His eyes never left hers as his hands caressed her back, his long, slim fingers gently kneading away the tension. He drew her into the crook of his arm and cupped one breast in his hand. And all the while, he held her eyes with his own.

She shivered. She could feel her heart hammering wildly against her chest as if it wished to escape. A fire was pouring into her loins, and the wave of desire that slammed into her shook her terribly. That she could feel this way after all that had happened! With a fierce exultation she realized that she wanted him! She wanted him!

Gently he pushed her onto her back and, half straddling her, his lips ran riot across her body, closing over a pink nipple, moving lower, teasing her flesh with tiny kisses.

She arched to meet his mouth, catching at his head with trembling hands. He groaned, a sobbing sound, completely lost in the moment as she writhed under his hands and mouth. And then he heard, through his own pounding desire, the voice of his beloved pleading with him to take her, take her now.

Kneeling, he spread her thighs, and his voice was thick. “Look at me, Cat! I want you to look at me when I enter you! I want you to know ‘tis me, not an awful nightmare memory!”

A tremor tore through her, but she raised her eyes to his and whispered again, “Take me, Bothwell! Take me now!” and without further hesitation he thrust himself into her while looking deep into her shining eyes.

She whirled through space, free and whole again, exulting in their love. And then suddenly she felt herself falling, falling through endless time. Through the dimness she heard him anxiously calling her name. Voicing a little protest, she opened her eyes to find him smiling happily down at her, her eyes warm and loving.

“Why, my darling,” he said gently, “how far away ye were.”

She flushed rosy, and he laughed softly. “'Twould hae been a crime against nature if ye had continued being fearful of love, my darling.” He touched her cheek with his finger. She caught his hand and held it against her face.

Then he heard her voice low and level. “I love ye, Francis, but if ye love me, I beg of ye, my lord, never leave me again, for each time ye leave me some catastrophe befalls me. If I am not being kidnapped, or chased by the Scots king, I am being bedded by Henri Quatre. Aye, Bothwell, ye may well look astonished. Yer charming royal friend ordered me to Fontainebleau, terrified me into believing that he was returning me to Jamie, and then seduced me.”

Standing up, Cat walked across the room and picked up the gossamer silk nightgown Bothwell had given her. Sliding it over her head, she let it slither down her body. Its neckline plunged to her navel, the gown clinging to her like a second skin. She whirled about, and heard him swear, “Jesu!” as his blue eyes raked her from head to toe.

“Always,” she went on, “just when I think I am safe, something happens. I must be safe from now on, Francis. I must.

“I am a very rich woman, Bothwell, and ye are a very proud man. We cannot live wi’out my money, but we
can li
ve wi’out yer excessive pride. It has cost us several years of togetherness, and it has almost cost us our lives and our bairns. I’ll hae no more of it! If ye canna reconcile yerself to my fortune, then I might ‘as well return to Scotland and beg Jamie’s forgieness. As the king’s mistress I will at least be safe—and hear me, Francis Stewart-Hepburn! I’ll nae be chased, seduced, or raped ever again! I won’t!”

Now it was his turn to rise from the bed. He walked across the room and, picking up a towel, wrapped it about his loins. The light from the fire dappled his broad back, and his face was grave. She could hear her heart thumping wildly, and she wondered what possessed her to issue such an ultimatum. What had she done? How would he respond?

He stood quietly on the window balcony of their bedroom. Coming up behind him, she slipped her arms about him, pressing her silken-clad body against him, her cheek against his hard shoulder. “Am I not worth it, Francis?” she whispered huskily. “Is it so hard for ye to accept that what was mine is now also yours? Would ye not be willing to share a fortune wi me? Are ye nae tired? I am, Francis. I am weary of being abused. I love ye, and would be wi ye.”

She could feel his heart beating evenly beneath her hands, and he said softly, “We will nae be able to go home again, Cat.”

“I know, Francis, and I shall miss Scotland, but for me home is where ye are. I have learned that in the years we have been separated.”

“I suppose we could get used to the quiet life.”

“Aye, Francis, we could.”

He turned then so they faced each other. His hands rested lightly on her waist, hers on his shoulders. “Would ye really leave me, Cat?”

Tipping her head back, she looked lovingly up at him, her beautiful green eyes diamond-bright with tears. “Why, damn me, Bothwell! I could nae ever leave ye. I love ye! I hae always loved ye! And may God ha mercy on me, for I will always love ye!”

He sighed deeply with relief, and she laughed happily. “Why Francis, did ye doubt me?”

“My dear wife, from the moment we first met I could nae be sure what ye’d do, or what would happen next. It has always been one of yer greatest charms.”

Suddenly they heard bells all around them. From the village, from the villages in the valley below them, from the many churches in the city of Rome across the hills. The bells were tolling out 1599, the end of the sixteenth century. They joyfully rang in the new year, 1600, and a new century.

As Francis Stewart-Hepburn bent to kiss his wife, a jubilant thought ran through his mind. Together they had beaten them! He and his Cat had survived all the pain and the cruelty the world could inflict on them. Now, what could they not do in this wonderful new century?

“Happy New Year, my darling,” he said, and then he found her mouth once more, sweeping her away into that special world that belonged to them alone, and where no man would ever again intrude.

I
N the spring of the year 1601, James Leslie, the fifth Earl of Glenkirk, was informed by his sergeant-at-arms that a tall masked gentleman was asking to enter his private presence. The earl agreed to the audience, saying, “I hae no enemies.” It was true. The current Glenkirk kept from court, supported the king only when support was necessary, and spent most of his time running his vast estates and several thriving businesses, and indulging his two small sons while waiting for his pregnant wife to produce the third.

Offering his mysterious guest a whisky, he said, “Will ye remove yer mask, sir?”

“Aye,” came a familiar voice, and the fifth Earl of Glenkirk found himself looking at the fourth Earl of Glenkirk. “Well, Jemmie, ye might say yer glad to see me,” said Patrick Leslie wryly.

“Father!” The young man’s face was a study in shock. “My God, father! Ye were dead! They said yer ship never reached its destination.”

“Explanations in a minute, Jemmie, but first tell me of yer mother, and of mine.”

Oh, lord, thought Jemmie. Bad news in both quarters for him. He sighed and began. “Grandmother Meg died this past winter. ‘Twas an easy death, for she was nae ill. She simply went to sleep one night, and did nae wake again.”

“Damn!” said Patrick Leslie softly. “If I’d only come a little sooner.” Then he demanded, “And yer mother? What of my wife?”

James Leslie hesitated again. Then, as there was nothing for it but to tell the truth, he answered, “Mother is gone, father.”

“Gone?” He stopped suddenly, then said, “Ah, yes, of course. The king would nae wait long before claiming her, would he? Is she at court? Is she happy?”

“She is in Italy, father. She is Lord Bothwell’s wife. They share exile together.”

“The treacherous bitch! How long did she wait before endangering the family and running off to her lover?”

“Dinna ever speak of her in that tone to me again,” Patrick heard his son snarl, and looking closely at the young man he was surprised. “She was devastated when Uncle Adam brought word that yer ship was lost She held herself completely responsible for yer ‘death,’ and would probably have remained here at Glenkirk mourning ye the rest of her life, but for the king. Yer right—the moment he heard ye were lost, he declared ye legally dead, and me the fifth earl. I was ordered to wed immediately in order to preserve the Glenkirk succession. Mother was told she had till spring to mourn. Then she was expected to return to court—and the king’s bed.

“She would hae done it, too, but for me. The king did not know that I knew of what had gone on between him, ye, Lord Bothwell, and mother. Therefore, I could also not be expected to know of his threats against us. I supported him loudly and publicly, appearing to push mother at him. When he came to my wedding he spent his days hunting deer and his nights in mother’s bed.

“I can assure ye I seemed most angry and highly offended when she fled her royal master. I even went so far as to write a letter to her, demanding that she return. I took the chance that James would nae revenge himself on me, as I was supposed to be ignorant of the whole drama. And I won, father! I won!”

“Jesu, Jemmie!” There was admiration in Patrick Leslie’s voice. “Yer a cool one!”

“I planned every detail of mother’s escape myself,” said Jemmie proudly. “Susan and her younger sister went with her. So did Conall, and about fifty young Glenkirk men who were looking for adventure.”

“Is she happy, Jemmie?”

James Leslie’s eyes softened for a moment. Looking at his father, he thought: You fool—to have lost her! “Aye,” he answered simply. “She is very happy.”

Patrick Leslie sighed. “I should hae let her go wi Francis when he was exiled, but the king was determined that if he could nae have her, then neither could his great rival, Bothwell. It almost broke her heart, and I know but for the bairn she carried she would hae died.” For a moment he was quiet, lost in his memories, and then he asked, “My bairns?”

James smiled. “Mother made provisions for us all before she left. I wed Bella Gordon, as ye had both arranged. Bess was wed to Bella’s brother, Henry. I hae two lads, and Bess a lad and a lass. My uncle of Grey-haven’s son died, and mother arranged wi her brother that Colin wed wi his eldest girl, and become the next Master of Greyhaven. Robbie will be wed wi the youngest Greyhaven girl at the same time. Mother settled an income and a manor on him so he would be independent. Amanda’s to be the next Countess of Sithean. She’ll be married in December. And wee Morag goes to Huntley’s youngest son, Malcolm, wi a fine big dowry including her own house.”