Love Wild and Fair

by Bertrice Small

  "Mon père!" Cat was shocked. "What is it you are telling me to do?"

  "Whatever you must. Do you or do you not wish to be Lord Bothwell's wife?"

  "I do! Dear God, I do!"

  "Then do whatever you must do to achieve that goal."

  A few minutes later they reached Fontainebleau, and the marquis was at the coach door to escort Cat to the French king. "Your women and your other people may wait here," he told her.

  Niall slid easily from the coach to the courtyard. Looking directly at Robert de la Victoire, he said quietly, "I think I shall visit my old friend, Père Hugo, the king's confessor. I will be ready to return on your command, madame la comtesse."

  Clutching her cloak about her, Cat followed the marquis through a maze of winding and dimly lit corridors until finally he stopped. Pointing to a paneled door, he directed, "Through there, madame." And turning around, he disappeared into the darkness. Cat gritted her teeth and, grasping the door handle, turned it and entered into a beautifully furnished small library.

  At first glance the room appeared empty. Then a tall man stepped from a curtained alcove. "Come closer, madame la comtesse. I will not bite you."

  She walked directly up to him and swept him a low curtsy. "Monseigneur, you are gracious to receive me."

  A smile briefly touched the corner of his mouth. "Remove the cloak, madame. We will talk."

  Cat unfastened the gold clasps. Laying the garment neatly on a chair, she turned back to the French king. He had a sensuous, handsome face, with deep-brown velvet eyes. They scrutinized her with frank approval. His gaze moved downward from her beautiful face to rest quite openly on her lovely breasts pushing above the neckline of her gown.

  "Magnifique," he breathed. "I can well understand James Stewart's frantic desire to get you back, madame la comtesse."

  Though she had been half-expecting it, the shock was almost too much for Cat. She swayed slightly. Instantly the French king was at her side, a strong arm about her waist. "I will not go back, monseigneur! Not unless it be in my coffin!"

  Henri de Navarre was distressed. "Ahh, no, chérie, I cannot allow that to happen."

  She swayed again, and the king scooped her up and swiftly carried her through the curtained alcove to a bed. His long slender fingers expertly loosed the laces of her bodice. Pouring a small amount of amber liquid into a goblet, he put an arm about her shoulders and forced her to drink.

  Cat gasped, and coughed. "God's nightshirt! Whisky!"

  The French king laughed. "An excellent restorative."

  Suddenly aware of her dishabille, Cat struggled to relace herself, but another wave of dizziness overcame her, and she fell back. The king leaned over her, pinioning her gently between his arms. "Do not be afraid, chérie. I will not make you return to your king. It is all too obvious that he repels you, and I have never believed in forcing women. Sweet surrender in the battle between the sexes has far more charm than rape." The brown eyes caressed her warmly, and Cat felt herself blush under his very ardent gaze. His voice was soft. "Would you surrender to me, chérie?" he asked, and she barely had time to murmur, "Monseigneur," before his mouth closed warmly over hers.

  Expecting to react as she had with James, Cat was startled to feel a tremor run through her body. The mouth on hers was tender, and expert. She felt herself relax. Her eyes closed, and she sighed deeply.

  He laughed softly, and the slim fingers quickly undid her laces, baring her completely to the waist. His mouth moved down the slender column of her throat to the twin silken globes of her breasts. She couldn't stop him, though for a brief moment she tried to, struggling to escape the outrageously delicious feelings that were sweeping over her. This was wrong! She didn't even know him.

  “Non, non, chérie," he gently admonished her, pressing her back among the pillows. "You want this as much as I do."

  And she realized with shock that he spoke the truth. She did not know him, yet she needed his very masculine body in order to reassure herself of her womanhood. James had made her feel like a whore. Henri of Navarre, a virtual stranger, was making her feel alive and feminine again.

  His lips traced a pattern across her faintly trembling breasts, moving downward to her quivering navel. His large, soft hands caressed her with an expertise that left her breathless and half-fainting. She felt those hands beneath her full skirts, stroking her satiny thighs, and then moving to touch her more intimately. A throbbing, aching tightness began building within her. She cried out, "Monseigneur!" and felt him seeking her. Her breath was coming in short quick little gasps, and she sobbed gratefully as his hardness penetrated her.

  He moved smoothly, delighting in her passionate response, lingering happily within her warmth, holding himself in perfect check as she sought and found her own heaven. Then, taking her one final time to the heights of ecstasy, he joined her in fulfillment. Cat, excited by this expert lover, first fainted and then drifted off into a relaxed sleep.

  When she awoke several hours later he was quickly at her bedside with a glass of cool wine. Blushing furiously at the memory of what had passed between them, she accepted his offering with lowered eyes.

  "Look at me, chérie," he gently commanded her. His hand imperiously raised her heart-shaped face to his. "I pity James, and I certainly envy my friend Lord Bothwell," he said.

  Her leaf-green eyes widened, and she swallowed hard. "You-you know Francis?"

  "Yes, chérie, I do. We spent many happy hours together before he so foolishly killed a de Guise in a duel. I have enough trouble with that family as it is, and I was forced to exile my friend."

  "Then you know I journey to Naples to wed Francis?"

  "Yes, chérie."

  "And all along you intended to let me go my way?" "Yes, chine.n

  "Ohhhhhh!" Her eyes were wide with outrage. She struggled off the bed, desperately trying to lace herself up. "My God, monseigneur! How could you? How could you?"

  Henri de Navarre could not help himself, and he began to laugh, catching at the angry little hand that pummeled his chest. "Because, you adorable creature, with a courtful of delicious and willing beauties, your Francois did nothing but sigh and moon over you! I simply could not believe such perfection existed. But now," and he smiled down at her, "I believe, ma chérie!” He tipped her face up to his. "You will not tell my good friend, Francois, that I took shameful advantage of you. Will you, chérie?"

  Her lower lip began to tremble, and she struggled to retain her dignity. "You are an impossible man, monseigneur," she scolded him, beginning to laugh in spite of herself.

  His fingers expertly laced her up. "Was it so terrible, what we did? I was under the distinct impression that you enjoyed yourself as much as I did."

  Her eyes met his, and he heard her say, "I did, monseigneur, but for a reason you would not suspect."

  "Tell me!"

  "Last Christmas when my son wed Isabelle Gordon, James Stewart came to Glenkirk to spend his days hunting and his nights in my bed. When he touched me I felt nothing. I was forced to pretend an emotion I did not feel so as not to offend my royal cousin's pride. After several nights of it I became afraid that perhaps something was actually the matter with me."

  "And today," chuckled Henri de Navarre, "you discovered that there is nothing the matter with you, n'est-ce pas?”

  "Yes," she said softly.

  "I am delighted to have had a part in reassuring you, madame la comtesse," he returned dryly.

  She laughed mischievously. "Do not play the wounded one with me, monseigneur! 'Twas you who seduced me!"

  Henri smiled down at her. "I will not deny, madame, that this has been a delightful interlude." His finger touched the tip of her nose, and he sighed. "But now you must return to your uncle's chateau, and prepare for your journey to Italy."

  She caught up his hands and kissed them. "Merci, merci, monseigneur! Mille mercis!”

  He again took her face in his two hands. "You love him very much, don't you, chérie?”

  "Yes, mo
nseigneur, I love him. It has been a long and very lonely three years. I have been as half a person without him."

  "I have never felt like that about anyone," replied the French king.

  "I do not believe many people do, monseigneur, and I dp not understand why Francis and I were singled out to share such a love-but we do!"

  Henri de Navarre gently traced a finger down her cheek. "How lovely you are, chérie, with all your innocent love shining out of those marvelous green eyes. Go safely to your beloved rogue, and tell him that I miss him. What an addition you both would have been to my court!" Picking up her cloak, he carefully draped it around her shoulders. Taking her hand, he led her to the door and opened it. "Here she is, mon père-safe and sound." He took her hand. Kissing it, he said, "Adieu, madame la comtesse."

  The door to the study closed, and she was alone in the corridor with Niall Fitz-Leslie. The priest led her back to their coach in the courtyard. When they were safely on their way, he asked, "Well, madame, did you leave the lion's maw unscathed?"

  Cat laughed. "Almost, mon père. Still, I like your king."

  "Then you are free to go on to Lord Bothwell?"

  "Yes, Niall. I am free."

  The following day the two families gathered to bid Cat farewell. She retired as soon after the evening meal as was politely possible, for they planned an early start. Already the coach and a smaller secondary vehicle, brought to transport Cat's new wardrobe, had been packed and stood ready but for their horses. That very morning the Marquis de la Victoire had arrived with a certificate of safe passage from Henri de Navarre for Madame la Comtesse de Glenkirk. It would enable her to travel unmolested through France, and through various Italian territories as well.

  In the deep of the night Cat woke suddenly, aware that she was not alone. Standing silently in the darkness at the foot of her bed was a man. She knew at once who it was. "What do you want, Giles?"

  "How did you know it was me, Catherine?"

  "Who else would dare to intrude on me, Giles?"

  "Are you really leaving us in the morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because," she said patiently, as if explaining to a child, "I travel to Naples to wed Lord Bothwell."

  "He is not the man for you, Catherine! He is a cruel, crude Northerner. He killed my friend, Paul de Guise. You do not know what kind of a man he really is!"

  " 'Tis you who do not know Lord Bothwell, Giles. I have known him for years. I love him, and I always have loved him."

  For a moment Giles de Peyrac was silent, then she heard a sharp intake of breath. "You! Then you are the woman he mourned! You are the woman for whom he scorned and insulted Clarice de Guise!" Giles de Peyrac moved from the darkness into the half-light by Cat's bedside, and his voice was strained, vindictive. "We stripped him of almost everything he had in reparation before the king exiled him. When he left France he and that mangy servant of his had naught but the horses they rode and the clothes on their backs. Now you think to go to him, and make his life pleasant? My best friend is dead!" The strange gold light flickered in Giles de Peyrac's eyes. "I wonder, ma belle cousine, how your lover will receive you, knowing that I have used you like an animal? And he will know!"

  "Giles!" She deliberately raised her voice, but he was so lost to reason that he did not notice. "Giles! Leave my bedchamber at once!” She heard a soft movement in her dressing room, and knew with relief that she had wakened her tiring women.

  Giles de Peyrac reached out. Grasping the neckline of her nightgown, he ripped the sheer material away easily. Before she could stop him, he flung himself on her. Cat screamed, a scream cut off by his hand on her mouth. Cat twisted her body wildly, trying to escape the hands that pinched and hurt her. The black eyes glittered cruelly, the little gold flame flickering madly. "That's it," he whispered in an excited voice, "fight me! Fight me! I like it when women fight me!"

  My God, Cat realized. He's mad! But I won't be raped again! Not again!

  Suddenly Giles de Peyrac was lifted off her, his arms pinioned back by Andrew. "I warned you, lad," said Conall quietly, and then he plunged his dirk directly into his prisoner's heart Giles de Peyrac's odd eyes widened in surprise and then went blank as he crumpled to the floor. Amazed, Cat watched as Niall stepped from the darkness. Having administered last rites, he commanded, "Dump him outside the walls by the servants" gate. It will look like footpads." Andrew and Conall picked up the body silently and carried it from the room.

  Gasping, Cat began to weep with relief, vaguely aware that she was being gathered against a broad chest. Niall Fitz-Leslie held her easily, his hand stroking the tawny hair. Suddenly be became aware of the soft bare breasts pressing against his chest His heart began to beat wildly, and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. Then, gathering his weakening self-control, he said quietly, "Giles de Peyrac was a depraved monster who virtually killed his own wife. I want you to forget this ever happened. Are you all right now?"

  Still clinging to him, she turned her tear-streaked face up to him, and he groaned, "Christ, Catriona! Don't look at me like that! I am a priest, but I am a man also, ma belle!n

  "Then let me go, Niall. I can feel you trembling against me. Go away before we are foolish!"

  Reluctantly he released her, and she drew the sheets up over her nakedness. Though celibacy was a vow often broken among the priesthood, he himself had never before been tempted. He had had his share of wenches before admitting to his vocation, and had never regretted leaving carnality behind. But now?

  As if reading his thoughts, she said quietly, "Honest doubt makes for a stronger faith, mon père. Thank you for rescuing me, but I would rest now. Twill soon be dawn, and whatever happens I must be on my way today."

  He nodded dumbly.

  "Will you hear my confession before I go? I think it would be best to keep this in the family."

  Finding his voice, he said, "Yes. Come to the chapel at dawn. I will be waiting." And he slowly walked from the room.

  Susan came to see that she was all right. Cat smiled wanly and patted her arm. "I am fine. Thank ye for getting Conall. I knew if I raised my voice ye'd hear me."

  Susan flushed. " ‘Twas nae me, my lady. Twas May. She sleeps light."

  "Thank God for it! Now go back to bed, child. Twill soon be morning."

  Cat dozed in the darkness until her inner sense told her that dawn was near. Waking, she dressed herself quietly and made her way to the chapel, where Niall waited. The young priest was composed again, but had a haggard look about him. Kneeling, Cat placed her hands in his and began her confession. He listened quietly as she recited a list of small indiscretions, and the slightly larger sin of her few hours with Henri de Navarre. The penance he gave her was light, and his hand shook slightly as he absolved her, touching her bowed head. She looked up at him, then, green eyes twinkling, and said, "And for your sins, mon père, three Aves and three Paters."

  Niall Fitz-Leslie choked back his laughter. "Catriona, you are impossibly irreverent, and I thank you. I have made a great to-do over nothing, haven't I?"

  "Yes, mon père, you have. There is a world of difference between the thought and the deed."

  "Merci, ma fille."

  She kissed the hand extended to her, rose, and allowed him to escort her from the chapel. Lowering his voice, he spoke in Gaelic. "The body has not been found yet If you leave quickly you should be gone before it is."

  "We are ready now."

  "Have you eaten?"

  "No. We will do so on the road."

  When they entered the courtyard of the chateau they found David Leslie de Peyrac awaiting them. "Adèle bid me say her adieu if you left. She seemed to feel you might stay, though I know not why." He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "Before you go, niece, will you satisfy my personal curiosity? From whom do you run?"

  "From James Stewart," she answered him frankly.

  "And King Henri knows, yet gives you safe passage?"

  "Yes, un
cle."

  The Sieur de Peyrac chuckled. "Go with God, niece, and if you should ever need my help you have but to ask. Though with your powerful friends, I doubt you'll need me."

  "Sometimes family is best, uncle. Thank you," she replied and kissed him. He handed her into the coach and she leaned from the window and said, "Adieu, mon père et mon beau-frère Niall. Thank you for everything."

  Niall Fitz-Leslie kissed the slim hand extended him. "Adieu, ma belle. Be happy."

  "I shall! Conall, forward!"

  And the Countess of Glenkirk's entourage rumbled out of the courtyard of Chateau Petit, and onto the main road which led through the Forest of Fontainebleau and south to the Mediterranean coast. As soon as they were clear of the castle, the coach pulled into a clearing and Cat descended, a bundle under her arm, and disappeared into the thick undergrowth.

  Several minutes later she reappeared dressed for riding in her hose and leather jerkin, her hair tucked beneath a tam. She tossed her clothes to Susan and May within the coach as Conall rode up leading Iolaire. Swinging easily into the saddle, she stretched. Clamping her knees against the horse's sides, she kicked him forward.

  "I'm free, Conall," she laughed. "At last I am free! To Naples! To Bothwell! I am free!"

  PART VI. MY LORD BOTHWELL

  Chapter 46

  DOWN the plump backside of France they rode through towns and villages that eventually began to blur and hold a sameness. Nemours… Briare… Nevers… Lyons… Vienne… Avignon… Marseilles. And now Cat got her first glimpse of a southern sea, so different from the cold north. It dappled aqua here, green there, turquoise to the left, purple to the right, and clear to its sandy or coral bottom.

  They remained several days in Marseilles, and Cat delighted in the city and its waterfront markets with fruits and fish and spices. There were French, Spanish, Turkish, Russian, Moorish, English, Venetian, Genoese, Sicilian, and even black sailors! Seeing the ships lining the quaysides she wished that she could sail out into the Golfe du Lion through the Ligurian Sea, past Corsica and Sardinia, and into the Tyrrhenian Sea to Naples. But Cat knew well that beyond the safety of Marseilles' harbor, Turkish corsairs lurked waiting to pounce upon any poorly guarded ship.