Love Wild and Fair

by Bertrice Small

  Before they left Marseilles, the messenger sent to Naples by Giscard Kira joined them to report that, though he had delivered the message to the villa where Lord Bothwell was staying, he had not seen Bothwell. The earl had been away. Cat became anxious to resume her journey. Giles de Peyrac had said that Francis had been stripped of everything but his clothes and his horse. If Francis was living comfortably, he must have a wealthy protector. It could, of course, be a male friend, but Cat would have wagered her entire new wardrobe that it was a woman.

  It was. Angela Maria di LiCosa was a contessa by both her marriage to Alfredo, Conte di LiCosa, and her birth as the daughter of Scipio, Conte di Cicala. Her mother, Maria Teresa, had been born a Muslim in the Ottoman Empire. At fourteen, Maria Teresa had been captured in a raid by Christian knights, and her captor, Scipio di Cicala, had not hesitated in ravishing her. But he had fallen deeply in love with his slavegirl and she, finding herself pregnant, did the intelligent thing. She converted to Christianity and married her lover in time to legitimatize their eldest son. Their youngest child was Angela. She grew to be as beautiful as the angels for whom she was named, and as wicked as the devil she worshipped. Her parents-especially her gentle mother-despaired of her, and as soon as she was old enough, they married her to Alfredo di LiCosa, twenty years Angela's senior.

  She came to her husband a virgin, but soon tired of his lovemaking. After giving him two sons, she began taking lovers. Alfredo di LiCosa was a sophisticated man, and as long as his wife was discreet, he turned a blind eyes to her infidelities. After all, he had his diversions too. Besides, she was absolutely insatiable, and he was no longer a boy. Even when Angela brought her lovers into his house he did not mind, provided there was a good covering excuse for their being there. Proprieties must always be observed.

  Francis Stewart-Hepburn had come into the house of Alfredo di LiCosa innocently enough. From France he had gone to Spain, but feeling the hot breath of the Inquisition on his neck he had left for Naples with his manservant, Angus. He brought with him an introduction from a friend of the Spanish king to the Conte di LiCosa, who was happy to shelter him. That Lord Bothwell should become the contessa's lover was inevitable. Francis appreciated beautiful women, and Angela di LiCosa was indeed a beautiful woman.

  Willow-slim, she had exquisite, high, cone-shaped breasts, and a waist a man could span with his hands. Her skin was milk-white' with no touch of color, even in the cheeks. Her eyes were like a night sky-deep and fathomless-with beautiful winged brows riding high above them. Her long, straight hair was blue-black, and hung nearly to her ankles.

  She was a charming woman when she chose to be, and she generally chose to be charming with men. Other women she merely tolerated, or ignored. She was not particularly well educated, though she could write and read a little. She had been raised to be an ornament, and she was successful in that.

  In the Earl of Bothwell, Angela di LiCosa recognized a man of wit, charm, education, and great sexual appetite. And Bothwell, always desperately seeking to blur the memory of his only love, was willing to be Angela's lover as long as it amused him.

  He was no saint, and he had to live. Cat had offered him her entire fortune before he left Scotland, but he had refused to take even a pennypiece from her. She had raged angrily at his foolish pride, knowing that money could mean safety to him. From those for whom he cared only in passing, Francis would accept money. It was his way.

  The thought of him in another woman's arms sent Cat spurring out of Marseilles. They raced through Toulon following the coastal road to Monaco, where she spent but one night in an ordinary inn, refusing the prince's invitation to rest a few days at his palace. The party moved on into the state of Genoa, and through Tuscany to Rome. Conall forced her to stop in Rome and rest a few days. "Christ, woman," he roared. "Yer killing my men wi this pace! The earl knows yer coming. He'll be rid of his doxy before ye get mere!"

  She was exhausted, with deep purple shadows beneath her eyes. She slept for two days, but on her third evening in Rome she told Conall, "We leave in the morning. I want to make Naples in three days."

  "I sent the coaches ahead wi half the men this morning," he told her. "Susan and May are wi 'em."

  "I wondered where my women had got to, and thought that perhaps some of these dark-eyed young men had lured them away."

  Conall sniffed. "Not likely. They're my brother's own girls, and I'd nae like to answer to Hugh if harm befell them."

  "‘Tis a pity ye dinna think so piously when yer happily fucking wi another man's daughter, ConalL" she answered him, a mischievous light dancing in her eyes.

  He glowered at her. "Do ye think ye can get yerself up and ready to leave by dawn?" he demanded.

  "Aye," she drawled back. "And will ye be sleeping alone also, Conall?"

  He burst out laughing. "Gie over, lass! Ye've a wicked tongue in yer pretty head for sure! I'll be up. See that ye are!"

  The following morning saw Cat and her men on the road to Naples. By their second evening they had caught up with the lumbering, laden coach and baggage wagon. They were nearer to Naples than they had anticipated. The following day, Cat rode until they were within a few miles of the city, stopping then at a small inn to bathe and change clothes.

  The innkeeper's wife clucked with disapproval at the dusty, long-legged woman who strode into her inn and up the stairs to the best bedroom. But a tub of hot water and almost two hours later the innkeeper's wife smiled broadly her approval at the exquisitely gowned and coifed woman descending the stairs.

  Cat and her women reentered the coach, which proceeded into the city and to the house of Signor Pietro Kira. It was midafternoon, and the banker was away on business. His eldest son escorted the countess to her newly purchased home near the village of Amalfi, south of Naples. It was, the young Kira explained, fully furnished and staffed according to instructions received from Benjamin Kira in Edinburgh.

  Cat gasped at the view through the coach windows. The road they traveled was precariously high above the sea, which glittered in at least three shades of blue beneath them. Finally they turned into a small tree-lined side road, through gates with a bronze plaque reading "Villa del Pesce d'Oro." Within minutes an exquisite house came into view. It was unlike anything Cat had lived in before. The roof was of red tiles, the villa itself a pale, creamy yellow. The white gravel driveway swung around in a circle and up to the house. In the center of the circle was a velvety green lawn bordered with flower beds already filled to overflowing with multicolored blooms. In the middle of the lawn was a round fountain with a laughing cupid riding a golden fish. All the area about the house was planted with flowers of every description.

  "Ohhhh, my lady," breathed young May. "‘Tis the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

  "For once the child doesna blather nonsense," agreed Susan. "At home the snowdrops will be but daring to poke their little heads up, and here 'tis already June!"

  Cat smiled at them both, thinking that this was a house for lovers. And if he was not already waiting, Bothwell would soon be here. The coach stopped, and her grooms let down the steps as the house servants emerged from the villa. Young Signor Kira introduced them. There was the major-domo, Paolo, and his wife, Maria, the housekeeper-cook. There were two kitchen maids, two housemaids, and half a dozen gardeners.

  "Lord Bothwell," she asked Paolo, "has he arrived yet?"

  "No one has come, Madonna."

  Cat turned to Signor Kira. "Your messenger said he delivered my note to Lord Bothwell's villa. Where is his villa?"

  "Quite near, signora contessa."

  She turned to Paolo again. "Have one of the gardeners show my captain the way."

  "Sì, Madonna!"

  "Conall, go!"

  The highlander swung back into his saddle. "‘Tis shameful how anxious ye are," he grumbled.

  "Dinna fret," she shot back at him. "I'm sure that currant-eyed wench ye've been ogling will wait," and she laughed at the rude noise he made as he rode off. She tu
rned to the young Kira. "You are my guest tonight, signor. It is too late for you to ride back to the city alone."

  They entered the villa. Cat was very pleased. The main floor boasted a square foyer with a center staircase and three salons, a library, a family dining room, a formal dining room, and three kitchens. Maria spoke as they ascended to the second floor. "It is a very small house, I fear, Madonna. There are only six bedchambers. However, the third floor is spacious, and I have given your women a nice room just above you." She waddled down the hallway to a pair of carved doors with lion-head decorations and exquisite gold-and-porcelain handles. Flinging open the doors she announced, "Ecco, Madonna! Your bedchamber."

  Cat walked into a spacious, airy room with two long double windows that opened onto small iron balconies over the rear gardens. The room looked out to the sea. There was a large high bed hung with sheer, sea-green silk draperies, and a matching coverlet. The furniture was a warm, well-polished walnut and the walls were cream-colored with gilt designs near the upper part and on the ceiling. Heavy silk draperies-also sea-green- hung on either side of the two windows. Between the windows, sheer creamy silk curtains blew in the soft breeze. On the cool tile floors were thick sheepskin rugs. Across from the windows and to the left of the bed was a large fireplace with a carved marble mantelpiece. The only other furniture in the room was a large armoire, a table, and some chairs.

  On the wall opposite the bed and to the right there was a door. Maria opened it with a flourish. "Your bath, signora contessa," she said.

  Cat's eyes widened. The walls and floor of the room were a marvellous blue tile, and in the center of the floor was a large sunken marble tub, shaped like a shell, with golden fish ornaments at one end.

  "Look, Madonna," said Maria excitedly. She leaned over and twisted one of the three golden fishes on the edge of the tub. Water flowed into the tub. "And when you wish to empty it," she chortled, pulling the center fish up, "see! Is it not marvelous? The last owner of this house was a Turkish merchant. They bathe far more than is healthy, but no matter!"

  "How is the water made hot?" asked Cat.

  "It is stored in a porcelain barrel which always has a low flame burning beneath it."

  "Look, Susan, May! Isn't it wonderful? No more lugging barrels of water! You can draw me a bath right now! Lord Bothwell will soon be here!"

  And while Cat swam about her scented tub, Conall followed the young gardener several miles across the hills to another great villa, well hidden within the trees. Here the gardener stopped and pointed.

  "Well, come on," said the Scotsman.

  "No, signor capitano. I go no further. If she knows that I came to help take her man away, she will curse me!"

  "Who?" Conall was puzzled.

  "The witch!"

  "What witch?"

  "The Contessa di LiCosa. It is her house. The Lord Bothwell is her lover."

  Conall thought for a moment. Well… the man had to live. And yet, he had not been at the villa to greet the woman he professed to love. Conall had assumed that they would meet somewhere on the road between Rome and Naples. Then he remembered what the messenger had told them. He had not delivered the message directly into Lord Bothwell's hand because the earl had not been at the villa. Was it possible that the earl had never received the message? Yes! It most certainly was! A typical woman's trick!

  "Wait here for me," he told the nervous gardener and started his horse up the road. He rode unchallenged. When he reached the house he found it ablaze with lights. Dismounting, he banged on the door. It was opened a few moments later by an imperious-looking major-domo. "I wish to see Lord Bothwell."

  "I am sorry. He cannot be disturbed. Who shall I say called?"

  "I am Captain More-Leslie, man," said Conall, pushing the officious servant aside, "and I intend disturbing his lordship right now! A Bothwell! To me! A Bothwell! A Bothwell!"

  From the upper story of the house Conall heard the slamming of a door, and Francis Stewart-Hepburn appeared, leaping lightly down the stairs, sword drawn. Walking to Conall, he peered closely at him. "Conall? Conall More-Leslie?"

  "Aye, my lord."

  A smile lit the earl's face, and he grasped Conall's hand with his free one. "Christ, man! 'Tis good to see ye! What are ye doing here?"

  "Ye didna receive the message delivered here for you several weeks ago?"

  "No. Are ye sure yer messenger came here?"

  "Aye, my lord, he came. He was told ye were away, but that the message would be delivered to ye on yer return."

  "I havena left here in months, Conall." Suddenly the earl's face went white. "Cat? Is she all right?"

  Conall sighed with relief. "Aye, my lord, she is fine, but she grows very impatient for yer company. She awaits yer lordship at the Villa del Pesce d'Oro."

  "What?”

  "Aye, sir! She is waiting now. If ye've nothing of value here, let us get yer man Angus and go!"

  Francis Stewart-Hepburn smiled slowly at Conall More-Leslie. "I've nought of value here, man. Angus! To me!"

  Then suddenly, at the top of the stairs, there appeared one of the most beautiful women Conall had ever seen. She glided down the stairs like a cat and purred in a deep voice, "Caro? Where do you go? Our guests will soon be arriving."

  "Why was I not given the message delivered here several weeks ago?"

  "What message, caro?" But her dark eyes flashed angrily at Conall.

  Bothwell saw her and laughed. "You are a very bad liar, Angela mia. I warned you that one day I would turn to you and say goodbye. This is that day."

  "Now? With guests coming? Could you not wait until tomorrow? Who will be my host?"

  "You might ask your husband, Angela."

  "Francisco!" She held out her beautiful hands in a pleading fashion. "I love you!"

  He laughed again. "Angela mia, you are a marvelous actress. There is only one thing in this world that would take me from your side, and she is waiting for me now. Adieu, cara mia!"

  Within minutes they were on the road back to the Villa del Pesce d'Oro, and they never heard the shrieks of outrage made by the beautiful Contessa di LiCosa.

  "What is Cat doing here?" shouted Lord Bothwell over the wind and the pounding of the horses' hooves.

  "She will tell ye herself, my lord," Conall shouted back.

  The sun was sinking into the western sea when they reached the villa. She waited in the doorway, and he slid from the saddle before his horse had even stopped. Everything was suddenly very quiet as they stood stock still looking at each other. The servants were frozen silent, not daring to move, so charged was the very air about them.

  "Cat." His voice caressed her, and she swayed. "Cat, my precious love, how come ye here?"

  "I am a widow, Francis. Patrick is dead."

  "God assoil him." They moved towards each other. "Angus! Fetch a priest!" commanded Lord Bothwell. And then he caught her to him, and slowly enfolding her in his arms, he found her eagerly waiting mouth. He drank in the sweetness of her, murmuring softly against her lips.

  Surrendering herself completely to the storm tearing at her, she clung to him. She could hardly stand. She could hear her heart pounding within her own ears. Finally she managed to gasp, "Why a priest?"

  His strong arm supporting her, he looked down into her upturned face. "Because, my darling, I intend marrying ye now! Tonight! Before kings, or families, or anyone can come between us ever again!"

  "Oh, Francis," she whispered, "I hae missed ye so damned much!" And she began to cry.

  "Dinna weep, my darling. Yer safe wi me now, and this time no one will separate us! Now, love, tell me- why did Jamie relent, and let ye come to me?"

  "He didn't, Francis. I ran. Jemmie is now the Glenkirk, and he felt 'twas the only chance I would have. What was between James Stewart, Patrick, and us had nothing to do wi Jemmie. He didna think that Jamie would try and revenge himself on the Leslies now." She drew him into the house.

  "Does our royal cousin know where ye are?"

>   "He was told that I went to France to recover from my widow's depression, but I imagine he's very angry at me, for I was ordered to return to court this spring. He even sent to King Henri and demanded his aid in arranging my return. Henri of Navarre sends his regards to ye."

  "Ye met him?"

  "Aye. He was most kind. He told me how very much he regretted having to send ye away."

  "Henri was always kind to women," chuckled Both-well. "Young or old. Fair or ugly. He has unbelievable charm, and the ladies love it!"

  But before he could pursue the conversation further, Cat led him into one of the salons overlooking the sea. Whirling about, she demanded, "And who is the owner of the villa in which ye hae be staying?"

  "The Conte di LiCosa," said Bothwell smoothly.

  "Is it his wife or his daughter ye've been sleeping with these long nights, my lord?"

  Francis' deep-blue eyes twinkled. "Jealous, my darling?" he teased.

  "If she ever looks at ye again I will tear her heart out!"

  He laughed happily. "Beware, my darling. The Contessa de LiCosa is reputed to be a witch."

  "Is she?" Cat was not impressed.

  He chuckled. "She likes the peasants and the other uneducated masses to think so, and she really is quite talented in herbal medicine. She enjoys the small power her reputation gives her. She's half-Turkish, as her mother was born in Morea and captured by Angela's father years ago. She has two brothers, the older of whom, in an odd quirk of fate, was himself captured by Turks twenty years ago. Just as his mother once converted to Christianity, he became a Muslim. He is now one of the sultan's generals."

  "Is she very beautiful?" asked Cat.

  "Yes," replied Bothwell honestly, "but the peasants call her l’Angela del Diavolo-the Devil's Angel." He moved to take her in his arms. "Cat, my love, I dinna want to talk of Angela. My God, I canna believe 'tis ye! Do ye know how many times I have dreamed of such a reunion, knowing it was impossible? Do ye know how I have longed for ye, sure that I would never hold ye in my arms again in this life? I have lain alone more nights than not aching for ye!" Gently he traced his finger down a tear streak. "Our bairns?"