Asher Kira nodded. "Yes, my lord, I can. After what I saw them doing to Susan, I can kill one of the men who did it."
The earl smiled grimly, and the three men settled down to wait.
The moonless night grew darker, and gradually the noise from the soldiers died until only snoring broke the stillness. Carefully now they crept up again to the perimeter of the camp. The fire burned low. The three men were all there. The man who should have been on guard slept as noisily as his companions. Bothwell shook his head in wonder. These Turks-alleged to be the world's finest military-were poor soldiers. Instead of sleeping in close formation about the fire, they were scattered-easy prey for man or animal.
The earl nodded to Conall and Asher. Shadowlike the three men stepped from the darkness into the faint glow of the firelight. Methodically they went about their task. A hard hand was clasped quickly about a mouth to stifle the cry while the throat was cut from ear to ear. The two soldiers died swiftly. Captain Omar was left.
A bloodcurdling Scots war cry ripped through the night. The Turkish captain scrambled to his feet, terrified. A quick glance about him told him his companions were dead. Slowly, he turned to face his adversaries. There were three of them-a beardless youth not worth bothering with, and two hardened veterans. Omar was no coward, but he did not like the odds.
"I am Captain Omar of the sultan's Dlyrian regulars," he said. "Who are you?"
The tallest of the men stepped forward. "My name matters not, spawn of pig's offal! You will not live long enough to repeat it!"
The insult was enormous, yet the captain was puzzled. "Do I know you, my lord? What is your quarrel with me?" He shifted his weight slightly.
"Do not move, captain," said the tall man. "My young friend has a pistol pointed directly at you. It is primed and ready. If his finger should slip…" He paused and smiled. "Have you ever seen a man die of a bullet wound, captain? A large hole blown clean through his middle? The guts oozing out onto the ground like a string of sausages? Move one step, and you will experience that most exquisite agony."
The giant Turk swallowed hard and glanced over at the boy he had regarded so lightly. Asher Kira glared coldly back. His slender hand was wrapped lightly about a large, evil-looking weapon. He seemed quite familiar with it, even comfortable. Captain Omar stood very still.
Bothwell turned to Conall. "Susan?"
"Alive, my lord," came the choked reply. The weatherworn face, wet with tears, implored him.
"Christ, mon, what sort of human does this to a young girl?" And he tenderly cradled the battered body of his niece in his arms.
"Cat!" The earl's voice called.
She came slowly from behind the captain, still naked. Removing his heavy cloak, Bothwell wrapped her in it "Asher will take you and Susan to the boat as soon as he and Conall have launched it"
"And you?"
"The captain and I have unfinished business."
"I will stay till it is finished," she stated.
A slow smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You were never one to run from danger, were you, my love? Very well then. It would be easier if you had some clothes on, madame. Are there any extra among us?"
Nodding, she said, "I will not be long, Francis," and climbed back up to the cave. Taking Susan's extra undergarments, pants from Asher, and a shirt from Conall, she was able to put together a decent wardrobe. Her own sash and boots were salvageable.
While she dressed, the others pressed Captain Omar's strength into service. They dragged the boat from its biding place and anchored it in the river, just off the beach. Asher Kira waited in it with the injured Susan. Having regained consciousness, she alternated between relief and tears. Conall built up the fire to light the area while the two combatants stripped off shirts and boots.
"Understand me, Turk," said Bothwell. "If I do not kill you, which I intend doing, my captain will do it. But because I believe every condemned man has the right to know why he dies I will tell you now that the lady you intended selling into bondage is my wife. The girl your men brutalized is my captain's niece."
Captain Omar let the words slide over him, looking his challenger over. Bothwell was almost as tall as he, but weighed a good deal less. Omar felt confidence swelling through him. He would quickly crush the infidel dog. As for his bandy-legged companion, he presented no threat at all. But it would be wise to dispose of him quickly. Whirling, he turned on the surprised Conall and felled him with a great blow to the head. The Scotsman slid silently to the sand as Cat screamed his name.
Now Captain Omar turned to Bothwell. The two men circled each other, each assessing the other's strength. Their knives flashed in the firelight. Suddenly terrified, Cat knelt by the unconscious Conall, watching and praying.
There was a sudden glint of steel and a reddening wound. Then there was another, and another. The two men fought on, past taunts now, an occasional grunt punctuating the silence. Neither seemed to weary, and the firelight dappled their sweat-soaked bodies. Suddenly the Turk flung aside his knife and leaped at Both-well, enveloping him in a great bear hug. Bothwell was caught as surely as a rabbit in a snare. He could not struggle, and his knife dropped from his hand. The giant seemed to be squeezing the very life from him.
"Cat!" He managed to gasp. "To the boat, lass! Run!"
He felt a rib crack and struggled harder against both his massive enemy and fast-rising unconsciousness. He knew that if the blackness claimed him he was a dead man. The ignominy of the situation struck at his native pride.
That he, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, should die at the hands of a mindless Turk!.Through the roaring in his ears he thought he heard his wife's voice, and it gave him courage. If he died, she was doomed to a living hell.
Scrambling across the sand, Cat picked up first the Turk's knife and then Bothwell's. Legs shaking, she plunged both knives repeatedly into the mountain of flesh that was the Turk, but she could not seem to find a vital spot. Her blows were no more effective than a gnat's bite. But, like the insect, she became a great irritant. Dropping his half-conscious victim, Omar turned on her.
"Woman!" he shouted, and she jumped backwards. He reached for the knives and, disarming her, slapped her several light blows. Terrified for Bothwell, and feeling more helpless than she had ever felt, Cat dropped to her knees. The Turk turned back to the earl. Suddenly a roar tore the stillness. Spinning about, Captain Omar clutched at his middle, a look of pure surprise on his face. He removed his hands slowly to look, then clamped them quickly back over the hole in his belly as a length of pink gut rolled out. But he was not able to contain the blood that poured forth.
Sickened, Cat scrambled away from him, but he kept coming towards her, his lips moving, mouthing words she could not hear. The pink intestines were uncontainable now, spilling between his clutching fingers, blood spurting over her. Beyond him stood Asher Kira, the smoking pistol in his hands. Nearby both Bothwell and Conall lay unmoving on the damp sand.
Horrified, she slowly scanned the scene of carnage in which she had played a leading role. Suddenly Captain Omar crumbled dead at her feet. Terror filling her eyes, she screamed, "Oh, God! No more! No more! No more!"
PART IX. THE HEALING
Chapter 59
IN the cool green hills overlooking Rome there nestled a beautiful villa, commanding a view of the sea many miles beyond. A park surrounded the house, but the gates leading to it were always closed unless someone was entering or leaving. It was called simply Villa Mia, and had been built a hundred years before for a mistress of the Borgia pope, Alexander VI. The park was filled with greenery, deer, birds, and little lakes.
The house was now owned by the foreigner Lord Stuarti. The local people knew little else about him. The new lord had a large force of men-at-arms, but only their captain was ever seen entering the house. The servants were all women, imported from Rome. Tradesmen were stopped at the back door. No one from the surrounding area had ever been inside the villa.
There was a rumor that Lord Stuarti
had a wife, but she was never seen, and it was known that he occasionally visited the widowed innkeeper, Giovanna Russo.
When the other women of the village attempted to elicit information from Giovanna, she would say nothing other than "He is a good man with much pain. Do not ask again for I will tell you nothing." This was strange, for Giovanna was a warm-hearted woman who was known to enjoy a good gossip. Eventually, however, the villagers accepted the mysterious Lord Stuarti and no longer paid any particular attention to the Villa Mia.
Francis Stewart-Hepburn had never intended to return to Naples. The Villa del Pesce d'Oro would have held too many frightening ghosts. So, the new villa had already been purchased, and was waiting when he and Cat returned. Bothwell thanked God he had a home to bring her to, and that it was isolated.
She had been near death for many weeks after the terrible ordeal, and he was convinced that only his own willpower, his desperate desire that she stay alive, had kept her alive.
Cat had drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the homeward journey running a low, steady fever. She would eat nothing, pushing food away angrily in her only show of emotion. It was all he could do to get liquids into her. He had kept her alive in spite of herself, getting her safely to Italy.
Strangely, it was Cat's plight which made Susan refrain from self-pity. Susan had suffered terribly, but hardly to the extent that her mistress had. The young woman blamed herself for Cat's plight.
" 'Tis my fault she is so hurt," she said, tears threatening. "But I will help to get her well, my lord! I swear I will," she vowed. Bothwell was grateful, and glad for her company.
When they reached the Villa Mia, young May was waiting. The two sisters embraced. May, grateful to both her older sister and her mistress for saving her in the attack on Villa del Pesce d'Oro, eagerly aided Susan in her efforts to bring Cat back to sanity.
The Countess of Bothwell had not spoken a word since the night of her rescue, and her beautiful eyes remained void of all expression. Sometimes the earl felt her staring at him, but when he turned, it was to be met with the all-too-familiar blank look. Still he loved her as never before and, desperate, tried to carry on as if all were normal.
He did not share her bed, sleeping instead in a room adjoining hers. At night the door between the rooms remained open so that he would hear her if she called. Though her face expressed nothing and she was mute, she seemed to understand all that was said to her. She communicated by looks and signs.
Other than her husband, Conall, and young Asher Kira, no men were ever allowed into her presence. The proximity of a strange male was apt to set her to weeping and moaning.
They had arrived in midsummer, and now as the Roman autumn progressed she began to venture out of the villa into the gardens for long walks. She was always accompanied by either Susan or May, and the gardeners were warned to remove themselves the moment she appeared. The mistress, they were told, had been very ill, and strangers upset her.
Now the gossip in the village began anew, and the talk was all about the Madonna Stuarti. Though the gardeners removed themselves from Cat's sight, no one had said they might not look upon her from the cover of the bushes. In the tavern of Giovanna Russo they raved about Cat's pale-gold hair (for her hair had never regained its tawny shade), they sang praises to her leaf-green eyes, they rhapsodized over her beautiful, unlined face and her young girl's figure.
Giovanna Russo filled their tankards with the region's best, slapped away roving hands, and listened. She had often wondered about her lover's wife, for he never spoke of her. Yet she was sure that the sadness afflicting him stemmed from a tragedy which had befallen his wife. He came to Giovanna for release only, but she was satisfied. He was the best lover she had ever had- strong, tender, and considerate.
One day, Giovanna managed to slip into the villa gardens. She needed to see her rival. Having seen her, Giovanna Russo was deeply torn.
If the beautiful lady became well again, Giovanna would lose her lover. Yet she loved Bothwell in her own fashion, and she wanted him to be happy. A kind woman, she began lighting candles for Cat in the village church.
One beautiful afternoon, Bothwell waved both his wife's attendants away and, tucking Cat's thin hand through his arm, walked with her out into the sunlit gardens. "Susan tells me yer taking more nourishment," he said. "It shows. That and the air have made yer cheeks rosy again."
She said nothing, but there was the faintest shadow of a smile on her Hps. They continued to walk in silence, and then, suddenly, he caught her by the shoulders and looked down into her face. "Cat! For God's sake, my darling! Speak to me!" He had recently seen the blank look receding from her eyes. "I love ye, hinny! More now than ever before. Dinna shut me out, Cat! Dinna go away from me again!"
"How can ye love me, Francis?" Her voice was low, so low that he was not sure she was speaking. But he had seen her lips move.
"Why shouldn't I love ye, sweetheart?"
Her voice dripped scorn. "God, Bothwell, hae ye no pride? I am dirtied! I am used filth, and I shall never be clean again!"
"You are unclean only if ye believe it, Cat. Men have used yer body cruelly, I'll nae deny it." His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms, and his eyes bore into hers. "But no man ever really possessed ye, my darling. Not ever! Yer soul was always yer own!"
"Be satisfied with yer plump innkeeper, Francis," she said wearily. "If any man touches me ever again, I shall die."
He was surprised by neither her attitude nor her knowledge of Giovanna. "Very well, my love, I shall not attempt to make love to ye. But there will come a night when ye will change yer mind. I will wait, Cat. But in the meantime, please dinna stop talking to me. If God wills that I have naught but the sound of yer voice for the rest of my days, I shall be satisfied."
For a moment her old smile flashed. "Hypocrite!" she said. But her eyes were twinkling.
From that afternoon on she began to improve. Without telling her, he had written to her son, the Earl of Glenkirk, requesting that their children be sent to them. The children would be arriving by Christmas. Bothwell pursued her, seeking her love and her trust once again. Each morning now he breakfasted with her in her bedroom after they had attended mass together in their chapel. Afterwards he left her, sometimes reappearing for lunch. He was always with her in the evenings.
He personally planned each evening, though she did not know this. With exquisite taste he chose the menu, the wines, the flowers that graced their table. He delighted in giving her little gifts, a small wood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a pale-green silk nightgown, a cage of brightly colored, singing finches. She accepted each offering quietly: the box with a smile, the nightgown with a blush, the birds with a little cry of pleasure.
Often now he caught her looking at him from beneath her thick lashes, and in the night-for he limited his visits to Giovanna and never went to her after dark-he heard her moving restlessly about her chamber. He did not approach her, for her wounds were still too grievously deep to allow her a physical life. He knew that a woman as deeply sensuous as Cat would eventually recover, and want love once more. He waited.
On December 21, the Feast of St. Thomas, a coach rumbled down the white graveled drive of the Villa Mia. As it drew up to the front of the house, Bothwell hurried his wife outside to greet their guests.
"How could ye," she raged at him. "I dinna want to see anyone!" But he chuckled. "Wait, hinny!’Tis a happy surprise."
Suddenly her heart began to beat wildly, with certainty. "Oh, Francis." She trembled. "Is it our bairns?"
His arm tightened about her shoulders. "Aye," he smiled. " 'Tis our bairns."
The coach stopped, and the footmen leaped to open its door. And then a boy appeared in the doorway of the coach, and it was Bothwell's turn to tremble. The child who stood there was his mirror image.
"Ian!" She pulled from her husband's protective grasp, and caught the boy in an embrace that he endured for only a moment. "Mother!" And he buried his smal
l, suddenly vulnerable face in her soft neck. Then, demanding to be put down, he looked up at Bothwell. His sapphire-blue eyes were steady as he said, "My half-brother, the Earl of Glenkirk, has explained the situation, sir. He has given us the option to use either the Leslie name or yours. I think, father," and Bothwell trembled again, "I think we would prefer to acknowledge ye as our sire, since ye hae been so kind as to acknowledge us."
The Earl of Bothwell swallowed hard, and then grinned down at his small son. Unable to contain himself, he grabbed the boy up with a whoop and hugged him hard. The grin that came back at him nearly shattered his heart. And it was with great amusement that he heard the boy whisper conspiratorially, "Please, father, put me down or my sisters will feel slighted. They are used to being spoiled by the men."
Bothwell complied and turned back-to his wife, who knelt and embraced the two little girls. The larger of the two was Cat all over again, with tawny hair and leaf-green eyes. But the tinier of the two was a mixture of both her parents, with her father's auburn hair and her mother's green eyes. At a whisper from their mother, they turned to greet him, and the little piping voices that called him "papa" swelled his heart to bursting.
In the next few days she came back to life, and he knew that it was the children who had driven away the remaining ghosts for her. Now the air rang with the sound of children's voices. To Bothwell’s amazement, he reveled in parenthood.
This Christmas was their first all together. They attended a mass of thanksgiving in the villa's chapel, and then Cat and her daughters distributed alms and gifts to the poor of the village. The village women were awed by the slender beautiful woman with the pale-gold hair and green eyes who spoke their language so well. They were equally enchanted by Cat's daughters, who had decided they preferred the Italian versions of their names and were now called la donna Gianetta and la donna Francesca.
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