Their baskets empty, the earl's party stopped at the inn, where the ladies of the Villa Mia were offered seasonal refreshments. And while the children munched Christmas sweets and cuddled a litter of kittens they had found in the innyard, their mother coolly accepted a goblet of wine from the innkeeper, Giovanna Russo.
Innkeeper and Contessa studied one another for a moment. Then the innkeeper said in a voice audible only to Cat, "If I were lucky enough to be married to Francisco Stuarti, I should not continue to deny him my bed, signora la contessa."
"You know nothing about it, innkeeper," hissed Cat.
"I know that every time he lies with me he pretends 'tis you," came the retort.
Cat was stricken, suddenly close to tears. "I cannot," she whispered. "You do not know what has been done to me."
Intuitive comprehension rose in Giovanna. "Dio mio," she gasped. "So-being a rich noblewoman is no protection either!" And impulsively she caught Cat's hands and looked into her face. "It has happened to me also, signora. In the last damned war a troop of French soldiers…" She stopped and spat. "They used the inn as their headquarters. They were here almost a week, and in all that time I don't think I was allowed off my back more than a few hours daily, to cook for them, of course. They killed my husband because he objected. After they had gone I did not think I could ever stand to be touched by a man again."
"And yet you are my husband's mistress."
"The right man came along. He was simpatico, and I wanted him," smiled Giovanna. "Is not my lord Francisco simpatico to you? And in your heart… do you not want him?"
The beautiful tear-filled eyes gave Giovanna the answer she sought. "I will pray for you, my lady," she said quietly. And turning, Giovanna walked away from Cat, knowing that she had lost her kind Francisco forever.
Chapter 60
CAT had known she was not the first woman in the world to suffer at the hands of men. But there had been no room in her heart for anything besides her own hurt. Now she realized how many others had suffered. And she saw that she had been blaming Francis for many of her misfortunes.
Deep down, she felt that if he had not been involved with Angela di LiCosa, the kidnapping would not have happened. Yet it had, and no amount of wishing was going to change it. If she allowed it to kill their love, then Angela's evil spirit would triumph.
She struggled with herself for several days. For weeks she had been restless, waking nightly to walk ceaselessly about her room. She loved, him, yet she did not know if she could bear to have his hands on her. She was frightened, too, that she had been drained of all sexual feeling.
She knew she must make the first move. Being sensitive to her feelings, Francis would not. Too, if she were in control of the situation she might draw back at any time without hurting him.
On the 31st day of December, Bothwell rode into Rome on business. He promised to return by nightfall so they might celebrate the New Year together. For several hours after he left she debated with herself, hesitated and then decided. She did not deny to herself that she was afraid, but she could also not deny that she wanted him again.
While the maids made up her large bed with fresh lavender-scented linens, and the cook prepared a fat capon for a midnight feast, Cat spent the afternoon with her children. They remembered her well, and this confused her until she heard them relating among themselves incidents about her that they were in no position to recall.
"How do ye know these things?" she asked them.
"Why, Bess told us, mother," they replied. Cat sent her eldest daughter a mental prayer of thanks. Without Bess, it seemed, her little ones would have forgotten her.
This last afternoon of the old year she oversaw their baths, and when they sat about their supper table she sat with them. The meal over, she surprised them with a silver paper box of Pinoccati, a diamond-shaped red-and-brown sugar candy. Their nursemaid, Lucy Kerr, smiled as Cat told the children the wild wonderful stories of their homeland.
Finally she heard their prayers and tucked them into bed, kissing them tenderly, reveling in their happiness. Bidding good night, she hurried to her own room, where Susan and May were readying a bath for her.
"What will ye wear, my lady?" asked May.
"Put out the green nightgown that my lord gave me," she said.
Susan's eyebrow was raised just slightly as she reached for the bath scents. "Wildflowers," she heard her mistress say. "The ones we brought from Scotland, in the silver flacon." So, thought the tiring woman happily, she is finally going to try her wings again. Susan smiled to herself, and hoped that her lady's return to the world of sensual delights would be as pleasant as her own had been. Susan was in love for the first time in her life. The cause of her happiness was one of the men-at-arms who had accompanied them from Scotland. Robert Fitz-Gordon had taught Susan that love could be sweet. They were to be wed soon after the New Year.
Cat snuggled herself deep into the sweet water of the porcelain tub. Her pale hair had been carefully secured atop her head with tortoiseshell pins. The warmth of the water and of the nearby fire combined to make her drowsy and very relaxed. The two servants bustled about her, putting away her clothes.
She heard his footsteps in the doorway, and her eyes flew open. He stood for a brief moment gazing longingly at her, and then caught himself. "I beg your pardon, my darling. I dinna know ye were bathing."
"Francis!" Damn! She had not meant her voice to sound so desperate. He turned back to her. "I would have ye stay, and tell me of your day, my lord." Her heart contracted painfully at the hope she saw leap into his eyes. "Susan, May… ye may leave us. See that cook will have supper ready when we ring. Ye may have the rest of the evening to yerselves."
They curtsied and left quickly. "Come sit by me, Francis. How is Asher Kira?"
Seating himself, he spoke at some length of the business that had taken him to the city. He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but they kept straying to her soft breasts, but barely concealed by the water. He swallowed hard and forced his eyes upward again. She lowered her lashes, but he had caught a quick glimpse of the laughter in her eyes.
"Cat!" His voice was suddenly sharp, and she looked up at him. "I am no saint. I simply cannot continue to sit here and not touch you. Ye hae always had that effect on me-as ye know."
He rose, and she cried, "No, Francis! Dinna go from me." His eyes caught hers and held them in a puzzled gaze . Then he heard her say softly, "Do ye remember the first time I came to ye, Francis?"
"Aye," he answered, his eyes never leaving hers. "Ye rode two days to get to me, and ye were grievously hurt."
"I am once more grievously hurt, my lord," and her voice crackled, "but I would be yer wife again."
For a moment the room was silent, then he asked quietly, "Do you trust me, Cat?" She nodded. "Then stand up, my love."
She rose from her tub, the scented water cascading down her. He took the hard cake of soap from its little silver dish and, lathering his hands, began to soap her. She trembled under his touch, but stood quietly while his hands moved down her shoulders, back, and buttocks. Reaching for the sponge, he rinsed her off, the soapy water running down between her unsteady legs. 'Turn around."
She faced him, her eyes lowered. His hands now soaped her breasts, and he smiled faintly as the rosy nipples hardened. He moved on to her belly, which quivered beneath his fingers and lower, the soap sliding across her skin as one finger touched the tiny mole. She cried out sofdy, shuddering, catching at his hands with her own hands. For a long moment she held him in restraint, and then her hands loosed his and fell quietly to her sides. Wordlessly he continued to wash her, moving on to the satiny skin of her inner thighs. Again the sopping sponge rinsed her free of the suds.
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, wa
s 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 live 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 should
ers. "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.
EPILOGUE
SPRING 1601
IN 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.
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