Love Wild and Fair (22 page)

Her slender hand reached up and gently touched his face.

“Bothwell,” she said softly, “yer the best friend I’ve ever had.” Then she turned and left him standing in the little windowed alcove.

Francis Hepburn gazed out at the familiar Cheviot and sighed. For the first time in his life he had found a woman he could love, and not only was he married but she was also married. To add a further complication, she was lusted after by the king. The irony of the situation struck him, and he laughed sharply. Once again life had dealt him a bad hand.

T
HE court had settled comfortably back into Edinburgh. It was dull January. The Leslies’ two oldest sons were also at court, having joined the household of Andrew Leslie, the Earl of Rothes, head of Clan Leslie. It was a relief to Cat to be able to see at least two of her children.

At this time Patrick Leslie decided to go home to check on his estates, and to see his other children. Unlike his wife, he had no official duties to keep him at court. Cat could not, however, be spared from service with the queen. Desperately she tried to forestall her husband’s departure, but he laughed indulgently at her and teased, “Two years ago ye would hae rather died than go home to Glenkirk in winter. Now I believe ye would walk home!” Kissing her goodbye, he reassured her, “I’ll be back in a few weeks, hinny. Would it cheer ye if I brought Bess wi me?”

“Nay, my lord! This court is no place for a young girl.” She looked up at him astride Dubh. “Go carefully, Patrick, and come quickly back to me!”

There was something in her eyes that, for a moment, made him wonder if he should leave her. Then, laughing at himself for being a fool, he bent, kissed her again, and rode off.

It was not her night to serve the queen so, gaining permission, she went to Glenkirk House. The king

would not dare chance seeking her out when the queen was available. She slept safe in her own home for the next few days. Soon it was her turn to sleep in the royal antechamber, on call in the event Anna required something, and she was again safe from the king.

At the end of her duty period the queen took her aside. “I would prefer, my dear Cat, that you not leave the palace at night when you are not on duty. Are your apartments not comfortable?”

“Aye, madame. They are most comfortable. I go home so that my sons may see me easily when their duties allow.”

The queen smiled indulgently. “You are a good mother, Cat, but you are also a lady of my bedchamber. We will arrange for you to see your sons, but please remain near me at night I awoke once with a terrible pain in my temple, and you were not there to rub it away.”

“As your majesty wishes,” replied Cat curtsying. She knew full well where the idea that she remain in the palace had really come from.

Several days later the queen’s monthly indisposition occurred, and that same evening the king appeared in the Countess of Glenkirk’s bedchamber. First she tried to hold him off with reason, but he refused to listen. He came at her and she fought him physically, her little fists beating at him. It amused him to master her and he did so, cruelly, ravaging her body. She recoiled from his touch and hated him with a frustrated fury she could not satisfy. She was forced to endure his attentions for the next four nights.

Every morning and every evening Cat prayed for her husband’s speedy return. Not a day went by that the king didn’t steal a few minutes to be alone with her. That she detested him seemed to add to his pleasure.

One night as she undressed after the evening’s entertainment,

he appeared through the secret door. She wore only her white silk petticoats, and stood before her pier glass brushing her long dark-gold hair. Slipping up behind her, James slid an arm around her waist, and with his other hand cupped a globe-shaped breast.

Cat closed her eyes wearily, patiently enduring his unwelcome attentions. She had learned by now that to struggle was useless. As the king buried his lips in the soft flesh of her neck, a faint sound caught Cat’s ear. Opening her eyes she saw her husband reflected in the pier glass, his face stiff with shock and hurt.

She would never remember in later years if she spoke his name aloud or merely mouthed it silently. It was enough, however, to rouse him, and his voice was icy. “I beg yer pardon, madame. I had nae idea ye were entertaining.”

“Patrick!” she cried. “Patrick, please!” She tore herself from the king’s grasp and took several steps toward him.

Behind her James Stewart looked at the Earl of Glenkirk. “I find yer wife charming, cousin, and I have been doing so for some time now. Do ye object?”

“Aye, sire,” replied the earl, “I do object. Though little good it would do me, especially since the lady is so acquiescent.” He turned to his wife. “I hope, my dear, ye have gotten a good price for yer virtue?”

“Come, cousin,” soothed the king. “Dinna be angry wi Cat. She has done her duty by the crown admirably.” He smiled winningly at the earl and, taking him by the arm, led him into the antechamber. “Let us hae a wee drink, Patrick. Yer wife keeps some remarkably fine whisky.”

Numbly Cat continued the business of getting ready for bed. She was grateful she had dismissed Ellie for the evening. The tiring woman would only have tried to help her, and made matters worse. Kicking her petticoats off, she pulled a silk nightgown over her head and

lay down on top of her bed. She could hear the low murmur of voices in the next room as well as the clink of crystal glasses.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly she felt a slap on her hip, and Patrick’s voice—slurred with drink—said, “Wake up, madame whore! Here’s two customers for ye!”

Angrily she scrambled to her feet “Yer drunk! Both of ye! Get out of my bedroom! I canna stand the sight of either of ye!”

“Not so drunk we canna fuck! Right cousin Jamie?” Grasping the bodice of her nightgown, Patrick ripped it to the hem, tore the two pieces off her, and flung them across the room “Get into bed, my dear, virtuous wife, and open yer legs for the king. Ye’ve done it before, and very well, according to our royal cousin.” He pushed her back onto the bed and before she could protest, the king was on top of her, driving into her unwilling body.

She was neither ready nor willing for the assault, and its effect was that of forcible rape. She struggled wildly beneath James, which merely increased his desire. He came quickly. Rolling off her, he said, “Yer turn, Patrick,” and before a shocked Cat realized what was happening her husband had mounted her and pushed deep within her.

She could hear her own screaming.

Her thighs were sticky with another man’s seed, and yet he took her. Outraged, she fought him violently, and was slapped into unconsciousness for her pains. Throughout the night they took turns raping her and drinking her whisky, until at last, in that darkest part of the night before dawn, a drunken James Stewart returned to his room via the secret passage and the very drunk Earl of Glenkirk fell into a deep sleep.

Fearful at first of awaking him, Cat lay quietly. Then, sure he was really asleep, she crawled slowly from the

bed. Moving quietly and painfully across the room to the fireplace, she stirred up the fire and added some kindling, then heated the hanging kettle over it. Pouring some water into a small ewer, she took a cake of soap and a rough linen cloth and scrubbed herself until her skin was raw. Next she went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and, lifting out her woolen trunk hose, silk riding shirt, and plaid doublet, put them on. She pulled on her boots, picked up her fur-lined cloak, and silently left the apartment.

It was not yet dawn when she entered the stables. The boy on duty was fast asleep, half-buried in a pile of straw. Quickly Cat saddled Iolaire. She dared not take Bana, as she would have been spotted easily on the white mare. Leading the gelding from the stable stealthily, she mounted it and, muffling herself in her cloak, rode boldly up to the main exit of the palace.

“Messenger for Leslie of Glenkirk,” she croaked in a husky voice.

“Pass,” said the soldier, thinking how glad he was not to have to ride out at this early hour.

She rode south and slightly east, keeping away from the main roads. She was aware of neither the bitter cold nor approaching daylight. She felt neither hunger nor thirst. Several times she stopped to water and rest her horse, and when evening came she sought her bearings. Finding them, she headed for a small religious house, where she begged a night’s shelter. Up at first light, she left a gold piece with the startled nun who kept the gate. Mounting Iolaire, she continued on her journey.

At midday she was spotted by two riders. Cat put her horse into a gallop but, unsure of the countryside, was quickly run down. She found herself facing two bearded young borderers, who grinned delightedly at her.

“I dinna know which is better,” said the taller of the two. “The horse or the woman.”

“The horse is yers, man,” answered his companion. “I’ll take the woman!”

“Touch me at yer peril,” she snarled at them. “I am for Hermitage, and Lord Bothwell!”

“Ye’ll nae find the earl at Hermitage,” said the tall borderer. “He’s at his lodge in the Cheviot.”

“How far from here?”

“Two hours’ ride, sweetheart. But if ye’ve a mind to bed a Hepburn, my father was one, and I’d be happy to oblige.”

Cat drew herself up tall and, looking levelly at the two men, said coldly, “Take me to Lord Bothwell, or suffer the consequences when he finds out ye’ve not only detained me but refused me aid as well.”

Something in her voice told them she was not bluffing. “Follow us,” said the tall man. Whirling their horses around, they galloped off. Two hours later, as promised, they arrived at a small lodge, well hidden within the hills. At the sound of hoofbeats the door opened and the Earl of Bothwell himself stepped out The taller fellow spoke out.

“We found this lady some two hours from here, my lord, riding for Hermitage. When she told us she sought ye, we brought her here. I hope we did the right thing.”

Bothwell walked over to Iolaire and, reaching up, pushed away the hood of the all-concealing cape. “Cat!” he breathed.

Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. “Help me, Francis,” she begged, holding out her arms to him. “Please help me!” Then she crumbled out of the saddle into his arms, fainting.

Cradling her tenderly, he turned to the two startled men. “Ye did right to bring this lady to me. But remember, lads, ye hae never seen her. When I can be of help to ye, I will be.” He walked swiftly back into the house with his precious burden.

F
RANCIS Hepburn had been alone at his hunting lodge. He occasionally shunned the company of his fellow humans and fled to some isolated spot, renewing himself spiritually and physically. It was his way of retaining sanity in a world that alternately admired and feared him. He liked the winter months, and he had been enjoying himself alone for several weeks.

Now his peace had been broken, and in a most disturbing way. He carried the unconscious Catriona Leslie into his house, upstairs to his bedroom, and gently laid her on his bed. He drew off her boots and, wrapping her cloak around her, pulled up a blanket and tucked it around her. Stirring up the fire, he put a brick in the ashes to warm. Then he drew the draperies shut on all the windows and lit a small Moorish oil lamp so she could see where she was when she regained consciousness. Taking the brick from the ashes with a pair of tongs, he wrapped it in a flannel and put it at her feet Then, pouring a dram of potent whisky made in his own still, he sat on the edge of the bed and began to rub her wrists. Shortly she stirred, and he gently raised her up and put the dram to her lips. “Sip it slowly, my darling,” he said.

She did as he bid her, and the color began to seep back into her cheeks. “Dinna tell Patrick I am here,” she begged him.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Now, my darling, yer fair exhausted and chilled to the bone. I want ye to close yer eyes and go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs, and there are no servants to worry about.”

He was talking to himself, for she was already fast asleep. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he left her and descended the stairs. The lower level of his house was a large open room with a huge stone fireplace. It was furnished in a rough manner with animal skins, hangings, and heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Pulling a chair up by the fireplace, he poured himself a glass from a decanter of wine before sitting down.

He wondered what had driven the Countess of Glenkirk out of Edinburgh. She was suffering from shock. Having learned some medicine from a Moorish physician, Bothwell understood her symptoms. “Poor lass,” he said softly. “What in hell happened to ye?”

When Catriona awoke several hours later it took her a moment or two to realize where she was. She climbed from the big bed and padded downstairs in her stockinged feet.

“Francis? Are ye awake?”

“Aye, lass. Come over by the fire, and sit wi me.”

She settled into his lap. For a time, neither of them spoke. He held her lightly, yet protectively, and she nestled against him, breathing the leather and tobacco scent of him. His heart was pounding wildly. He had always treated her casually, teasingly, in an effort to hide his feelings, and it had been fairly easy because he had never gotten too close. Now Francis Hepburn fought down his feelings lest he frighten her further. Finally, in desperation, he asked, “Are ye hungry? When did ye last eat?”

“Two nights ago. I stopped at a nunnery last night, but I could not eat then, or this morning.”

“Ye should be hungry by now, my darling.” He

tipped her out of his lap gently. “Can ye set a table, Cat Leslie?”

“The word is ‘countess,’ my lord Bothwell, not ‘helpless.’ Of course I can set a table.”

“We’ll eat by the fire,” he said cheerfully. “The cloth’s in that chest, and ye’ll find dishes and utensils in the larder over there.”