Love Wild and Fair (23 page)

She was surprised to see him bring out from the pantry, a few minutes later, a steaming tureen and a basket of hot bread. “Sit down,” he commanded her. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

She was going to refuse him, but the soup smelled so good. It was a thick lamb broth with barley, onions, and carrots. She discovered it was flavored with peppercorns and white wine. He shoved a thick, crusty slice of hot bread dripping with butter in front of her and watched, amused, as she devoured it. When she had spooned up all the soup he took her bowl and returned to the pantry-kitchen. Soon he came back bearing two plates. “I caught a salmon this morning before ye arrived, and I found some early cress,” he announced proudly. She ate the thin-sliced fish more slowly than she had eaten the soup. He was worried by her silence, and by the fact that she had already consumed three goblets of burgundy.

Sated at last, she sat back. “Where did ye learn to cook?” she asked him.

“My Uncle James believed a man needed knowledge of that kind.”

She smiled a half-smile at him, and lapsed into silence again.

“What happened, Cat? Can ye tell me, my darling?”

After a time, she looked up. The pain in her eyes stunned him. Rising, he moved around the table and knelt at her side. “Dinna tell me if it’s too painful.”

“If I tell ye now, Francis, I’ll nae have to speak of it

again, and maybe I can forget in time.” She began to weep softly. “Damn James Stewart! Oh, Francis! He has deliberately destroyed my life! I would kill him if I could. Patrick went home to Glenkirk, and I was alone. There was no one I could turn to at all. I tried to keep out of the king’s way, but the lecherous hypocrite stalked me like a rabbit. Patrick came back from Glenkirk to find Jamie wi his hands all over me. The king could have saved me if he had wanted to do so, but instead he told Patrick what a marvelous mistress I was, and made it sound worse than it was. He dinna tell Patrick I was unwilling. Then the two of them got quite companionably drunk on my whisky and raped me. Oh, God, Francis! The king and my own husband! Not once, but time and time again—all night long! They wouldn’t let me go, and they made me do things—” She shuddered. “Oh, Francis! Yer my friend. Please let me stay wi ye for now.”

He was stunned by what she had told him. Stunned, and horrified. That James Stewart could have been that vengeful he fully believed, but that Patrick Leslie, an educated and enlightened man like himself, could have brutalized his own blameless wife astounded him. “My poor darling,” he said gently. “Ye can stay wi me forever.” Standing, he drew her from the chair. “Who saw ye go, Cat?”

“No one, though they will connect the rider who left the palace for Glenkirk wi me. The nuns who sheltered me last night live in an out-of-the-way place. In any event, only the gatekeeper and the mistress of travelers saw me, and not for long. There were no other visitors at the convent. Patrick will think I hae gone to A-Cuil.”

He put his arms about her. “Ah, my darling! I am so sorry. So very sorry. Dinna fear. Yer safe wi me. The men who brought ye in will nae admit to having ever seen ye.”

She stood quietly within the comforting circle of his arms, and then slowly she lifted her face to him. “Make love to me, Francis!” Her voice was urgent. “Here! Now! Make love to me!”

Wordlessly he shook his head at her. He understood the reasons behind her outburst. She needed reassurance, needed to be the one to do the choosing. But he was not sure if compliance with her desperate request would make matters better or worse. He loved her, and he wanted her, but dear God, not like this!

Angrily she pulled away from him. “Come on, Both-well! Yer reputed to be the best lover in Scotland!” She tore her shirt open, and off. Her beautiful breasts tumbled out in all their glory. Pushing her riding breeches down and off, she moved seductively towards him. She was naked as the creator had made her and he fought down his rising desire. “Come on, Bothwell!” she taunted him. “Love me, or are ye not man enough? If I’m worthy of a king, then I’m good enough for ye!” Her eyes glistened with angry, unshed tears.

If she had been a man he would have hit her, but he understood. Like a child fallen from its pony who must immediately ride again, Cat Leslie needed to make love with a man who would not abuse her. If not him, who? Francis Hepburn didn’t wait to find another answer. Scooping the woman before him up into his arms, he carried her up to his bedroom and deposited her on his bed. Swiftly he stripped his own clothing off and joined her.

He was in her before she realized it, taking her with a gentleness she had never dreamed any man could. Tenderly he kissed and caressed her, striving to bring her the greatest pleasure. No man had ever loved her in such a fashion. Finally he could hold back his desire no longer, and released his boiling passion.

She began to weep great, gulping sobs. “I feel

nothing! Dear God, Francis! I feel nothing! What hae they done to me that I feel nothing?” And she began to tremble uncontrollably.

Bothwell gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. The hurt done her was even deeper than he had feared. It was going to take time to bring her back, but he would do it. “Dinna cry, my precious darling,” he said softly. “Dinna cry. They hae hurt ye terribly, and ‘twill take time for ye to recover. Go to sleep now, my sweet love. Go to sleep. Yer safe wi me, my love.”

Within minutes she slept deeply, breathing lightly and evenly. But Francis Hepburn lay awake, his anger growing with each minute. Once again he wished the role of warlock, often attributed to him, were true. Had it been he would cheerfully have disposed of both his cousins.

However, he knew that the woman sleeping within his arms was even now still emotionally bound to her husband, and he would not grieve her further by hurting Glenkirk. James was a different matter, though, and Francis Hepburn was going to think long and hard on the vengeance he’d wreak on his cousin. In the meantime, he would offer his house and his heart to the beautiful Countess of Glenkirk.

In the weeks that followed, Cat stayed hidden within Bothwell’s lodge. There were no servants to gossip about them, and they were content to do for themselves. Sometimes Francis Hepburn would go on a border raid with his men, leaving her alone for a day or more. She never minded, enjoying the solitude of the late winter and needing the time to heal. He had not used her physically since that first night, and she had not asked him to. But each night he was with her she slept content in the safety of his arms.

The Earl of Bothwell was deeply in love for the first time in his life. Though he realized this love might come to an end, he intended enjoying whatever time they

shared. He adored her beauty, but had Catriona Leslie been the ugliest woman alive he would still have loved her. She was an educated woman who, unlike his estranged wife, could converse with a man on a great many subjects. More important, she was a good listener, and had the charming knack of letting a man believe that whatever he said—no matter how banal—was interesting. She was warm, and she had an outrageous sense of humor that matched his. Her beauty was merely a bonus.

In early spring Bothwell returned from a raid into England bringing with him a long, delicately worked gold chain set with tiny topazes ranging from palest gold to deepest taupe. He slipped it over her head. “Now yer a true border wench,” he said softly. “Yer man has brought ye back some booty.”

She smiled teasingly up at him. “Whose pretty neck did ye take it from?”

He grinned back at her. “If ye must know, I liberated it from an overstocked jeweler who made the mistake of getting caught in our raid.” He looked down at her and, suddenly unable to help himself, caught her to him and kissed her hungrily. She trembled but grasped his head and kissed him strongly in return.

Francis Hepburn’s blue eyes looked gravely into Cat’s leaf-green ones. She stood barefooted, on tiptoe, her arms about his neck. His hands moved gently to undo her dressing gown, unwinding her arms, and sliding the robe off to reveal her nakedness. Taking her face in his hands, he bent and kissed her deeply. Then his mouth gently touched her eyelids, her face, her throat.

His slim hands tangled in her honey-colored hair and then moved down to her shoulders. His mouth moved to her chest and then to her soft breasts. He slid to his knees and his lips traveled to her navel and then to the tiny mole.

Cat’s whole body was quivering, and as her legs gave

way she slipped to her knees too, and their lips met. Bothwell was deeply shaken. “Tell me yea, or tell me nay, my darling! But tell me now,” he whispered hoarsely, “for I’ll tell ye true, my sweet Cat I want ye as I have never wanted any woman! But ‘tis you I want, not a shadow!”

“Bothwell,” she whispered softly, and he saw her face was radiant “Bothwell! I feel! I feel! Oh, my lord! I want ye very much.

He drew her down to the fur rug. The crackling fire cast shadows over them as he stood tall above her to pull off his clothing. She smiled reassuringly up at him. He was the first man she had chosen in her whole life. Her husband had been picked for her by her great-grandmother, and the king had forced her. But
she
had chosen Francis Hepburn. And desired him very much.

Kneeling, he gently turned her over and kissed the nape of her neck. His lips moved down across her shoulders and traveled the length of her spine. He was gentle beyond belief, and she shivered deliciously.

Placing her on her back, he caressed her lovely breasts. They grew taut beneath his delicate touch, the rosy nipples becoming hard and pointed. He buried his face in the valley between them, his lips burning into her skin. She moaned softly. He smiled with relief. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed. Her breath came in quick little gasps.

In his travels Francis Hepburn had made love a great deal and had learned from many women. He now used his skill on the only woman he had ever truly loved, his desire being to prolong her pleasure.

Kissing the soft flesh of her breasts, he felt her heart pound wildly beneath his lips. He caught a tantalizing nipple in his teeth and bit it gently. She moaned again, and her hips began to move with the rhythm of love. His lips began to wander.

“Francis!” she cried out. “Dear God, Francis! Ye’ll drive me mad!”

“Do ye really want me to stop, my darling?” His eyes were laughing. Silence was his answer. He gauged how far he might drive her.

He opened her legs and, drawing them over his shoulders, gently pulled her nether lips apart and tenderly kissed the soft coral flesh. She shuddered violently once, but forbade him not. His tongue caressed and probed, and she cried out in pleasure, her body arching. Her response fired him, and when he could bear it no longer, he pulled himself up and over her, and drove his throbbing manroot deep into her softness.

She received him joyfully, wrapping her long legs and her arms about him. Once within her he was able again to restrain himself. Their bodies moved in rhythm together, seeking to pleasure each other. Then she whispered urgently to him, “Francis! I can hold back no longer!” But he forced her to ease off, and then increased her desire to a higher peak. She was buffeted by the force of his passion, and frankly amazed that anyone could give such pleasure. She had never been loved like this, and when he at last allowed her release she cried out in delighted wonder to feel him coming too.

Still coupled, they lay breathing deeply, damp with their exertion. Then suddenly she cried out with genuine surprise. “My God, Francis! Yer growing hard again wi’in me! Oh yes, my lover! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

And it began again. He was himself amazed at his body’s response, for he could not seem to get enough of her. Cat was insatiable tonight She matched him passion for passion until they were both so exhausted that they slept where they lay, unaware that the fire had gone out and the room had grown chill.

He awoke to find her dropping a blanket over him.

He pulled her down and kissed her. “Good morning, my darling.”

The radiance of her smile reassured him. “Good morning, my lover,” she answered him Her mind was clear. She felt no shame. She gently disentangled herself from his grasp. “I’m fair frozen, Francis. Let me go, and I’ll light the fire.”

He watched her with a mixture of affection and admiration as she rekindled the fire. Within minutes the flames were leaping, and she turned her back to the fire. He sighed. “Ah, my darling! To be the flames that warm yer pretty bottom.”

“Oh, Bothwell,” she laughed, coloring becomingly. “Yer a wicked man!”

“Aye, my darling. I am.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Come, warm me, my pet ’Tis chill and lonely beneath this blanket.”

She slid underneath the plaid wool and drew him into her arms and against her body. “Warmer now, my lord?”

His eyes sparkled with amusement “Ye could bring heat into a stone statue, and ye know it, my sweet love!” Tenderly he kissed her. “Where were ye, Cat? Where were ye all these years?” He fell silent then, thinking of the night just past. “I love ye, Catriona Mairi,” he said, and she was startled that he knew her baptismal name. “I hae never said that to a woman and meant it” he continued, “but as God is my witness, I love ye!”

Her eyes were bright with tears. “Bothwell! Oh, Bothwell! Dinna love me! How can ye love me? A woman who lay wi the king, and then ran away from her husband’s honest wrath into the arms of yet another man. How can ye love me?”

“Ye didna lay willingly wi Jamie, Cat There is no refusing the king. I could kill him for forcing ye!”

“And Patrick?” she asked. “What of my husband?”

“I would kill him too if I didna know it would grieve ye. He had the right to be angry, but not wi ye. And to do to ye what he did …”

“What would ye hae done to me if I had been yer wife, Francis?”

“If ye had been my wife, Jamie would nae have dared to force ye, but,” he continued, seeing her urgency, “if he had dared, I would hae killed him wi’out a second thought. Ye, I would hae beaten for being so lovely.

“Poor Patrick,” she said softly. “The look on his face when he saw Jamie fondling me…. God, Francis! He was so terribly hurt.”