Love Wild and Fair (71 page)

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, rucking 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 lips. 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, FU 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 Ufe. 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 small, 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.

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 fitter 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.

C
AT 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 FitzGordon 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 softly, 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.