Love Wild and Fair (39 page)

He held her close. Her eyes closed, and she smelled the damp leather of his jerkin. Sometimes, she thought sadly, sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes, and nae wake up. I dinna know how I bear life wi’out this man.

Then she realized that he would be even more alone than she would be. There would be no spouse, no family, no bairns for him. Penniless, he would roam the continent selling his sword to the highest bidder. Or being kept by women. There would always be women happy to take care of Francis. So why would he not let her do it?

As if reading her mind he said, “No. Not a penny-piece, my love. Never from ye, for I love ye. Wi the others it does nae matter.”

She looked at him ruefully, in control of herself now. “Let us go in and get dressed for dinner, Francis.”

“I will never stop loving ye, my darling,” he said quietly. And turning from her, he strode from the stable.

“Oh, Christ!” Bess heard her mother swear softly. “Dear Christ, help me to be braver than I am. He needs me to be strong now.” Then she followed Lord Bothwell from the stables.

Bess remained quietly in the loft, stunned by what she had heard. She had grown up in the last half-hour, and for some reason it hurt. It had not been the sight of her mother and Lord Bothwell coupled in close physical embrace that upset her, but rather the fact that their love brought them pain. Bess did not understand that, for she had always believed that love would be sweet. If it brought pain rather than pleasure, why did they pursue it?

Slowly she climbed down the loft ladder, then picked herself clean of telltale hay. She could not ask her mother for answers, but perhaps later on she could pursue this puzzle. For now, she had to hurry and change lest she be late for the celebration.

T
HE holidays had passed. Deepest winter had settled upon the land. The Leslie children had long since returned to Glenkirk. Though the king knew that Bothwell sheltered with the Gordons, he had not learned that the Countess of Glenkirk was with her lover. James sent the Earl of Huntley an arrogant letter offering
him
a full pardon if he would turn Bothwell over for execution. The great highland chief gave orders that the royal messenger be fed and allowed to rest the night. In the morning he had the man brought before him.

“I want the king, my cousin, to know that this message comes directly from me,” he said quietly. “I do not believe that James would even hint that I violate the laws of hospitality. Therefore, I do not believe that this letter is from him.” The Earl of Huntley quietly tore the parchment in two pieces and handed them to the royal messenger. “I return this to my lord the king in hopes that it will help him to trace the bold traitor who so blatantly uses the king’s name for his own foul ends.”

When Bothwell learned of Huntley’s brave and clever ruse, he thanked him, but said, “I must go now. This is the end, and if James would really have me dead, there is no hope. Maitland
thinks
he has won,” and Bothwell laughed harshly. “He actually believes that by breaking the back of the nobility he can substitute his own influence. But if he really thinks that, then he is a bigger fool than all the rest! Those stern men who molded the king did a better job than they realize. Jamie may be superstitious and a bit of a coward, but he will be the
only
king in this land, mark my words!”

“Wait at least until the spring,” protested George Gordon. “And there is Cat. She is a brave lady, your Countess of Glenkirk, but this will break her heart.”

Bothwell didn’t need to be told that. They had been living in a fool’s paradise, pretending they were normal people. She had been sleeping when he had left her to join Huntley, but he believed she would be awake now.

She was. Awake, and being sick into a basin. When she had finished he wiped her mouth with a damp towel and, holding her close, said, “I ought to beat yer backside black and blue for this.”

She said nothing, so he continued. “My foolish, foolish love! Have ye gone mad? Ye canna foist this bairn on Glenkirk. Do ye think he will welcome ye back swelling wi our bastard?”

“The child is mine,” she replied, looking fiercely at him.

“This child is
ours,
Cat. Yers and mine. With Patrick in England there can be no doubt. Christ! He’s a proud man! He’ll nae accept the bairn.”

“He’ll accept it,” she said grimly. “He owes me that!”

“My God,” said Bothwell in amazement. “Do ye mean to make him pay the rest of his life for one night’s indiscretion? Hasn’t he been punished enough?”

“No!” she spat angrily out at him. “In time, perhaps, I will forgie Patrick. But I will never forget. Never! That indiscretion, as you call it, has cost me everything—my happiness, my peace of mind. Where am I in all this? Oh, God! It is so easy for ye men, with yer pride and yer damned sacred code of ethics! I have been destroyed by the three of ye. Patrick used me like a common drab to soothe his injured pride. Yet I am expected to be grateful that he took me back. James dirtied me, and I will never be able to wash away the stain he left on me. And ye, Francis?” She rounded on him. “What was my first attraction for ye? That Jamie wanted me? Is that why ye fell in love wi me, my lord? To spite the king? Another victory over the royal bairn?” She wanted to hurt this man as they all had hurt her.

His big hand slashed out and slapped her before he realized it. Her eyes filled with tears, but she made no sound. Instead her fingers gingerly touched her cheek, and felt the welts. Her head was ringing with the force of his blow, but she could hear his voice raging.

“I love ye!” he shouted, and his fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her arms. “I hae from the beginning, but ye were the Virtuous Countess, and I respected that virtue. Ye see, my love, I only seduced those women who wanted to be seduced. When Jamie bragged he had forced ye into his bed, I was ashamed for him, and I ached for the shame ye must be feeling. Then Patrick and James hurt ye, so I grabbed at the chance they so foolishly offered me. I love ye! Yer a spoilt, stubborn bitch, but I love ye, Cat! It is hard enough to leave ye behind, my darling, but to know that I leave ye wi my child in yer belly—” He stopped. Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger he tipped her face up to him. “Why, my darling? Why did ye do this to us?”

“Because,” she answered him softly, “because I canna bear to lose ye entirely, my love. Do ye think that because I am safe at Glenkirk ‘twill be easier for me? Christ, Bothwell! Twill be harder, never knowing where ye are, or if yer safe, or if ye lack for anything. When ye leave me this time I shall never see ye again in this life. At least the child will gie me hope, Francis, and ‘twill be a constant reminder to me of our love. Do ye understand that, my lord? Without the child I should retreat into some twilight world to escape the reality of what has happened to us. The child will help me to maintain my sanity.”

“When Glenkirk tells ye he will nae let ye keep the bairn, send it to me. Twill nae be easy, but ‘twould be a comfort to hae our son wi me in my exile, and the child shall nae suffer the stigma of bastardy. I will legally acknowledge him so he may bear my name.”

She laughed. “ ‘Twould be a damned inconvenience to ye, my gallant lover, to tramp about Europe wi a wee bairn. Besides, my lord, ‘tis a lass I carry. I know. I am always damnably ill in the beginning wi the lasses!” Her eyes teared again for a moment “Once at Hermitage when Bess had been intolerably rude to ye, ye promised me that one day we would hae a lass of our own. Now we shall, and she shall be a comfort to me in my loneliness.”

“And I shall never see her,” he said softly.

“Yes, ye will! Each year I shall send ye her miniature, and ye shall see how she grows.”

“ ‘Tis small consolation, my dear, for a child I shall never hold in my arms. ‘Twas hard enough to leave just ye behind, but now….” He paused. “I dinna mind overmuch about the twins, for Glenkirk assumes them his, and they will grow up Leslies; but this poor wee bairn….” He put a big hand on her belly. “Who will see that my little lass is nae hurt?”

“I will,” she answered him softly. “No harm will come to our daughter, Francis. I swear it!”

“If I were Patrick Leslie,” said Bothwell quietly, “I should probably kill ye.”

“The Earl of Bothwell might kill his unfaithful wife, but the Earl of Glenkirk will not,” she answered him with assurance. “Patrick is far too civilized.”

“And I am not?” He cocked an amused eyebrow at her.

“Nay, Francis, yer not! If ye were more civilized ye’d nae be in the coil wi the king! But, oh, my love, dinna change, for I love ye as ye are!”

He laughed, but soon turned serious again. “Dinna press Glenkirk too hard, Cat. He loves ye, and he is pricked wi guilt for what he did, but he is a man, sweeting. Tis a large morsel yer asking him to swallow, and I fear he will not.”

She nodded, and he had the oddest feeling that she would be deliberately reckless.

Pregnancy seemed to calm her, as the time for his departure drew near. For him, it was the opposite. It worried him tremendously to have to leave her behind. They fought over money again.

Wealthy in her own right, she was eager to put her money at Bothwell’s disposal. But he was as proud as she was rich, and would take nothing from her.

“Fool!” she shouted at him. “Wi’out gold yer as helpless as a beetle on its back!”

“I will manage,” he replied tersely.

“Bothwell! Bothwell! Listen to me, my love. France is nae Scotland, or England. Ye hae no real friends to shelter ye. Ye must hae money to live. Please let me help ye. The money is nae Patrick’s. Tis mine! Left to
me,
by Mam. Invested by
me
over the years. Please take it! Let me instruct the Kiras to place my wealth at yer disposal in their Paris bank.”

“No, my darling,” he said quietly. But he was touched by her offer and her concern. “I told ye once that I could not accept so much as a pennypiece from ye, for I love ye. I would not have history say that Francis Stewart-Hepburn loved the Countess of Glenkirk’s money, rather than the countess herself.”

“Alas, history never remembers women in love! My name shall die wi me.” She looked up at him. “Dear God, Francis!
How will ye live?”

“My sword will be fer hire. The French kings always have need of another good sword. ‘Twill earn me a place to sleep, and a full stomach. Dinna fret, my love. I shall survive.”

“I wonder,” she mused, “whether a bed and a meal are enough for the master of Hermitage, Kelso, Coldingham, Liddesdale, and Crichton?”

“They will have to be until I can build a fuller life for myself. There are ways.”

“Aye!” she hissed, suddenly furious at him. “Between some overblown duchess’ legs, I’ll wager!”

He laughed down at her. “Possibly, my darling. Yer love for me has blinded ye to the fact that I am a ruthless man.”

“Take the money, Francis! Be safe, I beg of ye!”

“No, Catriona. No.”

She knew she had lost It was useless to argue further. Still, she vowed to instruct the Kiras to deliver to him whatever he needed if he should ask. And the King of France would have a large bribe to assure Bothwell’s welcome—and his safety.

Meanwhile, in Edinburgh, the king sought to bribe a merchant friend of Bothwell’s to betray the earl. Instead, Master Tennant arranged for a ship to aid the earl in his escape to France. It would await Bothwell off Rattray Head on April 18.

Though Bothwell argued against it, Cat rode with him. Her condition was fine. “I will nae lose this bairn,” she assured him. And she had arranged with the Abbot of Deer Abbey to shelter them on the night before he would sail.

As they took their leave of the Gordons, Henriette whispered to her, “My maid, Nora, says that Glenkirk arrived home three days ago.” Cat knew that Nora had been walking out with a Leslie man-at-arms since Christmas. “Say nothing,” she whispered back. Henriette nodded.

They rode towards the coast with a troop of Gordon retainers to protect them, and reached the abbey by day’s end. The abbot greeted them nervously, for he lived in terror that the king would learn he had sheltered the Earl of Bothwell. Still he owed his friend Abbot Charles Leslie a great favor, which he now repaid by sheltering for one night the Countess of Glenkirk and her infamous lover.

Settled in the abbey guest house, Cat told Bothwell, “I dinna want to sleep tonight. We hae the rest of our lives to sleep.” He understood, and held her close so she would not see the tears in his own eyes.

Lately, he had seen her build a shield about her emotions. She would, he knew, make no scene. He loved her the more for it, for had she weakened for even a moment he could not have left her behind—just as he could not live with her knowing he had destroyed the Leslies. Francis Stewart-Hepburn was, whatever his enemies said about him, an honorable man. It would be his downfall.

They spent the night sprawled before the blazing fireplace, talking. And just once—in the early hours before the dawn—he made love to her. For the last time his hands roamed gently over her lovely body, bringing her passion to a delicate peak. For the last time she felt his hardness within her, and abandoned herself to the rapture he always brought her. And when it was over he bent and kissed her softly swelling belly.

They rode out from the abbey before dawn, reaching the coast as the light grew. Standing on the cliffs above Rattray Head, they watched the bobbing ship, a black silhouette in the dark sea against the brightening sky. The signal had been given, and as they descended to the beach they could see a little boat making its way to the shore. The Gordon men-at-arms had positioned themselves discreetly about the beach.

Cat and Bothwell stood facing the sea. His arm was about her, yet she felt nothing. Then he turned her so she faced him, and gazed down at her. The small boat was almost to the shore. Pulling a sapphire ring with a gold lion on it from his finger, he gave it to her. “For my lass when she is old enough,” he said.

She nodded wordlessly and put the ring in her pouch. He gently touched her cheek. “There will nae be anyone else, Cat. There never was anyone eke. Ye know that, don’t ye?”