Love Wild and Fair (50 page)

The door to the study closed, and she was alone in the corridor with Niall Fitz-Leslie. The priest led her back to their coach in the courtyard. When they were safely on their way, he asked, “Well, madame, did you leave the lion’s maw unscathed?”

Cat laughed. “Almost,
mon père.
Still, I like your king.”

“Then you are free to go on to Lord Bothwell?” “Yes, Niall. I am free.”

The following day the two families gathered to bid Cat farewell. She retired as soon after the evening meal as was politely possible, for they planned an early start Already the coach and a smaller secondary vehicle, brought to transport Cat’s new wardrobe, had been packed and stood ready but for their horses. That very morning the Marquis de la Victoire had arrived with a certificate of safe passage from Henri de Navarre for Madame la Comtesse de Glenkirk. It would enable her to travel unmolested through France, and through various Italian territories as well.

In the deep of the night Cat woke suddenly, aware that she was not alone. Standing silently in the darkness at the foot of her bed was a man. She knew at once who it was. “What do you want, Giles?”

“How did you know it was me, Catherine?”

“Who else would dare to intrude on me, Giles?”

“Are you really leaving us in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said patiently, as if explaining to a child, “I travel to Naples to wed Lord Bothwell.”

“He is not the man for you, Catherine! He is a cruel, crude Northerner. He killed my friend, Paul de Guise. You do not know what kind of a man he really is!”

“ ‘Tis you who do not know Lord Bothwell, Giles. I have known him for years. I love him, and I always have loved him.”

For a moment Giles de Peyrac was silent, then she heard a sharp intake of breath. “You! Then
you
are the woman he mourned! You are the woman for whom he scorned and insulted Clarice de Guise!” Giles de Peyrac moved from the darkness into the half-light by Cat’s bedside, and his voice was strained, vindictive. “We stripped him of almost everything he had in reparation before the king exiled him. When he left France he and that mangy servant of his had naught but the horses they rode and the clothes on their backs. Now you think to go to him, and make his life pleasant? My best friend is dead!” The strange gold light flickered in Giles de Peyrac’s eyes. “I wonder,
ma belle cousine,
how your lover will receive you, knowing that I have used you like an animal? And he will know!”

“Giles!”
She deliberately raised her voice, but he was so lost to reason that he did not notice.
“Giles! Leave my bedchamber at once!”
She heard a soft movement in her dressing room, and knew with relief that she had wakened her tiring women.

Giles de Peyrac reached out Grasping the neckline of her nightgown, he ripped the sheer material away easily. Before she could stop him, he flung himself on her. Cat screamed, a scream cut off by his hand on her mouth. Cat twisted her body wildly, trying to escape the hands that pinched and hurt her. The black eyes glittered cruelly, the little gold flame flickering madly. “That’s it,” he whispered in an excited voice, “fight me! Fight me! I like it when women fight me!”

My God, Cat realized. He’s mad! But I won’t be raped again! Not again!

Suddenly Giles de Peyrac was lifted off her, his arms pinioned back by Andrew. “I warned you, lad,” said Conall quietly, and then he plunged his dirk directly into his prisoner’s heart. Giles de Peyrac’s odd eyes widened in surprise and then went blank as he crumpled to the floor. Amazed, Cat watched as Niall stepped from the darkness. Having administered last rites, he commanded, “Dump him outside the walls by the servants’ gate. It will look like footpads.” Andrew and Conall picked up the body silently and carried it from the room.

Gasping, Cat began to weep with relief, vaguely aware that she was being gathered against a broad chest. Niall Fitz-Leslie held her easily, his hand stroking the tawny hair. Suddenly be became aware of the soft bare breasts pressing against his chest. His heart began to beat wildly, and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. Then, gathering his weakening self-control, he said quietly, “Giles de Peyrac was a depraved monster who virtually killed his own wife. I want you to forget this ever happened. Are you all right now?”

Still clinging to him, she turned her tear-streaked face up to him, and he groaned, “Christ, Catriona! Don’t look at me like that! I am a priest, but I am a man also,
ma belle!”

“Then let me go, Niall. I can feel you trembling against me. Go away before we are foolish!”

Reluctantly he released her, and she drew the sheets up over her nakedness. Though celibacy was a vow often broken among the priesthood, he himself had never before been tempted. He had had his share of wenches before admitting to his vocation, and had never regretted leaving carnality behind. But now?

As if reading his thoughts, she said quietly, “Honest doubt makes for a stronger faith,
mon père.
Thank you for rescuing me, but I would rest now. ’Twill soon be dawn, and whatever happens I must be on my way today.” He nodded dumbly.

“Will you hear my confession before I go? I think it would be best to keep this in the family.”

Finding his voice, he said, “Yes. Come to the chapel at dawn. I will be waiting.” And he slowly walked from the room.

Susan came to see that she was all right. Cat smiled wanly and patted her arm. “I am fine. Thank ye for getting Conall. I knew if I raised my voice ye’d hear me.”

Susan flushed. “ ‘Twas nae me, my lady. ‘Twas May. She sleeps light.”

“Thank God for it! Now go back to bed, child. ’Twill soon be morning.”

Cat dozed in the darkness until her inner sense told her that dawn was near. Waking, she dressed herself quietly and made her way to the chapel, where Niall waited. The young priest was composed again, but had a haggard look about him. Kneeling, Cat placed her hands in his and began her confession. He listened quietly as she recited a list of small indiscretions, and the slightly larger sin of her few hours with Henri de Navarre. The penance he gave her was light, and his hand shook slightly as he absolved her, touching her bowed head. She looked up at him, then, green eyes twinkling, and said, “And for your sins,
mon père,
three Aves and three Paters.”

Niall Fitz-Leslie choked back his laughter. “Catriona, you are impossibly irreverent, and I thank you. I have made a great to-do over nothing, haven’t I?”

“Yes,
mon père,
you have. There is a world of difference between the thought and the deed.”

“Merci, ma file.”

She kissed the hand extended to her, rose, and allowed him to escort her from the chapel. Lowering his voice, he spoke in Gaelic. “The body has not been found yet If you leave quickly you should be gone before it is.”

“We are ready now.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No. We will do so on the road.”

When they entered the courtyard of the chateau they found David Leslie de Peyrac awaiting them. “Adèle bid me say her adieu if you left. She seemed to feel you might stay, though I know not why.” He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “Before you go, niece, will you satisfy my personal curiosity? From whom do you run?”

“From James Stewart,” she answered him frankly.

“And King Henri knows, yet gives you safe passage?”

“Yes, uncle.”

The Sieur de Peyrac chuckled. “Go with God, niece, and if you should ever need my help you have but to ask. Though with your powerful friends, I doubt you’ll need me.”

“Sometimes family is best, uncle. Thank you,” she replied and kissed him. He handed her into the coach and she leaned from the window and said, “Adieu,
mon père et mon beau-frère
Niall. Thank you for everything.”

Niall Fitz-Leslie kissed the slim hand extended him. “Adieu,
ma belle.
Be happy.” “I shall! Conall, forward!”

And the Countess of Glenkirk’s entourage rumbled out of the courtyard of Chateau Petit, and onto the main road which led through the Forest of Fontainebleau and south to the Mediterranean coast. As soon as they were clear of the castle, the coach pulled into a clearing and Cat descended, a bundle under her arm, and disappeared into the thick undergrowth.

Several minutes later she reappeared dressed for riding in her hose and leather jerkin, her hair tucked beneath a tam. She tossed her clothes to Susan and May within the coach as Conall rode up leading Iolaire. Swinging easily into the saddle, she stretched. Clamping her knees against the horse’s sides, she kicked him forward.

“I’m free, Conall,” she laughed. “At last I am free! To Naples! To Bothwell! I am free!”

D
OWN the plump backside of France they rode through towns and villages that eventually began to blur and hold a sameness. Nemours … Briare … Nevers … Lyons … Vienne … Avignon … Marseilles. And now Cat got her first glimpse of a southern sea, so different from the cold north. It dappled aqua here, green there, turquoise to the left, purple to the right, and clear to its sandy or coral bottom.

They remained several days in Marseilles, and Cat delighted in the city and its waterfront markets with fruits and fish and spices. There were French, Spanish, Turkish, Russian, Moorish, English, Venetian, Genoese, Sicilian, and even black sailors! Seeing the ships lining the quaysides she wished that she could sail out into the Golfe du Lion through the Ligurian Sea, past Corsica and Sardinia, and into the Tyrrhenian Sea to Naples. But Cat knew well that beyond the safety of Marseilles’ harbor, Turkish corsairs lurked waiting to pounce upon any poorly guarded ship.

Before they left Marseilles, the messenger sent to Naples by Giscard Kira joined them to report that, though he had delivered the message to the villa where Lord Bothwell was staying, he had not seen Bothwell. The earl had been away. Cat became anxious to resume her journey. Giles de Peyrac had said that Francis had been stripped of everything but his clothes and his horse. If Francis was living comfortably, he must have a wealthy protector. It could, of course, be a male friend, but Cat would have wagered her entire new wardrobe that it was a woman.

It was. Angela Maria di LiCosa was a contessa by both her marriage to Alfredo, Conte di LiCosa, and her birth as the daughter of Scipio, Conte di Cicala. Her mother, Maria Teresa, had been born a Muslim in the Ottoman Empire. At fourteen, Maria Teresa had been captured in a raid by Christian knights, and her captor, Scipio di Cicala, had not hesitated in ravishing her. But he had fallen deeply in love with his slavegirl and she, finding herself pregnant, did the intelligent thing. She converted to Christianity and married her lover in time to legitimatize their eldest son. Their youngest child was Angela. She grew to be as beautiful as the angels for whom she was named, and as wicked as the devil she worshipped. Her parents—especially her gentle mother—despaired of her, and as soon as she was old enough, they married her to Alfredo di LiCosa, twenty years Angela’s senior.

She came to her husband a virgin, but soon tired of his lovemaking. After giving him two sons, she began taking lovers. Alfredo di LiCosa was a sophisticated man, and as long as his wife was discreet, he turned a blind eyes to her infidelities. After all, he had his diversions too. Besides, she was absolutely insatiable, and he was no longer a boy. Even when Angela brought her lovers into his house he did not mind, provided there was a good covering excuse for their being there. Proprieties must always be observed.

Francis Stewart-Hepburn had come into the house of Alfredo di LiCosa innocently enough. From France he had gone to Spain, but feeling the hot breath of the Inquisition on his neck he had left for Naples with his manservant, Angus. He brought with him an introduction from a friend of the Spanish king to the Conte di LiCosa, who was happy to shelter him. That Lord Bothwell should become the contessa’s lover was inevitable. Francis appreciated beautiful women, and Angela di LiCosa was indeed a beautiful woman.

Willow-slim, she had exquisite, high, cone-shaped breasts, and a waist a man could span with his hands. Her skin was milk-white with no touch of color, even in the cheeks. Her eyes were like a night sky—deep and fathomless—with beautiful winged brows riding high above them. Her long, straight hair was blue-black, and hung nearly to her ankles.

She was a charming woman when she chose to be, and she generally chose to be charming with men. Other women she merely tolerated, or ignored. She was not particularly well educated, though she could write and read a little. She had been raised to be an ornament, and she was successful in that.

In the Earl of Bothwell, Angela di LiCosa recognized a man of wit, charm, education, and great sexual appetite. And Bothwell, always desperately seeking to blur the memory of his only love, was willing to be Angela’s lover as long as it amused him.

He was no saint, and he had to live. Cat had offered him her entire fortune before he left Scotland, but he had refused to take even a penny-piece from her. She had raged angrily at his foolish pride, knowing that money could mean safety to him. From those for whom he cared only in passing, Francis would accept money. It was his way.

The thought of him in another woman’s arms sent Cat spurring out of Marseilles. They raced through Toulon following the coastal road to Monaco, where she spent but one night in an ordinary inn, refusing the prince’s invitation to rest a few days at his palace. The party moved on into the state of Genoa, and through Tuscany to Rome. Conall forced her to stop in Rome and rest a few days. “Christ, woman,” he roared. “Yer killing my men wi this pace! The earl knows yer coming. He’ll be rid of his doxy before ye get there!”

She was exhausted, with deep purple shadows beneath her eyes. She slept for two days, but on her third evening in Rome she told Conall, “We leave in the morning. I want to make Naples in three days.”