Love Wild and Fair (51 page)

“I sent the coaches ahead wi half the men this morning,” he told her. “Susan and May are wi ‘em.”

“I wondered where my women had got to, and thought that perhaps some of these dark-eyed young men had lured them away.”

Conall sniffed. “Not likely. They’re my brother’s own girls, and I’d nae like to answer to Hugh if harm befell them.”

“ ‘Tis a pity ye dinna think so piously when yer happily fucking wi another man’s daughter, Conall,” she answered him, a mischievous light dancing in her eyes.

He glowered at her. “Do ye think ye can get yerself up and ready to leave by dawn?” he demanded.

“Aye,” she drawled back. “And will ye be sleeping alone also, Conall?”

He burst out laughing. “Gie over, lass! Ye’ve a wicked tongue in yer pretty head for sure! I’ll be up. See that ye are!”

The following morning saw Cat and her men on the road to Naples. By their second evening they had caught up with the lumbering, laden coach and baggage wagon. They were nearer to Naples than they had anticipated. The following day, Cat rode until they were within a few miles of the city, stopping then at a small inn to bathe and change clothes.

The innkeeper’s wife clucked with disapproval at the dusty, long-legged woman who strode into her inn and up the stairs to the best bedroom. But a tub of hot water and almost two hours later the innkeeper’s wife smiled broadly her approval at the exquisitely gowned and coifed woman descending the stairs.

Cat and her women reentered the coach, which proceeded into the city and to the house of Signor Pietro Kira. It was midafternoon, and the banker was away on business. His eldest son escorted the countess to her newly purchased home near the village of Amalfi, south of Naples. It was, the young Kira explained, fully furnished and staffed according to instructions received from Benjamin Kira in Edinburgh.

Cat gasped at the view through the coach windows. The road they traveled was precariously high above the sea, which glittered in at least three shades of blue beneath them. Finally they turned into a small tree-lined side road, through gates with a bronze plaque reading “Villa del Pesce d’Oro.” Within minutes an exquisite house came into view. It was unlike anything Cat had lived in before. The roof was of red tiles, the villa itself a pale, creamy yellow. The white gravel driveway swung around in a circle and up to the house. In the center of the circle was a velvety green lawn bordered with flower beds already filled to overflowing with multicolored blooms. In the middle of the lawn was a round fountain with a laughing cupid riding a golden fish. All the area about the house was planted with flowers of every description.

“Ohhhh, my lady,” breathed young May. “ ‘Tis the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

“For once the child doesna blather nonsense,” agreed Susan. “At home the snowdrops will be but daring to poke their little heads up, and here ‘tis already June!”

Cat smiled at them both, thinking that this was a house for lovers. And if he was not already waiting, Bothwell would soon be here. The coach stopped, and her grooms let down the steps as the house servants emerged from the villa. Young Signor Kira introduced them. There was the major-domo, Paolo, and his wife, Maria, the housekeeper-cook. There were two kitchen maids, two housemaids, and half a dozen gardeners.

“Lord Bothwell,” she asked Paolo, “has he arrived yet?”

“No one has come, Madonna.”

Cat turned to Signor Kira. “Your messenger said he delivered my note to Lord Bothwell’s villa. Where is his villa?”

“Quite near, signora contessa.” She turned to Paolo again. “Have one of the gardeners show my captain the way.”
“Sì,
Madonna!” “Conall, go!”

The highlander swung back into his saddle. “ ‘Tis shameful how anxious ye are,” he grumbled.

“Dinna fret,” she shot back at him. “I’m sure that currant-eyed wench ye’ve been ogling will wait,” and she laughed at the rude noise he made as he rode off. She turned to the young Kira. “You are my guest tonight, signor. It is too late for you to ride back to the city alone.”

They entered the villa. Cat was very pleased. The main floor boasted a square foyer with a center staircase and three salons, a library, a family dining room, a formal dining room, and three kitchens. Maria spoke as they ascended to the second floor. “It is a very small house, I fear, Madonna. There are only six bedchambers. However, the third floor is spacious, and I have given your women a nice room just above you.” She waddled down the hallway to a pair of carved doors with lion-head decorations and exquisite gold-and-porcelain handles. Flinging open the doors she announced,
“Ecco,
Madonna! Your bedchamber.”

Cat walked into a spacious, airy room with two long double windows that opened onto small iron balconies over the rear gardens. The room looked out to the sea. There was a large high bed hung with sheer, sea-green silk draperies, and a matching coverlet. The furniture was a warm, well-polished walnut and the walls were cream-colored with gilt designs near the upper part and on the ceiling. Heavy silk draperies—also sea-green—hung on either side of the two windows. Between the windows, sheer creamy silk curtains blew in the soft breeze. On the cool tile floors were thick sheepskin rugs. Across from the windows and to the left of the bed was a large fireplace with a carved marble mantelpiece. The only other furniture in the room was a large armoire, a table, and some chairs.

On the wall opposite the bed and to the right there was a door. Maria opened it with a flourish. “Your bath, signora contessa,” she said.

Cat’s eyes widened. The walls and floor of the room were a marvellous blue tile, and in the center of the floor was a large sunken marble tub, shaped like a shell, with golden fish ornaments at one end.

“Look, Madonna,” said Maria excitedly. She leaned over and twisted one of the three golden fishes on the edge of the tub. Water flowed into the tub. “And when you wish to empty it,” she chortled, pulling the center fish up, “see! Is it not marvelous? The last owner of this house was a Turkish merchant. They bathe far more than is healthy, but no matter!”

“How is the water made hot?” asked Cat.

“It is stored in a porcelain barrel which always has a low flame burning beneath it.”

“Look, Susan, May! Isn’t it wonderful? No more lugging barrels of water! You can draw me a bath right now! Lord Bothwell will soon be here!”

And while Cat swam about her scented tub, Conall followed the young gardener several miles across the hills to another great villa, well hidden within the trees. Here the gardener stopped and pointed.

“Well, come on,” said the Scotsman.

“No, signor capitano. I go no further. If
she
knows that I came to help take her man away, she will curse me!”

“Who?” Conall was puzzled. “The witch!” “What witch?”

“The Contessa di LiCosa. It is her house. The Lord Bothwell is her lover.”

Conall thought for a moment. Well … the man had to live. And yet, he had not been at the villa to greet the woman he professed to love. Conall had assumed that they would meet somewhere on the road between Rome and Naples. Then he remembered what the messenger had told them. He had not delivered the message directly into Lord Bothwell’s hand because the earl had not been at the villa. Was it possible that the earl had never received the message? Yes! It most certainly was! A typical woman’s trick!

“Wait here for me,” he told the nervous gardener and started his horse up the road. He rode unchallenged. When he reached the house he found it ablaze with lights. Dismounting, he banged on the door. It was opened a few moments later by an imperious-looking major-domo. “I wish to see Lord Bothwell.”

“I am sorry. He cannot be disturbed. Who shall I say called?”

“I am Captain More-Leslie, man,” said Conall, pushing the officious servant aside, “and I intend disturbing his lordship right now!
A Bothwell! To me! A Bothwell! A Bothwell!”

From the upper story of the house Conall heard the slamming of a door, and Francis Stewart-Hepburn appeared, leaping lightly down the stairs, sword drawn. Walking to Conall, he peered closely at him. “Conall? Conall More-Leslie?” “Aye, my lord.”

A smile lit the earl’s face, and he grasped Conall’s hand with his free one. “Christ, man! Tis good to see ye! What are ye doing here?”

“Ye didna receive the message delivered here for you several weeks ago?”

“No. Are ye sure yer messenger came here?”

“Aye, my lord, he came. He was told ye were away, but that the message would be delivered to ye on yer return.”

“I havena left here in months, Conall.” Suddenly the earl’s face went white. “Cat? Is she all right?”

Conall sighed with relief. “Aye, my lord, she is fine, but she grows very impatient for yer company. She awaits yer lordship at the Villa del Pesce d’Oro.”

“What?”

“Aye, sir! She is waiting now. If ye’ve nothing of value here, let us get yer man Angus and go!”

Francis Stewart-Hepburn smiled slowly at Conall More-Leslie. “I’ve nought of value here, man. Angus! To me!”

Then suddenly, at the top of the stairs, there appeared one of the most beautiful women Conall had ever seen. She glided down the stairs like a cat and purred in a deep voice,
“Caro?
Where do you go? Our guests will soon be arriving.”

“Why was I not given the message delivered here several weeks ago?”

“What message,
caro?”
But her dark eyes flashed angrily at Conall.

Bothwell saw her and laughed. “You are a very bad liar, Angela
mia.
I warned you that one day I would turn to you and say goodbye. This is that day.”

“Now? With guests coming? Could you not wait until tomorrow? Who will be my host?”

“You might ask your husband, Angela.”

“Francisco!” She held out her beautiful hands in a pleading fashion. “I love you!”

He laughed again. “Angela
mia,
you are a marvelous actress. There is only one thing in this world that would take me from your side, and she is waiting for me now. Adieu,
cara mia!”

Within minutes they were on the road back to the Villa del Pesce d’Oro, and they never heard the shrieks of outrage made by the beautiful Contessa di LiCosa.

“What is Cat doing here?” shouted Lord Bothwell over the wind and the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

“She will tell ye herself, my lord,” Conall shouted back.

The sun was sinking into the western sea when they reached the villa. She waited in the doorway, and he slid from the saddle before his horse had even stopped. Everything was suddenly very quiet as they stood stock still looking at each other. The servants were frozen silent, not daring to move, so charged was the very air about them.

“Cat.” His voice caressed her, and she swayed. “Cat, my precious love, how come ye here?”

“I am a widow, Francis. Patrick is dead.”

“God assoil him.” They moved towards each other. “Angus! Fetch a priest!” commanded Lord Bothwell. And then he caught her to him, and slowly enfolding her in his arms, he found her eagerly waiting mouth. He drank in the sweetness of her, murmuring softly against her lips.

Surrendering herself completely to the storm tearing at her, she clung to him. She could hardly stand. She could hear her heart pounding within her own ears. Finally she managed to gasp, “Why a priest?”

His strong arm supporting her, he looked down into her upturned face. “Because, my darling, I intend marrying ye now! Tonight! Before kings, or families, or anyone can come between us ever again!”

“Oh, Francis,” she whispered, “I hae missed ye so damned much!” And she began to cry.

“Dinna weep, my darling. Yer safe wi me now, and this time no one will separate us! Now, love, tell me—why did Jamie relent, and let ye come to me?”

“He didn’t, Francis. I ran. Jemmie is now the Glenkirk, and he felt ‘twas the only chance I would have. What was between James Stewart, Patrick, and us had nothing to do wi Jemmie. He didna think that Jamie would try and revenge himself on the Leslies now.” She drew him into the house.

“Does our royal cousin know where ye are?”

“He was told that I went to France to recover from my widow’s depression, but I imagine he’s very angry at me, for I was ordered to return to court this spring. He even sent to King Henri and demanded his aid in arranging my return. Henri of Navarre sends his regards to ye.”

“Ye met him?”

“Aye. He was most kind. He told me how very much he regretted having to send ye away.”

“Henri was always kind to women,” chuckled Bothwell. “Young or old. Fair or ugly. He has unbelievable charm, and the ladies love it!”

But before he could pursue the conversation further, Cat led him into one of the salons overlooking the sea. Whirling about, she demanded, “And who is the owner of the villa in which ye hae be staying?”

“The Conte di LiCosa,” said Bothwell smoothly.

“Is it his wife or his daughter ye’ve been sleeping with these long nights, my lord?”

Francis’ deep-blue eyes twinkled. “Jealous, my darling?” he teased.

“If she ever looks at ye again I will tear her heart out!”

He laughed happily. “Beware, my darling. The Contessa de LiCosa is reputed to be a witch.”

“Is she?” Cat was not impressed.

He chuckled. “She likes the peasants and the other uneducated masses to think so, and she really is quite talented in herbal medicine. She enjoys the small power her reputation gives her. She’s half-Turkish, as her mother was born in Morea and captured by Angela’s father years ago. She has two brothers, the older of whom, in an odd quirk of fate, was himself captured by Turks twenty years ago. Just as his mother once converted to Christianity, he became a Muslim. He is now one of the sultan’s generals.”

“Is she very beautiful?” asked Cat

“Yes,” replied Bothwell honestly, “but the peasants call her l’Angela del Diavolo—the Devil’s Angel.” He moved to take her in his arms. “Cat, my love, I dinna want to talk of Angela. My God, I canna believe ‘tis ye! Do ye know how many times I have dreamed of such a reunion, knowing it was impossible? Do ye know how I have longed for ye, sure that I would never hold ye in my arms again in this life? I have lain alone more nights than not aching for ye!” Gently he traced his finger down a tear streak. “Our bairns?”