Bertrice Small - Love Wild and Fair

"I dinna know which is better," said the taller of the two. "The horse or the woman."

"The horse is yers, man," answered his companion. "I’ll take the woman!"

"Touch me at yer peril," she snarled at them. "I am for Hermitage, and Lord Bothwell!"

"Ye'll nae find the earl at Hermitage," said the tall borderer. "He's at his lodge in the Cheviot."

"How far from here?"

"Two hours' ride, sweetheart. But if ye've a mind to bed a Hepburn, my father was one, and I'd be happy to oblige."

Cat drew herself up tall and, looking levelly at the two men, said coldly, "Take me to Lord Bothwell, or suffer the consequences when he finds out ye've not only detained me but refused me aid as well."

Something in her voice told them she was not bluffing. "Follow us," said the tall man. Whirling their horses around, they galloped off. Two hours later, as promised, they arrived at a small lodge, well hidden within the hills. At the sound of hoofbeats the door opened and the Earl of Bothwell himself stepped out. The taller fellow spoke out.

"We found this lady some two hours from here, my lord, riding for Hermitage. When she told us she sought ye, we brought her here. I hope we did the right thing."

Bothwell walked over to Iolaire and, reaching up, pushed away the hood of the all-concealing cape. "Cat!" he breathed.

Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. "Help me, Francis," she begged, holding out her arms to him. "Please help me!" Then she crumbled out of the saddle into his arms, fainting.

Cradling her tenderly, he turned to the two startled men. "Ye did right to bring this lady to me. But remember, lads, ye hae never seen her. When I can be of help to ye, I will be." He walked swiftly back into the house with his precious burden.

FRANCIS Hepburn had been alone at his hunting lodge. He occasionally shunned the company of his fellow humans and fled to some isolated spot, renewing himself spiritually and physically. It was his way of retaining sanity in a world that alternately admired and feared him. He liked the winter months, and he had been enjoying himself alone for several weeks.

Now his peace had been broken, and in a most disturbing way. He carried the unconscious Catriona Leslie into his house, upstairs to his bedroom, and gently laid her on his bed. He drew off her boots and, wrapping her cloak around her, pulled up a blanket and tucked it around her. Stirring up the fire, he put a brick in the ashes to warm. Then he drew the draperies shut on all the windows and lit a small Moorish oil lamp so she could see where she was when she regained consciousness. Taking the brick from the ashes with a pair of tongs, he wrapped it in a flannel and put it at her feet. Then, pouring a dram of potent whisky made in his own still, he sat on the edge of the bed and began to rub her wrists. Shortly she stirred, and he gently raised her up and put the dram to her lips. "Sip it slowly, my darling," he said.

She did as he bid her, and the color began to seep back into her cheeks. "Dinna tell Patrick I am here," she begged him.

"I won't," he promised. "Now, my darling, yer fair exhausted and chilled to the bone. I want ye to close yer eyes and go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs, and there are no servants to worry about."

He was talking to himself, for she was already fast asleep. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he left her and descended the stairs. The lower level of his house was a large open room with a huge stone fireplace. It was furnished in a rough manner with animal skins, hangings, and heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Pulling a chair up by the fireplace, he poured himself a glass from a decanter of wine before sitting down.

He wondered what had driven the Countess of Glen-kirk out of Edinburgh. She was suffering from shock. Having learned some medicine from a Moorish physician, Bothwell understood her symptoms. "Poor lass," he said softly. "What in hell happened to ye?"

When Catriona awoke several hours later it took her a moment or two to realize where she was. She climbed from the big bed and padded downstairs in her stockinged feet.

"Francis? Are ye awake?"

"Aye, lass. Come over by the fire, and sit wi me."

She settled into his lap. For a time, neither of them spoke. He held her lightly, yet protectively, and she nestled against him, breathing the leather and tobacco scent of him. His heart was pounding wildly. He had always treated her casually, teasingly, in an effort to hide his feelings, and it had been fairly easy because he had never gotten too close. Now Francis Hepburn fought down his feelings lest he frighten her further. Finally, in desperation, he asked, "Are ye hungry? When did ye last eat?"

"Two nights ago. I stopped at a nunnery last night, but I could not eat then, or this morning."

"Ye should be hungry by now, my darling." He tipped her out of his lap gently. "Can ye set a table, Cat Leslie?"

"The word is 'countess,' my lord Bothwell, not 'helpless.' Of course I can set a table."

"We'll eat by the fire," he said cheerfully. "The cloth's in that chest, and ye'll find dishes and utensils in the larder over there."

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 bis 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."