pride.
That he, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, should die at the hands of a mindless Turk!.Through the roaring in his ears he thought he heard his wife's voice, and it gave him courage. If he died, she was doomed to a living hell.
Scrambling across the sand, Cat picked up first the Turk's knife and then Bothwell's. Legs shaking, she plunged both knives repeatedly into the mountain of flesh that was the Turk, but she could not seem to find a vital spot. Her blows were no more effective than a gnat's bite. But, like the insect, she became a great irritant. Dropping his half-conscious victim, Omar turned on her.
'Woman!' he shouted, and she jumped backwards. He reached for the knives and, disarming her, slapped her several light blows. Terrified for Bothwell, and feeling more helpless than she had ever felt, Cat dropped to her knees. The Turk turned back to the earl. Suddenly a roar tore the stillness. Spinning about, Captain Omar clutched at his middle, a look of pure surprise on his face. He removed his hands slowly to look, then clamped them quickly back over the hole in his belly as a length of pink gut rolled out. But he was not able to contain the blood that poured forth.
Sickened, Cat scrambled away from him, but he kept coming towards her, his lips moving, mouthing words she could not hear. The pink intestines were uncontainable now, spilling between his clutching fingers, blood spurting over her. Beyond him stood Asher Kira, the smoking pistol in his hands. Nearby both Bothwell and Conall lay unmoving on the damp sand.
Horrified, she slowly scanned the scene of carnage in which she had played a leading role. Suddenly Captain Omar crumbled dead at her feet. Terror filling her eyes, she screamed, 'Oh, God! No more! No more! No more!'
PART IX. THE HEALING
Chapter 59
IN the cool green hills overlooking Rome there nestled a beautiful villa, commanding a view of the sea many miles beyond. A park surrounded the house, but the gates leading to it were always closed unless someone was entering or leaving. It was called simply Villa Mia, and had been built a hundred years before for a mistress of the Borgia pope, Alexander VI. The park was filled with greenery, deer, birds, and little lakes.
The house was now owned by the foreigner Lord Stuarti. The local people knew little else about him. The new lord had a large force of men-at-arms, but only their captain was ever seen entering the house. The servants were all women, imported from Rome. Tradesmen were stopped at the back door. No one from the surrounding area had ever been inside the villa.
There was a rumor that Lord Stuarti had a wife, but she was never seen, and it was known that he occasionally visited the widowed innkeeper, Giovanna Russo.
When the other women of the village attempted to elicit information from Giovanna, she would say nothing other than 'He is a good man with much pain. Do not ask again for I will tell you nothing.' This was strange, for Giovanna was a warm-hearted woman who was known to enjoy a good gossip. Eventually, however, the villagers accepted the mysterious Lord Stuarti and no longer paid any particular attention to the Villa Mia.
Francis Stewart-Hepburn had never intended to return to Naples. The Villa del Pesce d'Oro would have held too many frightening ghosts. So, the new villa had already been purchased, and was waiting when he and Cat returned. Bothwell thanked God he had a home to bring her to, and that it was isolated.
She had been near death for many weeks after the terrible ordeal, and he was convinced that only his own willpower, his desperate desire that she stay alive, had kept her alive.
Cat had drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the homeward journey running a low, steady fever. She would eat nothing, pushing food away angrily in her only show of emotion. It was all he could do to get liquids into her. He had kept her alive in spite of herself, getting her safely to Italy.
Strangely, it was Cat's plight which made Susan refrain from self-pity. Susan had suffered terribly, but hardly to the extent that her mistress had. The young woman blamed herself for Cat's plight.
' 'Tis my fault she is so hurt,' she said, tears threatening. 'But I will help to get her well, my lord! I swear I will,' she vowed. Bothwell was grateful, and glad for her company.
When they reached the Villa Mia, young May was waiting. The two sisters embraced. May, grateful to both her older sister and her mistress for saving her in the attack on Villa del Pesce d'Oro, eagerly aided Susan in her efforts to bring Cat back to sanity.
The Countess of Bothwell had not spoken a word since the night of her rescue, and her beautiful eyes remained void of all expression. Sometimes the earl felt her staring at him, but when he turned, it was to be met with the all- too-familiar blank look. Still he loved her as never before and, desperate, tried to carry on as if all were normal.
He did not share her bed, sleeping instead in a room adjoining hers. At night the door between the rooms remained open so that he would hear her if she called. Though her face expressed nothing and she was mute, she seemed to understand all that was said to her. She communicated by looks and signs.
Other than her husband, Conall, and young Asher Kira, no men were ever allowed into her presence. The proximity of a strange male was apt to set her to weeping and moaning.
They had arrived in midsummer, and now as the Roman autumn progressed she began to venture out of the villa into the gardens for long walks. She was always accompanied by either Susan or May, and the gardeners were warned to remove themselves the moment she appeared. The mistress, they were told, had been very ill, and strangers upset her.
Now the gossip in the village began anew, and the talk was all about the Madonna Stuarti. Though the gardeners removed themselves from Cat's sight, no one had said they might not look upon her from the cover of the bushes. In the tavern of Giovanna Russo they raved about Cat's pale-gold hair (for her hair had never regained its tawny shade), they sang praises to her leaf-green eyes, they rhapsodized over her beautiful, unlined face and her young girl's figure.
Giovanna Russo filled their tankards with the region's best, slapped away roving hands, and listened. She had often wondered about her lover's wife, for he never spoke of her. Yet she was sure that the sadness afflicting him stemmed from a tragedy which had befallen his wife. He came to Giovanna for release only, but she was satisfied. He was the best lover she had ever had- strong, tender, and considerate.
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, tucking 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 Hps. 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!'
