Leading her over to the settle by the fireplace, he sat her down. 'I want to sketch ye, my love. Perhaps I'll do a wax model later, and then sculpt ye.'
'My God,' she laughed, 'ye sculpt! That's what that wax-image nonsense was about. That's why they say ye practice the black arts! Oh, the fools! The ignorant fools!'
Bothwell grimaced. 'Oh, yes,' he said. 'My enemies would have poor gullible cousin Jamie believe that I make wax images of him to stick pins into.' He picked up a lap easel and, fastening a piece of paper on it, began.
Cat sat perfectly still, thinking how lucky she was to be with him. She had never known such happiness existed, and if he had asked her to accompany him into the fires of hell she would have gone without question. Her eyes caressed him. She blushed, thinking she would rather be in bed with him than sitting here posing. At last he put down his work. His eyes caught hers.
'Ye are reading my thoughts,' she exclaimed.
He smiled lazily. 'It isna hard to read yer thoughts when ye blush like that. Besides, mine are similar. Come, my sweet love, let us to bed.' He stood and offered her his hand.
She rose. 'Why, Francis? For thirteen years I lived a contented, healthy life wi Patrick. But wi ye…' She paused seeking the right words. 'Wi ye 'tis different.’Tis complete.'
'Did ye always love Patrick?' he asked.
'He was the only man I ever knew. Greyhaven is very isolated. My great-grandmother betrothed me to Patrick when I was just four. He is nine years my senior. We were wed when I was sixteen. I wasna sure I even wanted to marry him then. He had a reputation as a terrible rake, and he was so arrogant!'
Bothwell chuckled to himself, imagining his stubborn Cat coming up against an equally stubborn Glenkirk.
'Still,' continued Cat, 'we dealt well together. He is a kind man, and I love our bairns.'
'But ye do not really love him,' said Francis Hepburn. 'Yet yer lot has been better than mine. Yer a healthy woman, Cat, who enjoys her bedsport wi'out being lewd. My dear countess detests the physical aspects of marriage. Had she been able to get her hands on my fortune by means other than bearing me children, she would have done so.'
'But yer bairns? Surely ye love them, Francis.'
'In a way, but Margaret has raised them to be cold and correct. They dinna have the Hepburn or the Stewart charm. They tolerate me. It doesna make for a warm relationship.'
'I am so sorry, my love,' she said.
'Why?' He smiled down at her. 'For the first time in my life I am in love. I am in love wi ye, my precious Cat! God help me! How I love ye! And ye, my darling. Ye too are in love for the first time in yer life. And I am the fortunate man!'
'Oh, Bothwell,' she whispered, 'what are we to do?'
'I dinna know, Cat. I hae no easy answers, but I will find a solution to our dilemma, I promise ye that.'
Putting an arm about her shoulders, he led the way into her bedroom. Gently he removed her pearls and placed them on the table. Next he opened the lavender gown, took it from her, and placed it over a chair. She pulled the pins from her hair, and it tumbled down her back. He caught his breath in delight at the perfection of her lovely breasts, glowing golden in the candlelight. Having kicked her slippers off, she walked barefooted over to him, and her slender fingers tremblingly unbuttoned his shirt and removed it Then, turning, she walked over to the bed while he finished undressing and got into it.
Trembling, she awaited him. And then he was with her beneath the feather coverlet. He drew her lush body against his slender length and held her close. They stayed that way for what seemed an eternity, allowing the warmth of their bodies to mingle. Cat wondered if Francis felt the same desperate hunger that she did. She could not call it lust. The feelings she had ran too deep. Even the supreme act of possession did not entirely satisfy her.
He entered her, pushing deep within her pulsing warmth, and straining to go further, he cried out, 'Ah, God! 'Tis not enough!' Cat wept with joy at the knowledge that his love for her was as deep as hers for him.
Chapter 25
WINTER deepened into early spring, the traditional time for raiding the borders. Bothwell had not gone along on many of these ventures, preferring to stay with Cat. His men missed him greatly, and, finally, Bothwell's bastard half-brother, Hercules Stewart, spoke to the countess about the problem.
'Could I go too, Hercules?' she asked him.
He grinned at her. 'To be sure, my lady! If Francis will permit ye.'
'Can ye use a sword or a pistol?' Bothwell asked when he was confronted by his half-brother and Cat.
'Well enough,' she replied. 'My eldest brother taught me.'
He tested her and, satisfied, said, 'Yell do.' But he instructed Hercules not to leave Cat's side.
So she rode out with Bothwell and his borderers, first at night, and then on daylight raids. Unafraid, she fought the English with a gusto that delighted the earl's men. Yet she was kind to those of her own sex, and tender with the children. Soon stories began to filter out of the borders, stories about the beautiful lady who rode with Bothwell and his men.
South from Edinburgh rode Bothwell's sometime friend, Lord Home. He was curious about these stories, and wanted to see for himself. Home rode alone. He wanted no gossiping servants along. It was late afternoon as he neared Hermitage, stopping for a minute to gaze at the great castle in the distance. Hearing hoof-beats behind him, he drew into a strand of trees and waited. He recognized Bothwell's stallion, Valentine, but the sleek golden bay beside
The laughter that greeted Bothwell's words was soft, and Home leaned eagerly forward, but the woman turned and he could not see her face clearly. 'Name your forfeit, my Lord!' she called in a clear voice. Bothwell cocked a wicked eyebrow. Reaching up, he lifted the woman down from her horse.
'Oh, Francis!' The woman laughed again. Hepburn's arms closed about her. Lord Home could see only her profile, which told him little. Home was struck by the look of tenderness and love on his friend's face. After.gazing rapturously at his love for some time, Bothwell said, 'Christ, my darling. How much I love ye! Come. Let us go home. Will ye race me again?'
He lifted her back onto her horse. Again Home was frustrated in his attempt to see the woman's face, for her back was to him. 'If I win, Francis, I shall claim a larger forfeit than one kiss!' Her meaning was obvious, and Home almost choked. Jesu! What a wench this woman was! Bothwell laughed low and replied, '
Lord Home remained hidden for some minutes. What he had just witnessed had shaken him somewhat He had known Francis Hepburn for many years. At one time they had even been enemies. But, youthful vanities soothed, they later became friends. Home had never seen Bothwell look so relaxed, or so peaceful. He had wenched enough with the man to know that Hepburn never took any woman seriously, not even his cold, correct Countess. Yet Home was sure the lord of Hermitage took this woman absolutely seriously. Mounting his own horse, Home headed down the hills to the great castle. His curiosity was truly aroused now.
In the courtyard he was met by Hercules Stewart, who offered greetings and took his horse. 'I'll go get Francis. He's just ridden in, and will be glad to see ye.'
Lord Home waited in an antechamber, grinning to himself, wondering who had won the horse race. Suddenly the door burst open, and Bothwell strode in. He grasped Home's hand warmly.
'By God, Sandy! 'Tis good to see ye! What brings ye to Hermitage?' The big earl busied himself with a decanter and two heavy glasses.
'Curiosity, Francis. Curiosity is what brings me. There are stories in Edinburgh that ye ride the borders wi a beautiful woman by yer side. The court is fascinated. Shall I go back and tell them that Lord Bothwell has mocked them again? 'Tis but a lad in a wig, is it not?'
Bothwell handed Alexander Home a glass of his smoky whisky and smiled lazily. 'Do ye want to meet her,
