Bertrice Small - Love Wild and Fair

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 fille."

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!"

DOWN 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 pennypiece 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 mere!"

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."

"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.