Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  She hurried from room to room, directing the hanging of draperies, tapestries, and pictures, the placement of furniture. The rooms began to take on life and, finally contented, Skye walked slowly throughout her house. It was well after midnight, and the exhausted servants had long since sought their beds. She entered each room and looked about with satisfaction.

  The oak furniture gleamed with a polish that only hand rubbing and pure beeswax could give it. Upon the dark wide floorboards were thick Turkey carpets. The use of carpets was unusual. Many homes, even those of the wealthy, still used rushes mixed with herbs upon the floors. There were colorful tapestries and paintings throughout the house, for Captain Small was clever at ferreting out those noble but impoverished families who were willing to discreetly sell such items. Heavy draperies in velvet and silk hung from the leaded casement windows. Brass sconces adorned the paneled walls. Silver twinkled on the sideboards. The scene was one of elegance and wealth.

  As Skye departed each room she snuffed out the beeswax candles carefully. She would not allow fat or tallow in the house, even in the servants quarters, for she disliked the smell. There were porcelain bowls of potpourri in all the rooms. The river was known, after all, to stink occasionally.

  She entered her apartment and found Daisy, who had arrived several days ago, dozing by the fire. The girl jumped when she saw her mistress.

  “Daisy, you didn’t have to wait up. But since you’re here, unlace me, and then off to bed with you.”

  “I don’t mind, mistress,” said Daisy as she undid Skye’s gown and helped her out of her petticoats. She wisked the clothing into the dressing room and soon was back dipping water from the fireplace kettle into an earthenware pitcher. “Are you sure you don’t need me further, ma’am?”

  “No, Daisy. Go to bed.”

  The little maid was quickly gone. Skye sat down wearily and carefully rolled off her gossamer stockings. Naked, she walked across her room and had a leisurely wash with her favorite damask rose soap. Sliding into an embroidered pale-blue silk caftan, she extinguished the candles and went to sit in her bedroom window seat, facing the river.

  The moon silvered the water. She could see a barge pull into the quai two houses down. Two figures, a man and a woman, climbed out of the boat and went slowly up the steps to the garden. At the top of the stairway they kissed for a long moment. Then the gentleman picked up the lady and they were lost to view. Sighing, she sought her bed, and slept badly. The memory of the romantic scene she had watched burned into her and made her ache. Skye was twenty years old, and for the first time since Khalid’s death over a year ago, she deeply wanted a man to love her. She rose, weeping softly, and took a bottle of blackberry brandy from her dayroom sideboard. She then crawled back into the window seat and drank herself to sleep.

  Next door, the owner of the small riverside palace was also wakeful. The Earl of Lynmouth paced his bedroom floor excitedly, scarcely able to believe his good fortune. Not only was his new neighbor the beautiful Señora Goya del Fuentes, but he had found a way to victory over de Grenville. He chuckled. He would pay his respects to the lady, but if she had not willingly succumbed by Twelfth Night, then he would blackmail her into submission.

  The Earl of Lynmouth entertained lavishly, and his parties were famous. He had recently come up to London to see that his house was properly prepared for Christmas and Twelfth Night. The Queen herself would be attending several seasonal festivities, including his Twelfth Night masque. Geoffrey had been quite astounded to find that the beautiful Mistress Goya del Fuentes was the owner of the little jewel of a house at the end of the Strand, and had watched with interest as the house was refurbished. A connoisseur, he noted her choices with an approving eye as the tradesmen lugged their merchandise into her house.

  Now the time had come for him to make his first move to capture the lady. He would woo her gently at first, and then if necessary he would threaten her with exposure. Through a fantastic piece of luck, he had discovered her true history. He owned a one-third share in a ship that traded in the Mideast, and when it had returned recently to London he had gone aboard to see to his interests. Through the bow window of the master’s cabin he had seen Robert Small. He asked his Captain Browne, “Do you know who that man is on the next ship?”

  “Aye, my lord. That be Captain Robert Small of Bideford in Devon. The Mermaid is his ship.”

  Captain Browne drew in on his pipe, then gently puffed out a curl of blue smoke. “Robbie Small is a lucky devil, my lord. He needn’t go off to sea at all, for he’s a wealthy man and was born of gentry, too. But the sea’s a wanton bitch, and when she gets in your blood it’s hard to rid yourself of her.”

  “Was he born to wealth?” prodded the Earl gently.

  “No. The family fortunes were pretty low until he went into partnership with the great Whoremaster of Algiers, Khalid el Bey. How they met I don’t know, but they somehow became friends and the bey backed Robbie in several ventures. Finally when he was on his feet, they became equal partners. And so they remained for over ten years.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The bey was killed a year and a half ago, murdered by one of his women. Bless me! He ran the finest cathouses in the East, he did. The most famous of them was called the House of Felicity, and the woman who ran it for him finally did him in. They say she was jealous of his young wife, and thought it was the wife she was stabbing. At any rate, the young widow soon disappeared and it was discovered that she had sold everything her husband owned. The captain-governor of the Casbah fortress went wild with rage. He’d had his eye on the young widow. God help Robbie Small if he ever sets foot in Algiers again, for the Casbah captain knows Small helped the lady Skye leave Algiers.”

  Geoffrey Southwood felt his heart lurch wildly. “Skye?” he asked.

  “The bey’s wife. Her name was Skye muna el Khalid. She herself is another wild tale. More wine, sir?”

  “Tell me!”

  And so Captain Browne told him all he had heard about Skye, which was a great deal indeed. And when Geoffrey left the ship, he was elated. His coach clattered back through the noisy city streets and he began to plot.

  It was her! There could be no mistake! And he had her, for there was a child. The bey’s child? Probably. Robert Small did not act like her lover. She would probably do anything to protect her child, for the child’s future would be determined by its family’s reputation. As long as she was the respectable young widow, all would be well. She would not want her true story known, for her own sake and for the child’s. Yes … Geoffrey had her!

  Geoffrey Southwood was a wealthy man. Although he seldom discussed it, his paternal grandmother had been a rich merchant’s daughter. Over the past few centuries many noble families had married into the monied middle class to increase their finances. The Southwood family understood that money was power. They were not an important family, but their title was an ancient one, earned on the field at the Battle of Hastings.

  The first Earl of Lynmouth had been Geoffroi de Sudbois, the third son of a noble Norman family. He had joined Duke William’s invasion of England in hopes of winning a place for himself and his descendants, for there was nothing for him in his native France. His oldest brother was his father’s undisputed heir and had three sons of his own. The next de Sudbois brother had opted for the religious life, and was already the valued right hand of his prior. The Duke of Normandy’s invasion of England was a godsend to Geoffroi de Sudbois, for it offered him a chance to make a place for himself.

  His father gave him war-horses and their equipage, along with a small velvet bag of gold. When Geoffroi’s oldest brother protested, his father said, “As long as I live, what is mine shall be disposed of as I choose. When I am gone, and it is yours, you may dispose of it your way. Do not be greedy, Gilles. Your brother cannot succeed unless he is properly equipped and mounted. Do you want him to always have nothing? To be constantly coming back here coveting your position, his mere presence a threat to y
our boys? It will be better for all if he makes a place for himself in England.”

  The eldest de Sudbois son understood his father’s point, and even pressed upon his surprised brother a fat purse of silver marks. This purse proved the means by which he recruited himself a small troop of cavalry. Those who joined him supplied their own horses, mail, and weapons. He paid them one silver mark upon debarkation for England. What booty they could take in battle was theirs to keep, and there was always a chance to win oneself land and even a title.

  The young Seigneur de Sudbois and his thirty-five men made an impressive addition to Duke William’s invading army. Even more impressive was the soldier that de Sudbois proved himself to be. He managed to fight near his Duke twice, once even preventing a direct attack upon his overlord. Toward the end of one day, he found himself in on the kill of the English King, Harold.

  Duke William of Normandy had seen enough of the young lordling to be both amused and impressed. “He’s a valuable man,” observed the Duke, “and God knows he’s worked hard enough to win a bit of this land for himself. I’ll give him something down in the south, toward the west. If he can take the land and hold it, it’s his.”

  Geoffroi de Sudbois took and held the little earldom of Lynmouth. He ruthlessly slew the Saxon lord of the holding and all his kin, with the exception of the Saxon’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Gwyneth. He raped her upon the hall’s long table and, when the girl was proved a virgin, he sent for a priest and wed her instantly. The practical Gwyneth cleaved to her new lord and dutifully sired the next generation. Within a hundred years de Sudbois was anglecized to Southwood, but through the many generations the ruthlessness of the original Norman Geoffroi de Sudbois and the determination of his Saxon wife remained strong traits, even down to the sixteenth-century Geoffrey Southwood.

  This Earl of Lynmouth was twenty-eight years old. Six feet tall, he had dark-blond hair, lime-green eyes, and, as Skye had observed, the face of an angel. It was a beautiful face, yet an entirely masculine one. Oval, the forehead was broad, the cheekbones high, the nose long and slim, the mouth sensuous, the chin slightly pointed. His fair skin was tanned, and because his face had no flaws, he kept it smooth-shaven. His wavy hair was cut short. His body was the lean one of a man used to regular exercise.

  He had been married twice. At twelve he had wed a neighboring eight-year-old heiress. She died two years later of smallpox, along with her parents. This left him considerably richer, having inherited money, lands, and the barony of Lynton. Sexually active, he had mourned his wife for the shortest time possible and then wed again. The second wife was five years his senior, painfully plain but very wealthy. An orphaned heiress, her guardians had thought themselves stuck with the poor girl until Geoffrey Southwood’s father offered for her for his son. Mary Bowen was of an old and noble family. More important, her lands adjoined those of the Earl of Lynmouth’s.

  On her wedding day, the poor plain bride showed herself enamored of her handsome bridegroom, and grateful to have been rescued from the shame of spinsterhood. On her wedding night, however, her opinion changed. Her shrieks could be heard all over the castle as Geoffrey Southwood battered his way through her maidenhead and impregnated her. During the next six years she delivered a child every ten months. All but the first were daughters, and each was as plain as her mother. In disgust, Geoffrey finally stopped visiting his wife’s bed. His seven plain daughters were more than enough for one man to dower.

  Mary Bowen Southwood was more than content to remain in Devon. She feared her husband. After the horror of her wedding night she had learned to lay quietly during their mating, occasionally even simulating the response expected of her. When it was first apparent that she was pregnant, he had treated her in a kindly fashion. She was glad to have pleased him, especially when Henry was born. But then had come Mary, Elizabeth, and Catherine. The week after little Phillipa’s birth he had been so furious that he slapped her, shouting that she had done it deliberately, that she’d give him a son next time or he would know the reason why. She had learned fear in her subsequent pregnancies. Susan was born next. Geoffrey was in London. Frightened but dutiful, she sent him word. A six months’ silence followed. When he finally arrived home he handed down one final ultimatum. “Produce another son, madam, or you’ll spend the rest of your life here in Devon with your brood of daughters.”

  “What of Henry?” she dared to ask.

  “Henry goes to the Shrewsburys’ household,” he said flatly.

  When the twins, Gwyneth and Joan, were born, the Countess found herself and all of her daughters moved from Lynmouth Castle to Lynton Court. Geoffrey Southwood had had enough.

  From that time on he saw his wife and family once yearly, at Michaelmas, when he arrived to hand over the money needed to run their little household for the following year. He refused to make matches for his daughters, on the premise that they were all like their mother and he would not be responsible for other men’s disappointment when the girls produced a string of daughters, as their mother had done.

  Mary Southwood was frankly relieved to be rid of her husband, but she worried over her girls. Through personal sacrifice and great frugality she managed to save half of what he gave her each year. Added to a small, secret hoard left her by her late guardians, she slowly built up small dowries for her daughters. She taught them the arts of housewifery. There would be no grand matches, but she would get them all settled. Eventually fate helped her out when Geoffrey Southwood stopped even his yearly visit, delegating that chore to his majordomo.

  The “Angel” Earl, as he was known, spent his time following the Court. The young Queen Elizabeth enjoyed his elegant beauty and sharp wit. Even more, she appreciated his astute knowledge of business and overseas trade. Trade was where England’s future lay, and the educated Queen needed all the advice about it she could obtain. Elizabeth had already demonstrated herself to be a working monarch, and nothing escaped her sharp eyes or ears. Geoffrey Southwood might have an appetite for the ladies, but he deliberately went out of his way to avoid her maids-of-honor, and his respect for her was much appreciated by the vain young Queen. Best of all, Geoffrey came to Court without the encumbrance of a wife, and was therefore free to play one of Elizabeth’s gallants.

  The next day dawned bright and blue, as perfect an October day as one could wish for. Skye spent the morning indoors overseeing her household, which was finally beginning to run smoothly, then working with Jean and Robert Small in setting up a new trading company. Later she eagerly snatched up her flower basket and garden shears and escaped to the beckoning outdoors.

  The gardener and his assistants had done miracles in a few short weeks. Gone were the waist-high weeds and brambles. Brick walks had been discovered beneath the overgrowth, as well as small reflecting pools and rose bushes. Pruning had brought forth an abundance of late blooms, which Skye now clipped. “Damn!” she swore suddenly, jabbing her thumb on a thorn, then popping it into her mouth to soothe it.

  A deep, amused masculine chuckle sent her whirling about. To her anger and embarrassment, the handsome Earl of Lynmouth was sitting on the medium-high wall separating her house from the next. He leaped down gracefully and took her hand. “Just a prick, my pet,” he said.

  Skye snatched back her hand furiously. “What were you doing on my wall?” she demanded.

  “I live on the other side of it,” he answered smoothly. “In fact, my pet, you and I own the wall in common. The building next to yours is Lynmouth House. It was built by my grandfather, who also built this charming little house for his mistress, a goldsmith’s daughter.”

  “Oh,” said Skye coldly, shocked. “How very interesting, my lord. Now … if you will please leave?” she managed.

  Geoffrey Southwood smiled ruefully, and Skye noticed that the corners of his strangely green eyes were crinkled with laugh lines. “Now, Mistress Goya del Fuentes,” he said. “I realize that we got off on the wrong foot, and I will apologize now for having stared so rudely at you at
the Rose and Anchor. Surely, however, you will not be too hard on me? I cannot be the first man who has ever been stunned by your extravagant beauty, now can I?”

  Skye flushed. Damn the man! He really was charming. And if they were neighbors, she could hardly continue to snub him. The corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “Very well, my lord. I accept your apology.”

  “And you will join me for a late supper?”

  Skye laughed. “You are really incorrigible, Lord Southwood.”

  “Geoffrey,” he corrected.

  “You are still incorrigible, Geoffrey,” she sighed, “and my name is Skye.”

  “A most unusual name. How did you come by it?”

  “I don’t know. My parents both died when I was young, and the nuns who raised me could never tell me.” It was said so naturally that he was thrown. Perhaps she wasn’t the Whoremaster of Algiers’ widow after all. “And was Geoffrey your father’s name?” she was asking.

  “No. He was Robert. Geoffrey was the first of the Southwoods. He came from Normandy with Duke William almost five hundred years ago.”

  “How wonderful to know the history of one’s family,” she said wistfully.

  “You haven’t yet told me you will dine with me tonight,” he said.

  Skye bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I really don’t think I should.”

  “I realize it’s a bit unorthodox, asking you to dine late, but I must attend the Queen at Greenwich, and she’ll not let me go till late.”

  “Then perhaps we should dine on another day when you have more time,” she replied.

  “Have pity on me, fair Skye. I dance constant attendance on Her Majesty, and it is only rarely that I have any time. My chef is an artist, but cooking for one is little challenge. Unless I provide him with a guest soon I shall lose him. And how can I give my famous Twelfth Night revel without a chef? So you really can’t refuse me, can you?”

  She had to laugh. He seemed so boyish, and so very handsome in the open-necked cream silk shirt. He was not at all the arrogant nobleman who had accosted her several weeks before. “I should not,” she said, “but I will. I would not like to be held responsible by all of London for the defection of your chef.”