Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  “Touché, sweetheart,” he admitted ruefully.

  “I’ll teach you manners yet, Southwood,” she said mischievously.

  “Scrub my back,” he shot back and, laughing, she complied.

  She had decided in the early hours of the dawn that if she was to become his mistress it must be on her terms. She would not be one of many. She must be his only love. She would give to him affection and respect, but in return he must give her the same. And as she would be loyal and faithful to him, so must he be to her. She had, just now, won their first battle.

  They ate in their room by the fireplace. It was a simple but very tasty meal of boiled lobsters, artichokes in oil and vinegar, newly baked bread with sweet butter, whole apples baked in pastry with colored sugar sprinkled over them accompanied by clotted cream, sharp cheese, and a pitcher of white wine.

  Afterward they lay back against the plump goose-down pillows on the lavender-scented bed and, holding hands, fell asleep. Skye woke to watch the firelight dancing against the wall. Instinctively she knew he was awake too. Turning, she lay her head against his heart.

  “What a wench you are,” he said softly, and stroked her hair. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Skye. You know that, don’t you? I’ve never loved before, sweetheart, but as God as my witness I do love you.”

  They made love tenderly, lingeringly, then slept, awakened, and made love twice more. As Geoffrey had promised her, the next three days were spent in an orgy of lovemaking, eating, and drinking. And even if they had wished to change the program they would not have been able to do so, for they awoke that first morning to find a January snowstorm swirling about them.

  As gleeful as children, they piled wood upon the fire and then snuggled naked beneath the down coverlets just before Rose arrived with a breakfast of hard-cooked eggs, thick slices of country ham, bread, cheese, and nut-brown ale. It snowed all that day and they never stirred from their bed except to feed either the fire or themselves. Skye could not believe how often and easily he aroused her, fulfilled her, loved her. Each time she thought surely it could not happen again, and yet it did.

  On the second day the snow stopped and the sun shone again. They dressed and played outdoors in the snow like youngsters, much to the amusement of Master Parker and his wife. But Rose was outraged. It was unthinkable for the gentry to behave in such a fashion! Especially such a handsome, romantic gentleman as the Earl.

  Skye’s cheeks were red with the cold and she shrieked with mock terror as the Earl pelted her with snowballs. She got back at him by teasing him into position beneath the roof and then sending a well-aimed snowball into the piled-up snow on the edge. It tumbled down over him like an avalanche, leaving him sputtering his surprise.

  That night they sat before the fire, Skye in her simple white caftan and Geoffrey in a green velvet robe. They roasted chestnuts in the coals of their fire, picking the sweet, hot meats from the shells, burning their fingers in the process. He found a lute in the common room of the inn and brought it back to their little room. To her surprise he played and sang quite well. He sang her several naughty ditties that left her weak with laughter, and when he saw that she was helpless he put the lute down and pounced on her. Giggling, she fought him off, tickling him mercilessly until he too was helpless with mirth.

  They lay panting upon the bed, and then suddenly he was kissing her frantically. “Skye! Skye! Dammit, woman, love me a little!”

  “But Geoffrey,” she protested, “I do!”

  “No, sweetheart, you love what I do to your passions but you feel nothing for me. You’re so fair, so charming, so intelligent! I thought it was enough, but it isn’t enough. I want you to care as I care.”

  “Oh, Geoffrey!” There was genuine regret in her voice. “I don’t know if I shall ever love again. It hurts so damned much to love. I like you, and I had thought we would be friends. It’s more than most men have with their mistresses.”

  “You’re not just any woman, my love! I want more of you, Skye, than most men have of their mistresses.”

  “You have no right!” she shouted at him. “You do not take me, I give myself freely! Because I want to, and only because I do want to.” She was kneeling on the bed, her hair swirling about her sleek, beautiful shoulders. “I will be no man’s toy! Understand that, my lord Earl.”

  Her sapphire eyes flashed blue fire, her creamy skin was rosy with emotion. At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Still, he was furious at her. He was Geoffrey Reginald Michael Arthur Henry Southwood, the seventh Earl of Lynmouth, and she was only a nameless woman without a past. He was the “Angel Earl,” the man for whom all women pined. She was the first to have the gift of his true love. And he would have hers!

  His voice was dangerously low and tinged with scorn. “I’ll not beg you, Skye. But if you cannot learn to love again and yet you still give your body, then you’re no better than a common whore.”

  She went white with shock, her eyes huge. Lashing out, she hit a blow to his cheek which left the red imprint of her fingers. Instantly he struck back, matching her blow. Then flinging himself on her, he pinned her beneath him.

  “Your husband is dead! Can’t you understand?”

  Struggling wildly, she screamed at him. “Don’t speak of him! Don’t you dare to speak of him! He was kind and wise and good, and I loved him! Do you hear? I loved him! I loved him as I shall never love anyone else!”

  “Instead,” he raged at her, “you’ll make a mockery of his love by behaving like a whore! You’ll lock your heart away while satisfying the lusts of your body. Very well, sweetheart, if you wish to be a whore I’ll show you how!”

  His hands went to the neck of her caftan and with several quick motions he tore the silk garment from her easily. He squeezed her breasts, his knee jammed brutally between her thighs.

  “No! Geoffrey!”

  His lime-green eyes glittered in the firelight, and he bent to capture her mouth. She turned her head aside quickly and he lost his balance. He fell into the pillows. She scrambled from beneath him, her feet finding the floor. She fled across the room. But reaching the door, she realized the hopelessness of her situation. She was stark naked, and could hardly escape.

  She faced him as he lazily stalked her across the room. “Geoffrey, please.” She held out her hands in supplication. His eyes were pitiless as his body pressed hard into hers. She felt the wall behind her.

  “Whores,” he said tonelessly, “are often taken in alleys, standing up, their backs to the wall.” Forcing her thighs open, he ordered, “Put your arms about me, whore! Wrap your legs about my waist and see how the other members of your sisterhood behave!”

  She fought him wildly now, trying to twist her body away from him, struggling, clawing at his eyes. He slapped her and she burst into tears, tears of shame, tears of fright. “Please,” she whimpered, “please not like this.”

  Her tears stopped him and he suddenly stepped away. She crumbled toward the floor and he caught her and carried her to the bed, cradling her against his chest as he sat down. “Damn you, Skye! Damn you for the heartless, blue-eyed bitch you are. I only want you to love me.”

  “It hurts to love,” she sobbed, “I don’t want to be hurt again.”

  “Sweetheart, living hurts, and loving is part of living, as is death.” His anger had disappeared in the face of her obvious pain. “Skye, my darling, love me as I love you.”

  She began to cry harder. She wept for the woman she could not remember, for Khalid el Bey, that tender and noble man. She was so very tired.

  “Love me, my darling,” he whispered tenderly. “Let your heart soften again. Oh Skye, I would set you above all women, even my wife. Love me, sweetheart!”

  She had built a wall about her heart and now she felt that wall being breached, piece by piece.

  “You’re no wanton, to lie with me simply for pleasure. You do feel, though you won’t admit it. Don’t you, my darling?”

  She looked up at him, her
eyes streaming. “Yes,” she whispered, so low that he had to bend to hear her.

  “You will not betray the love you felt for your husband if you love me, Skye. That you can—and must—love again is a tribute to the love you shared with your husband. Now share your love with me, my darling.”

  There was a long silence. At last he heard her say softly, “Yes, Geoffrey.”

  With infinite care he lay her upon their bed and gently kissed the tears on her cheeks, moving down her throat, her chest, her exquisite breasts. He worshiped at the shrine of their perfection, nursing on each nipple. Protectively she enfolded him in her embrace, cradling him, and, exhausted, they fell asleep.

  In the gray-white light of the January dawn she awoke to find that he had thrust gently into her. The hardness within her seemed natural and good. “I do love you,” she said quietly, and slowly he began the primitive rhythm that would culminate in searing passion for them both. She moved with him, savoring the sweetness of him, and suddenly she knew that all the barriers had crumbled away. She loved this tender and arrogant lord who sought to possess her so completely. She loved him. He would never know, of course, for men never did, that though she loved him there would always be a secret part of her that belonged to her alone. But she loved him, of that she was sure.

  Their rhythm quickened and then the blazing white light of the dawn blended with the pulsing golden light in her mind as he brought her twice to perfect fulfillment. She cried his name and felt his strong arms about her, heard his voice soothing her, his lips kissing away the salty tears she hadn’t even been aware of shedding.

  “You are mine, and I am yours,” she said finally, easily.

  “Aye, sweetheart,” he answered. “We belong together, and we will be together. In the spring I shall beg leave from the Queen and take you down into Devon to my home.”

  “But your wife—”

  “Mary and her daughters do not live at Lynmouth,” he said. “It is you who shall be its mistress.”

  That afternoon they left their secret sanctuary at the Ducks and Drake and rode back to London. The day was cold and windy and overcast, and threatened snow again, but they were happy.

  “I want you to move into my house,” he said as they rode. “The apartment next to mine is for the Countess of Lynmouth, and we will redo it for you.”

  “I don’t know, Geoffrey. I have my own home, and I plan to bring my daughter up from Devon soon. I haven’t seen her in several months. She should be in her own house, not in yours.”

  “Then keep Greenwood, darling, but let me redo those rooms for you. You can travel easily between the two houses using the underground passage beneath the garden. You can be with your little girl during the day, and with me in the evenings.”

  “Very well, Geoffrey, as long as I may keep my own home. But until the rooms are redone I will remain at Greenwood. Will you dine with me this evening?”

  “I will, sweetheart, but first I must return to Court and pay my respects to Her Majesty.”

  Soon they turned their horses into Greenwood’s driveway.

  “Welcome home, ma’am,” called the gatekeeper.

  Skye threw him a smile and waved. Approaching the house, Skye was pleased to see a groom hurry from her stables. As they reined in their horses the Earl dismounted and lifted her down from her horse. His arms remained wrapped around her and, flushing prettily, she looked up at him.

  “Do you love me, Skye?” he demanded softly.

  “I love you, Geoffrey,” she answered, her bright blue eyes never wavering from his.

  “And will you be my lady fair, sweetheart?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes!”

  He bent and kissed her lingeringly, lovingly. “I’ll send word when I can come this evening,” he said. Mounting his stallion again, he cantered off down the drive.

  She entered the house dreamily.

  “So you’re back, and looking as dewy-eyed as any foolish maid.”

  “Good day to you, Robbie.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Come have a glass of wine with me.”

  “Wine, is it?” he grumbled, following her upstairs to the little salon.

  “Yes, wine! Wine to celebrate the fact that I’m in love! Oh, Robbie, I’m in love again! I never thought I would be able to love after I lost Khalid, but I love Geoffrey!”

  Lord have mercy, thought the sea captain as Skye, humming a tuneless ditty, poured out generous portions of ruby-red wine for the two of them. Robbie sat slumped in a chair, his gaze on the floor. How can I tell her what de Grenville told me while in his cups last night? he thought. How can I tell her that Southwood seeks to make her his mistress in order to satisfy a bet? Now the bastard’s gone and captured her heart. Damn! I’d rather be in the middle of a South Atlantic hurricane! He raised his eyes slowly.

  She raised her goblet high. “To my Lord Southwood! Long life!” she toasted.

  Robbie raised his goblet lifelessly. “Aye,” he answered tonelessly. Christ! She’s so happy! I haven’t seen her happy since Khalid died. Ah, hell! It’s too late for me to save her from him. Let her find out on her own. Let her be happy for now. He gulped down his wine and sat back against the velvet cushions.

  “I’ve news too,” he said. “We’re to see the Queen and Cecil the day after Candlemas. We’d best have that first voyage mapped out by then.”

  She was suddenly all business. “Have you decided where? And what?”

  “Jewels and spices. In case of shipwreck,” he crossed himself, “at least we can save half the cargo. We’ll go down and around the Horn into the Indian Ocean, across to the Spice Islands, for a cargo of pepper, clove, nutmeg, mace, and ginger. Then on to Burma for rubies, for the best rubies come down to Rangoon from Mogok in the central part of the country. In India we’ll take on cardamom, diamonds from the Golconda, and pearls. In Ceylon there’s cinnamon and sapphires to be had.”

  “Be sure,” said Skye, “to buy only the Kashmir blue sapphires. Khalid always believed their color was the best.”

  “I know. It’s going to be a long voyage, lass. I may not be back for a year or even two, depending on conditions.”

  She smiled at him affectionately. “You look forward to it, Robbie, don’t deny it. You’ve been landlocked for almost two years now and your feet itch to walk a deck. It’s all right, my dear, I understand, and it’s time for you to go. I am so grateful to you for your friendship, but I am myself again at last, and I must build my own life.”

  “I know, lass, but I don’t want you hurt, or taken advantage of by anyone. That damned trick memory of yours worries me. In many ways you’re still an innocent.”

  “I have Geoffrey now, Robbie.”

  “Rely only on yourself, Skye! Love Southwood if you must, but put your trust in no man!”

  “Robbie! How cynical you are!”

  “Not cynical. Truthful.”

  There was a scratching at the door, and Skye called out, “Enter.”

  A footman brought in a piece of paper on a small silver tray. Skye took the folded parchment and opened it. “Damn!” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “Geoffrey has been called away.” She turned to the footman. “How was this delivered?”

  “One of the Earl’s grooms, mistress.”

  “You may go.”

  The servant turned and left.

  “What does he say, Skye?”

  “Very little,” she said, frowning. “Just that there’s a problem in Devon.”

  “You could probably use a good night’s sleep,” remarked Robbie wryly, and she laughed at his irreverence.

  “Considering your reputation as a swordsman, this is surely a case of the pot calling the saucepan black,” she teased.

  He guffawed heartily.

  The days sped by. She heard nothing from Geoffrey. And then came the day of her appointment with Cecil and the Queen. She dressed elegantly but soberly. William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Her Majesty’s chief advisor, was not a man to be swayed by a show of bosom.
Her gown was dark-blue velvet, its severity relieved by a small white lace ruff at the neck. The sleeves were slashed and edged with gold, her white silk underblouse showing through the openings. She wore a gold chain interspersed at intervals with small flat plaques of carved white coral roses. Her shining hair was parted in the center and drawn into an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck.

  The river was frozen solid, so they went to Greenwich in Skye’s coach. Cecil awaited them in a book-lined room. He wasted no time but came directly to the point. “If we grant you a royal charter, what does Her Majesty gain?”

  “A quarter share in the cargo, an accurate map of the area—for we’re carrying two cartographers on each vessel—and of course we’re available to do any errands Her Majesty may require along our route,” replied Robert Small.

  “How many ships?”

  “Eight.”

  “That will be the number going. How many will you bring back?”

  “Six at the minimum.”

  “You overestimate, I think, Captain Small,” snapped Cecil.

  “No, my lord. I don’t. Barring a typhoon, I will actually return with all eight. But a serious storm could lose me one or two.”

  “What of pirates, or mutiny?”

  “My lord, every captain in my fleet has been with me for several years, as have all my ships’ crews. These men are used to working together under both good and bad conditions. They are a loyal and disciplined lot, unlike most crews. They’ll bring their ships through Hell if necessary, but they’ll bring them home to England.”

  Cecil smiled thinly. “Your confidence is commendable, sir. I shall look forward to being amazed.” He turned to Skye. “And where, madam, do you come into this?”

  “I finance it,” said Skye quietly.

  “You must have great confidence in Captain Small,” said Cecil drily.

  “I do, sir. He was my husband’s partner for some years, and never failed him once.”

  “And your husband was …?”

  “Don Diego Indio Goya del Fuentes, a Spanish merchant of Algiers.”