Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  The courtiers leaned avidly forward, fascinated, silently egging the combatants onward. The young Queen stood quietly, only the faint quivering of her long, elegant hands betraying her nervousness. She was frankly disgusted by the beauteous Lady Burke’s disgraceful behavior, but at the same time thrilled by the sight of two stalwart men brought to battle by that very behavior. If only men would fight over her like that, thought Elizabeth.

  Constanza Burke watched with a sense of growing desperation. What would Niall do to her? Probably kill her. God knew she deserved it. Why did she have this awful sickness? What drove her to these terrible acts of perversion? She wept softly.

  Skye, Countess of Lynmouth, watched the battle nervously. Thank God the Queen had ordered the protective tips. If Geoffrey had to fight he wouldn’t be injured. Why had he volunteered to second Lord Burke? She hadn’t been aware of any friendship between them. Still, he was their neighbor on the Strand. And she felt a deep pity for both the Irishman and his unfortunate wife. Khalid had told her about women like Constanza Burke, women who could not get enough loving. Skye knew that Lady Burke was not wicked, but sick. She suddenly felt tired. When this was over she would beg the Queen’s leave to go home for her lying-in.

  Niall Burke circled his opponent, parrying a vicious thrust. Leaping forward, he executed a quick riposte. His eye checked the protective tip on his sword. It was loose, and would soon be off. He pressed his attack hard, the anger burning coldly and deeply within him.

  Lionel Basingstoke, valiantly defending himself, knew he had made a terrible mistake in allowing his pride and his temper to overrule his sense. He had seen the loose tip on his opponent’s sword and he fully realized Lord Burke’s intent. He was going to die. And over a worthless tramp. Why had he not simply given her the beating she deserved and left her to pursue her lusts? His body grew wet with fear and anger.

  The two men battled back and forth until, older and heavier, Basingstoke began to tire. In a moment of rashness he again allowed his temper the upper hand and, yanking the protective tip from his sword, snarled at Niall, “All right, you damned Irish cuckold, let’s end this now!”

  Niall’s silver eyes narrowed speculatively, and then he grinned, savagely, wolfishly. The idiot Englishman had made the first move, and now he could kill him without any qualms. Flicking the tip off his own blade, he replied, “I hope you’ve a legitimate heir, you stinking English pig, for if you’ve not your line ends now!” And he lunged forward, slipping easily beneath his opponent’s guard to bury his blade in Basingstoke’s chest.

  A look of complete surprise crossed the Englishman’s face and then he fell forward. As he fell, his own blade flew upward, opening a small but very bloody flesh wound on the Irishman’s chest. It blossomed scarlet on Lord Burke’s white silk shirtfront.

  An unearthly shriek shattered the utter silence. The Court turned, expecting to see Constanza Burke’s hysteria. But it was the Countess of Lynmouth who stood rigid, her eyes staring inward at some nameless terror. She screamed once again, then cried, “I’ve killed him!” She wept piteously. “Oh, sweet Christ, I’ve killed him!” A spasm of pain crossed her face and suddenly her gaze returned to the scene before her. Clutching at her belly, she fainted, sliding slowly to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  In the uproar and confusion that followed, both Geoffrey Southwood and Niall Burke leaped forward to catch her, but the Earl was first to his wife’s side, shooting Burke a venomous look. Cradling Skye in his arms, he pushed past the babbling courtiers and carried her through the palace and down to the river bank where his barge was docked.

  “The Countess is going into labor,” he told his bargemen. “Row for home and row as you’ve never rowed before! A gold rose noble to each of you for getting us there safely.”

  The cool air revived Skye as they pulled away from the river bank. Her eyes opened. “Geoffrey?”

  “I am here, my darling. How do you feel?”

  “The baby’s coming.”

  “I know. You clutched at your belly and then you fainted. Damned provident, this duel. People will believe it brought on the premature birth of our son.” He glanced anxiously at her.

  “I remember, Geoffrey. I remember everything!” she breathed.

  He sighed. “I know, Skye,” he answered her quietly. “I saw the look on your face before you fainted. What brought it all back, my darling? Burke’s injury?”

  “Yes! The pirates shot at the jollyboat and wounded Niall. His shirt was so bloody I thought he’d been killed. When he was wounded again now it all came back to me. He is all right, isn’t he?” The Earl nodded. She fell silent, a pensive look on her face.

  “I love you, Skye.”

  The heart-shaped face tipped up, and the sapphire-blue eyes looked unwaveringly into his. “And I love you, Geoffrey, my darling. I do!”

  He held her close. Of course she loved him. She was in pain now, in labor with his child, a child conceived in a moment of love, conceived when Niall Burke had been wiped out of her memory. But when the child was birthed, and she had time to think clearly, would she love him then?

  Skye lay quietly in his arms, her mind whirling. O’Malley! She was Skye O’Malley! The O’Malley of Innisfana! She had two sons, Ewan and Murrough! Oh God! Who had looked after her boys all this time? Anne! Surely Anne would have looked after them, and Michael, and her half-brothers too. Lord! Who had cared for the O’Malley shipping interests? She would ask Geoffrey, for surely he knew. It seemed he knew her identity. And she would be interested in knowing how long he had known it!

  She felt the pain beginning deep within her, so deep that her toes tensed. She let it sweep upward. Breathing deeply into it took the edge off of it. Skye wasn’t even aware that she was clutching her husband tightly, but Geoffrey relished the fierce grip that almost rendered his elegant hand pulp.

  “My sons?” she said. “What has happened to my sons?”

  “They’re safe with your stepmother.”

  “And the family?”

  “Your uncle took care of them, and the O’Malley interests. He’s now Bishop of Connaught.”

  “How long have you known my identity?”

  “A few months. Lord Burke went to Robbie just after our wedding. At the bedding ceremony he noticed that very fetching little star on your breast. I was curious that, having been like a brother to you all your life, he would know of such a mark.”

  “I am curious too,” said Skye, and though he knew she lied, he loved her all the more for loving him enough to try and protect him. “I am more curious,” she continued, “that he was not suspicious of my identity prior to seeing my birthmark. Surely I have not changed so greatly.”

  “Señora Goya del Fuentes didn’t react to his hints. And though she looked like Skye O’Malley, her credentials were impeccable. He has since told me he thought you were one of your father’s by-blows.”

  Another wave of pain swept over Skye, but she giggled despite it, and Geoffrey was forced to laugh too. “It would have been just like Da to leave a bastard daughter in a convent in Algiers. How did he account for the name being the same?” The pain receded.

  “He couldn’t, and that almost drove him mad. There was simply no explanation.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I imagine it would have driven him mad. Niall was always an impatient man.”

  “He’s in love with you, Skye.”

  “I know, Geoffrey.”

  “And you?” He knew he shouldn’t ask her, not now, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Geoffrey, my dearest husband, I am yours and I want to be. When I have finished this business of birthing our son I shall tell you all about Niall Burke, and Skye O’Malley. And when I have finished my tale I shall still be yours because I choose to be.”

  It was what he wanted to hear, or was it? Still, he had to be content with it for now. They both fell silent, listening to the slap-slap of the oars against the water as their barge knifed through the river down to Lynmouth Hous
e. The pains were coming more frequently now, and with the knowledge that this was her fourth child, the Earl despaired of reaching home in time. Suddenly Skye groaned, and cried out sharply.

  “My love, what is it?” He felt so damned helpless.

  “The child is being born, Geoffrey! I can wait no longer. You must help me birth it!”

  “My God, Skye! In the barge?”

  She managed a chuckle. “Tell your son!”

  “What do I do?” He was sweating, but this was his child, and he’d manage.

  “First, draw the drapes and bring in the lantern,” suggested Skye, and when he had accomplished these two simple tasks she said, “Help push my gown up.” That done, she inched her silken undergarments off, and he stared at the swollen, blue-veined belly that would soon be emptied of their child. Suddenly a flood of water spewed forth from her body, wetting the seat cushions. She arched as another pain began to push the child from her body.

  “Geoffrey!” she gasped through gritted teeth. “I can feel the head. Look! Look!”

  Fearfully he forced his eyes downward. “My God!” he whispered, awestruck, as the child began to emerge from her body. “What do I do, Skye?”

  “Turn the child slowly as he comes forth, Geoffrey. Be very careful not to drop him for he’ll be slippery with the birthing blood. Ahhhh, Jesus! Mary!” Another pain racked her.

  Quickly he rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt, his bejeweled doublet having been left behind at Greenwich. Skye groaned again, and her convulsion pushed the child’s shoulders forth. Leaning forward, Geoffrey wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead with his handkerchief. “You are magnificent, madam, and I love you,” he said admiringly. Then he gently turned the child, and saw the baby’s tight little face, wiping the blood from it with the same handkerchief that had wiped its mother’s face. The baby’s eyes opened, looked dispassionately at its father, a disturbing, strangely familiar look, and then slipped forth fully born into the Earl’s waiting hands with a howl of pure outrage. One swift look told the Earl what he wanted to know. “A son!” he exulted. “You’ve given me a son, Skye!”

  “Of course I have,” she said weakly. “Did I not promise you one?”

  “The cord? We’ve nothing to cut it with.”

  “It’ll wait,” she said, and then fainted.

  The Earl’s bargemen, hearing the newly born infant’s cry, and his lordship’s shout, grinned at each other and put their backs into their work. Shortly afterward they reached their dock at Lynmouth House and, to their surprise, found Daisy, Dame Cecily, and the midwife waiting for them.

  “Lord Burke rode in with Daisy but a few minutes ago to tell us you were coming,” said Dame Cecily. “Is Skye all right? Is she in labor?”

  “The child is born!” exulted Geoffrey, when he heard their voices. “I have a son!”

  Entering the barge, the midwife finished the job by cutting the cord and wiping the newborn free of birthing blood. She wrapped him in a clean swaddling cloth, and handed him up to Daisy. Skye had regained consciousness, and she groaned as another, weaker pain cut through her.

  “You’ve not yet borne the afterbirth, my lady. Let me help you.” The midwife pressed down hard on Skye’s belly, and with one quick pain the afterbirth slipped out onto a linen towel spread by the efficient midwife. Quickly the woman cleansed her patient free of all evidence of her recent travail, then signaled to the litterbearers. The Earl carefully lifted his wife from the barge, and tenderly placed her on pillows in the litter. Skye held out her arms. “Give me my son.”

  Geoffrey took the baby from Daisy, and placed him in his mother’s arms. Alert, but quiet now, the child returned his mother’s scrutiny. His small round head was covered with soft, damp blond curls, his eyes were a deep sapphire blue, and his features were his father’s. Skye smiled happily. “Oh, Geoffrey, I have indeed given you a son! He’s you in miniature. I’ll wager his eyes turn green within the year.”

  Mother and child were escorted to the house and tucked carefully into bed. The midwife handed Skye a goblet of wine into which she’d mixed herbs. “This will help you sleep, madam, and will also help rebuild the blood you’ve lost.” Skye obediently drank it down and Geoffrey, sitting down next to the bed, took his wife’s hand. Her beautiful blue eyes were heavy with weariness, but the warmth of his strong grasp communicated to her all the love that he felt for her. She sighed, contented. Geoffrey Southwood smiled tenderly at her. “Go to sleep, my love,” he said, and when her eyelids finally closed he left her sleeping under the watchful eyes of Daisy, their slumbering son in his cradle by his mother’s bed.

  The Earl of Lynmouth walked next door to his own apartment. Wordlessly he stripped his bloodstained clothing off and climbed into the steaming tub his body servant had prepared. He scrubbed himself down and then, climbing out, dried himself off. His valet then wrapped him in a long, warm gown and, murmuring congratulations, left his master alone.

  Geoffrey Southwood poured himself a goblet of pale golden wine and sat before the blazing fire. The child was safely born. He had a healthy, lusty son, an heir. But did he still have a loving wife? She had refused to discuss Niall Burke with him, which led Geoffrey to believe that she had once loved him. Now that her memory had returned, would she love Burke again? “When I am finished with this business of birthing our son I will tell you of Niall Burke,” she had said. “I am yours because I choose to be,” she had also said. Damn her proud and independent Irish spirit! Then he chuckled ruefully. It was this very independence that made her different from other women, that made her Skye.

  Draining his goblet, Geoffrey climbed into his chilly, empty bed, then lay tossing restlessly. He dozed, then awoke with a start. This was the first night since their marriage that he’d been without her, for even in these last weeks of her pregnancy he’d slept with her, in her bedchamber, snoring contentedly against her warmth. I must be getting old, he thought with a touch of humor. These sheets were cold and musty with lack of use, and there were lumps in his fine mattress.

  “God’s blood!” he said, suddenly leaping up. “I will not sleep here a minute longer!” And padding barefoot across the cold floor to the door that connected his room with hers, he stomped in. Poor Daisy was horrified, having never seen her master in his nightshirt.

  Skye, sitting propped up with pillows behind her, the child at her breast, bit her lip with suppressed mirth. “My lord, have you come to see our wee Robin?” The baby made a murmur of distinct annoyance as his mother’s voice disturbed his concentration.

  “I’m cold,” announced the Earl pettishly.

  Skye’s eyes twinkled. “I have never seen the sense,” she said, “in a man sleeping apart from his wife simply because she has just borne a child.” With her free hand she flung the bedcovers back in invitation. “Climb in, Geoffrey. I am cold too without you.”

  Scandalized, Daisy pursed her lips together, but the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth simply giggled like two naughty children, and snuggled close. Then Geoffrey turned his attention to the tiny golden-haired infant who rooted noisily at his mother’s breast, his tiny fingers kneading her.

  “He’s working hard enough at it,” observed the Earl.

  “My milk won’t be in for a day or two. All he’s getting now is a watery liquid,” said Skye.

  “Is that natural?” He was instantly concerned. “Should we have a wet nurse for him?”

  She laughed. “With all the children you had, you should know more, my love. My present condition is quite natural. I shall get a wet nurse for Robin in about a month, but during the time it takes me to recover from this birth I shall have the pleasure of giving my child suck.”

  “So you already decided upon his name, have you? All by yourself?”

  “I have,” she replied, unconcerned. “He is Robert Geoffrey James Henry Southwood. Robert for my dearest Robbie, Geoffrey for you, James for my uncle Seamus, and Henry in honor of both the late king, and Robin’s dead half-brother. His godparents
will be the Queen and Lord Dudley. He will be vain enough to believe I have named the child for him in order to please the Queen. He should therefore prove an excellent godfather to Robin in an effort to impress the Queen.”

  Geoffrey Southwood chuckled admiringly. “By God you’re a wickedly clever minx, my dear. The Queen and Lord Dudley! I don’t believe anyone has yet given them a godchild, not both of them together. What a stroke of genius! I most assuredly approve.” Warmed by her ripe body, he was beginning to feel expansive.

  Noting it, Skye smiled. “Daisy, put Robin back to bed. Then you may watch over him the rest of the night please.”

  “Aye, madam.” Daisy took the child. Her flush went unnoticed as her mistress drew the bed draperies, thus making a private little world for herself and the Earl.

  Geoffrey Southwood’s eyes were bright with love and admiration. “I was so damned lonely for you,” he said.

  “And I for you. If you’d not come into my bed I should have called for you.”

  “Would you?” He was as pleased as a child, his green eyes lighting up.

  “Aye, I would. Now go to sleep, my darling. ’Twas a brave thing you did delivering Robin. Thank you, my love.” She nestled next to him and, sighing happily, he put a protective arm about her. Within a few minutes he was sleeping soundly, his slow regular breathing a comforting sound.

  Now it was Skye who lay awake. How strange it was that this elegant, assured man to whom she was married could suffer such terrible pangs of insecurity. How hard it must have been for him these last few weeks—knowing the truth of her identity, unable to tell her yet fearful she would learn of it. Fearful because of Niall Burke.

  For the first time since her memory had returned those few short, yet somehow long hours ago, she thought of him. There were touches of silver at his temples that had not been there four years ago. In the morning Geoffrey would want to know about Niall and what was she to tell him? Should she lie? She knew Niall still loved her. Now she understood those searching looks he had given her, the intense questioning. If she chose to lie she knew she could ask Niall for his help. He’d not like it, but he’d help if she asked him to.