Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  The tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her face. “Damn you, Southwood, I don’t deserve you! Hell, yes! I’ll forgive the bastard, for he’s to be pitied. I came to terms with the portion fate allotted me, but Niall did not, and hated me while railing at fate. As if I were responsible for what happened to us! And yes, I hated him for inflicting such hurt on me. He made me feel guilty for being happy with you when he had such misery with Constanza. Understand one thing though, I have never made love with you in order to wipe out memories of Niall Burke!”

  She looked adorably indignant, and he chuckled, “I am relieved to hear that, madam.” He reached out and slowly fondled an impudent little breast, a lazy smile turning up the corners of his mouth and lighting his eyes. An elegant finger teased a pink nipple to rapt attention, then trailed leisurely between her breasts and downward to the place between her legs. The heel of his palm pressed firmly, then rubbed. Her breathing was more pronounced now, and her eyes glittered through half-lowered lids. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you were perfectly fashioned for loving,” and his head dipped down to taste the soft flesh of her breasts. As often as he had done this, it still wrung a passionate cry from her throat that set his heart to beating wildly. He moaned.

  His hands moved downward, imprisoning her slender waist for a moment, then slid lower to cup her buttocks. His own long body moved over hers, and Skye reached out to cup and fondle his manroot. Her soft hands played with him skillfully, teasingly rubbing the wet opening of the sensitive organ. “You could rouse a marble statue, witch!”

  “Love me, Geoffrey,” she whispered urgently, and spread her legs to receive him.

  Slowly, with sweetly practiced skill, he entered her while watching her beautiful eyes mirror what she felt. He drew back and her eyes cried distress. He plunged deep and the pleasure that leaped into that blue gaze added to his own joy. When she finally begged him for sweet release, and her dark feathery lashes lay quivering against her pale cheeks, he felt her spasms break one after another like breakers crashing on the beach. Assured of her happiness, Geoffrey Southwood found his own heaven, reveling in the lovely body that moved so skillfully beneath his, reveling in the sharp nails that dug into his back, in her cry of surrender as his aching manhood burst and flooded her with his burning tribute. She was his, his alone.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE EARL AND COUNTESS OF LYNMOUTH LEFT DEVON BRIEFLY after the New Year in order to host the Earl’s famous Twelfth Night gala in London. Invitations were at a premium again this year, and London’s best dressmakers and tailors were overbooked, overworked and overwrought in everyone’s mad scramble for the perfect costume. The Countess of Lynmouth’s well-filled purse assured her prior knowledge of all of her guests’ themes. In order that she not offend any by a similar garb, a discreet bribe here and there had been necessary.

  To her amusement, several of the women were copying her idea of the year before, when she had come gowned in black velvet as “Night.” Some of them had been clever enough to reverse that role, so there would be at least half a dozen “Days” and four “Afternoons” as well. There were to be the requisite number of “Springs,” “Summers,” “Winters,” and “Autumns.” The Queen was coming garbed as “The Sun,” which was the worst-kept secret in all of London. The three ladies who had had the same idea had been taken by fits of hysteria when they had to change their gowns. “The Moon” and “Harvest” were also popular themes, but no one except Skye had thought of coming as a jewel. She was to be costumed as “Ruby.” As Daisy and her mother had made the dress in Devon, this was the best-kept secret in all of London. Geoffrey would be dressed as “Emerald” in dark green.

  The night of the masque Skye stood before her pier glass more than pleased with what she saw. The deep-red gown was magnificent but not gaudy. The underskirt was silk sewn all over in a swirling ornate design with tiny rubies and gold thread that glittered with every movement of light. The overskirt was heavy velvet, the slashings in the velvet sleeves showing the matching silk of the underskirt and repeating the design of tiny rubies. The neckline was daringly low, causing the Earl to comment, “I do not know if I approve of your generosity in showing to the Court the sweet treasures that are mine alone to enjoy.” Skye had laughed and replied, “But think of the envy it will cause, my lord.” He had laughed, “What a naughty vixen you are,” and suddenly placed about her neck a beautiful necklace of large rubies. “My Twelfth Night’s gift to you, sweetheart.” As she gasped, he bent and fastened matching drop earrings into her ears.

  “Oh, Geoffrey!” Her hand touched the necklace reverently. “They are extraordinary.” Turning, she kissed him sweetly. The heady perfume of her body assailed him, and he felt a stab of desire.

  “For mercy’s sake, my love, thank me later! At this moment I am seriously considering the disarrangement of both your gown and your hair.”

  She giggled happily, flushed with pleasure and excitement. “Oh, I love you!”

  He forced his passion away and muttered, “I’d truly rather be home with you in Devon than here now, preparing to allow half of London to eat and drink me out of house and home as well as ogle my wife’s breasts.”

  Skye laughed, delighted, then sat and allowed Daisy to put the finishing touches to her hair. The ladies of the English Court were currently frizzing their hair, but Skye would have none of that. Her own glorious tresses had been coaxed into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The chignon was decorated with red silk flowers. Her hair was parted in the center and two small curls, lately named lovelocks, dangled on either side of her face.

  Skye stood up, satisfied, and pirouetted before her husband. “Well, milord?”

  “There is nothing I can say that you don’t already know, my pet.” She smiled. He asked, “What of me, madam? Am I not worthy of notice?”

  Mischievously she eyed him as boldly as any gallant would eye a lady of his fancy, and the Earl’s mouth twitched with amusement at her mimickry. She circled him slowly, looking him up and down critically, and then said, “You’ve got the best-turned leg of any man at Court, my lord, and the emerald-green velvet compliments those superb eyes of yours. The ladies will be hard put tonight to remember you’re mine—but they had better!”

  He bowed elegantly, acknowledging the compliment. Laughing, arm in arm, they descended the stairs to the great ballroom of Lynmouth House.

  The first carriages were beginning to arrive, and Skye and Geoffrey stood regally at the top of the main staircase greeting their guests. The ballroom filled quickly. Even the Queen arrived early, escorted by the handsome Lord Dudley, among others.

  “We intend staying late, my dear Skye,” announced Elizabeth. “You and Southwood give the best party of the year!”

  “It was to avoid disappointing Your Majesty that we returned to London—temporarily,” said Geoffrey. “Skye is not quite over your godson’s birth.”

  “This ’twill not tax you too badly, my dear?” questioned Elizabeth anxiously.

  “No, madam. The sight alone of your dear face strengthens me,” replied Skye.

  The Queen’s eyes twinkled. “What a perfect courtier you are, my dear Skye. Certainly a fit mate for Southwood!”

  The Earl bowed at the compliment and offered his hand to Elizabeth as the first dance began. Lord Dudley partnered Skye. She did not really like the Queen’s favorite, a fact of which he was quite well aware. Unfortunately, her very aloofness excited Robert Dudley. He was a man who loved danger, and the thought of seducing this beautiful woman beneath the very noses of both Elizabeth and the lady’s husband was deliciously tempting.

  Robert Dudley’s view of himself was such that it simply didn’t occur to him that he, the most popular man at Court, could be sincerely rebuffed. He blandly assumed that Skye was being coy, though there was nothing of the coy maiden in Skye’s personality. If he had known her well, Dudley would have realized this. As he partnered her his eyes feasted on the pearly luminescence of her skin, then plunged deep into he
r décolletage. What sweet round little apples she hid beneath her bodice. The perusal was all done quickly, for though Elizabeth had thus far denied him total possession of her royal body, she was a very jealous woman.

  Skye ignored the greedy eyes that made her feel almost unclean. What she was unable to ignore were Dudley’s outright suggestive comments. “Why do you dislike me, my beauty? You would be wise to cultivate my favor.”

  “I do not dislike you, my lord,” said Skye, looking at him evenly. But Dudley’s smirk of triumph faded when she continued, “But neither do I like you.”

  “Then why the hell did you make me your son’s godfather?”

  “You were my husband’s choice,” lied Skye. She was thinking, though I may antagonize you, my lord Boorishness, you’ll not take it out on my Geoffrey. “You see, my lord Dudley, I always obey my husband as a good wife should,” she finished demurely.

  “God, how your very virtue inflames me,” muttered Dudley.

  “I do not seek to inflame you, sir.”

  “But nevertheless you do, madam.” He shot a quick glance toward Elizabeth, but she was well occupied. Catching Skye off guard, he led her from the dance figure and guided her into a private alcove within the ballroom. Before she had recovered her shock, Robert Dudley’s arms wrapped quickly about her. Skye was outraged, and she struggled fiercely against him. “Sir! Loose me at once, my lord!” she demanded.

  His low laughter was almost a growl. “No, my pretty Skye, I shall not. Enough of this coyness now, madam. I long to taste your ripe lips, and,” he lowered his head to kiss the tops of her heaving breasts, “these far sweeter fruits.”

  She tried to free her arms. Revolted, she pulled away from him, but he tightened an arm about her while his other hand grasped and held her head in a firm grip. Desperately she tried to turn away from the lips descending on hers, but she couldn’t, and Dudley’s mouth ravaged hers wetly, trying to force passion where there was none. She dared not scream, for the enamored Queen would believe her the aggressor. Robert Dudley, of course, knew this. His tongue pushed past her teeth, thrusting deeply with obvious meaning. Confident, his hands were boldly lifting her skirts now, and knowing she had but one chance before he coolly raped her, she swiftly lifted her knee to find his vulnerable groin. She was rewarded by instant release, and a look of acute pain on Lord Dudley’s surprised face.

  Without a word Skye fled the alcove, her cheeks burning. She was fortunate that Dudley’s chosen rendezvous place had been secluded. Neither their entrance nor her embarrassed flight was observed. Snatching a goblet of iced wine from a passing footman, she forced herself to sip slowly while the beating of her heart dropped back to normal. She stopped before a mirror, set her wine down, and smoothed her hair and her gown with shaking hands.

  The filthy, arrogant bastard! How dare Dudley attack her? She had done everything to discourage him, but he could not be put off. She couldn’t appeal to the Queen, for Elizabeth was in love with him and would brook no criticism of her precious Robin. I don’t ever want to return to Court, Skye thought desperately. We can probably beg off in the spring, and perhaps by next autumn we shall have been replaced in the Queen’s affections by others. Then we can remain in Devon and raise our children in peace. She grew calmer with thoughts of Devon and, picking up her wine, discreetly joined her guests.

  In the alcove she had so hastily vacated, Robert, Lord Dudley, was still doubled over, retching. Waves of pain continued to wash over him for a few minutes, but gradually he began to feel better. The little bitch, he thought, half-angry, half-intrigued. He rubbed his injured member ruefully, still unable to quite believe she had refused him. Women simply did not refuse Robert. She would regret this. One day he would have her. And, he vowed, she would beg him for his favors. Straightening his garments, he left the alcove.

  Skye managed to avoid Dudley the rest of the evening, but Geoffrey, ever sensitive to her moods, saw that something was wrong. Discreetly he led her aside. “What is it, my love.”

  “Dudley just tried to rape me,” she said angrily.

  “What?”

  “Lower your voice, Geoffrey!” She placed a warning hand on his arm to restrain him. “He has pressed his unwanted attentions on me before, but you know as well as I do that the Queen would not believe it if I told her. He counts on that.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “No. I jammed my knee into his groin. I’ll be surprised if he can dance again this evening.”

  Geoffrey winced automatically, but could find in his heart no sympathy for Dudley. “How would you like to leave for Devon immediately after the masque, my darling?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes!” Her face lit with joy.

  “We’ll pause just long enough to change into something warm and easy. We’ll be off with the dawn. I know of a marvelous inn along the road where we may spend tomorrow night.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Like the Ducks and Drake?”

  “Better!” He smiled down at her. “Would you mind if we continued to stay down in Devon, forsaking the Court and London?”

  “No! It would please me greatly to remain in Devon. I am afraid I am a country mouse at heart, my lord. I hope the news does not disappoint you.”

  He enfolded her in a warm and loving embrace. “I find, my darling wife, that I have no wish to share you with anybody—except perhaps our children.”

  “Only perhaps?” she teased.

  “Skye, if the shocking truth be known, I don’t wish to share you with anyone, including the children! Now, let us go back to our guests before we’re missed.”

  At the midnight supper de Grenville and the recently wed Lettice Knollys found the tiny crowns in their pieces of Twelfth Night cake and were crowned Lord of Misrule and his queen. For the rest of the evening de Grenville kept the party lively ordering naughty forfeits from the guests. Even poor Lettice could not escape her consort of the evening. Dickon ordered her first to be blindfolded, and then to kiss the six gentlemen whom he chose.

  “One of them is your husband, Walter, my dear, and you must tell us which.”

  Poor Lettice was in a terrible quandary, for Walter was not the most inspired of lovers. Blindfolded, her ears became sharper and she could hear amid the giggles a great deal of scuffling. Pursing her pretty cherry lips, she received her six kisses—one a peck, two hearty busses, two that were wet and sloppy, and one very passionate kiss that sent a hot thrill racing through her.

  “Well, Lettice?” demanded de Grenville of the blindfolded woman.

  Lettice pretended to consider the dilemma. She was quite sure that none of them had been Walter, but she was desirous of knowing the identity of the man whose kiss had thrilled her so. “The last gentleman was Walter,” she announced firmly. “I am quite sure.”

  A great burst of raucous laughter greeted this statement, and when the blindfold was snatched off Lettice found herself facing Lord Dudley. “Ohhhh,” she cried, blushing in pretty confusion, “but I was so very sure! He kisses me just the way Walter does.”

  “None of them was Walter, my dear,” chortled de Grenville.

  “Really, Dickon!” Lettice stamped her foot in apparent outrage, and there was more good-natured laughter. Robert Dudley smiled to himself as he put an arm about the Queen. Lettice Knollys was an outright minx. When he’d kissed her she’d thrust her sharp little tongue into his mouth with a delightfully practiced skill. He eyed her from beneath carefully lowered eyelids, and saw to his amazement that she was eying him, just as intently and just as discreetly. Well, well, thought Dudley, a possible playmate on those nights when Bess drives me to distraction and then sends me on my way unfulfilled.

  The evening progressed, growing merrier and merrier. Finally the Queen and her intimates departed and were followed shortly thereafter by the other exhausted, exhilarated, and drunken guests. The last of them waved out the door, the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth joined hands and ran up the staircase to their apartments where their body servants awaited th
em.

  “I’ve your night things all ready, m’lady,” smiled Daisy.

  “No,” said Skye, “my lord and I are but stopping to change. We are off for Devon! Have the girls pack my nightgown and toilet articles now, and get me the deep-blue wool traveling dress and the matching velvet cloak with the sable lining and trim.”

  “But m’lady,” protested Daisy, “we’ve not packed to leave.”

  “You and the others may leave tomorrow or the day after. My lord and I prefer to travel quickly.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  In his bedchamber Geoffrey was issuing similar orders. “The large traveling coach,” he instructed his majordomo. “My lady will want to nap along the way. Send a rider ahead to the Queen’s Head Inn to say that we will be stopping there in late afternoon. I will want their best bedroom, a private dining room, and accommodations for the coach and the staff.”

  “At once, m’lord!”

  Within the hour a great traveling coach, the crest of the Southwood family emblazoned upon its side, lumbered down the Strand. A coachman and a footman sat upon the box. A groom rode behind the coach leading two horses. He was followed by six men at arms. This coach would not fall prey to highway thieves. Another six preceded the vehicle. It was four o’clock on a cold January morning, and sharp little blue stars dotted the clear dark skies above them.

  Inside the coach the two occupants sat snuggled beneath an elegant red fox rug, hot bricks wrapped in flannel at their feet. Geoffrey Southwood’s arm was about his wife. His other hand fondled her breasts, his mouth lazily explored her lips, her throat, his teeth nibbled on her little earlobe. “Do you remember what we were doing just a year ago tonight,” he murmured.

  She giggled happily. “Something very similar, if memory serves, my darling. But not in a jouncing coach.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever made love in a coach,” he observed thoughtfully.

  “Geoffrey!” Her voice was husky with shock.

  He chuckled. “I cannot help it, pet, you’re the most damnably tempting piece, and I want to bury myself deep in you.”