“Splendid!” was the enthusiastic reply.
“Robbie!” Skye stood at the top of the staircase’s second landing. Her long black hair was tousled from sleep, her feet bare, her pale-blue quilted silk dressing gown open at the neck. With a glad cry she flew down the stairs and into his arms. “Oh, Robbie! You are home safe!”
He hugged her lovingly. She was the daughter he might have had, had he ever taken the time to marry. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, asking as he did so, “Is Niall with you, lass?”
Jean Morlaix stiffened, and Skye’s smile faded. “Niall is dead, Robbie. He was murdered this past February by his first wife, the nun. That bitch, Claire O’Flaherty, insinuated herself into St. Mary’s Convent, attached herself to poor, mad Darragh like a bloodsucking leech, and then tortured her with the idea that Niall was coming to reclaim her. Claire terrorized Darragh to the point that she was amenable even to murder to save herself. Darragh told the Mother Superior of her convent that she stabbed Niall several times, and there was a great deal of blood. Then she and Claire dragged his body to the beach, and the last thing Darragh remembers of the event is the waves lapping at Niall’s body. When the Mother Superior and the other nuns hurried to the beach they found the tide fully in, and Niall’s body gone.”
“Christ’s body!” Robbie swore softly, and then his arms went back around her. For a moment she wept softly, moving her head into his shoulder for refuge, and his weathered, square hand stroked her dark hair comfortingly. “Ah, lass, ah lass, Robbie is here now, and I’ll make it all right! See if I don’t, Skye lass.”
“The MacWilliam is gone also, Robbie,” she said, regaining some control. “I kept his death a secret, and came to England to gain the Queen’s protection for my infant son, Padraic. She will confirm his title and his lands, but only for a price. I am to become the wife of the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. I must leave England by mid-May.”
“The Devil you say!” he cried. “This is some plot of William Cecil’s, I vow. What of your children? Has that old spider thought of your children? Aye! I’ll wager he has! He’s thought what fine hostages they’ll make. Would he separate a mother from her babies? Aye, he would to serve the Queen!”
“Beaumont de Jaspre is at the moment of vital interest to England, Robbie, and the duc requested that the Queen send him a wife. I am the bride they have chosen. I must go,” Skye sobbed.
“It’s indecent!” Robbie raged. “You’ve not even had the proper time to mourn Niall decently. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit! What is this duc fellow like, tell me? Does the Queen know the sort of man she’s sending you to wed with? She’s as quick to send you off to marry as she is to sidestep the issue of marriage herself.”
“I met the duc’s nephew only last night at Whitehall, Robbie.” She slipped from his protective embrace and took him by the hand. “Come upstairs with me, and we will have something to eat. I have not eaten yet, and I’m ravenous.”
He followed along next to her. “Aye, I’m famished myself. I came directly from the Pool, I was so anxious to see you. The captain of the Royal Harry sent a small sailing vessel out of Plymouth to intercept my Mermaid, to tell me to dock here in London, as you were at Greenwood. Aye, I could eat something.”
“Beef,” she tempted him. “A nice haunch of juicy rare beef?”
Robert Small’s kindly blue eyes grew soft with longing. “Do you know how long it’s been since I tasted beef?” he said.
“Aye, Robbie, I know. Salted meat and hardtack filled with weevils no matter how carefully it’s stored is what you’ve had to eat these last months.”
They had reached her apartments, and Daisy came forward smiling as they entered. “Welcome home, Captain Small,” she said.
Sliding an arm about her waist Robbie gave the girl a smack on her rosy cheek. “Daisy, my girl, you’re as pretty as ever!”
Daisy giggled. “Thank you, sir,” she said, dodging his hand that made to swat at her bottom. “Sir!”
Robbie chuckled. “I’ve missed that too, Skye lass,” he said.
Skye laughed, not in the least shocked, for Robbie had a prodigious appetite where women were concerned. It was probably the reason he had never married. No one woman could satisfy him for long. Which was just as well, for big or little; fair or dark, blondes, brunettes, and redheads; Robbie adored them all.
“Captain Small and I would like some breakfast, Daisy. And see that cook roasts a bit of beef for the captain.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Daisy curtseyed and hurried from the room.
“Come sit by the fire, Robbie,” Skye invited, seating herself in a tapestried wing chair. “The mornings still have a chill to them.”
“What is the duc’s nephew like?” he demanded, not losing sight of the subject as he settled himself in the matching chair opposite her. In the fireplace a good oak blaze crackled warmly, taking the dampness from the riverview room.
“Edmond de Beaumont is a dwarf,” she said.
“Is the duc?”
“Nay. Edmond says his uncle is at least a couple of inches taller than I am. You will like Edmond, Robbie, when you meet him at dinner this evening. He is an amusing, intelligent man.”
“You like him.” It was a statement.
“Aye, I like him. He is as outraged as you were that I am forced to leave my babies behind. He offered to speak to the Queen for me.”
“You forbade him, I trust?”
“Of course,” Skye replied. “He says that his uncle is a serious and bookish man.”
“The duc has no children?” Robbie asked.
“One, a boy of five, but the child is a half-wit, and the duc has made Edmond his heir until he has a son of his own.”
“So you’re being sent to play the brood mare to this duc’s stallion in hopes that you’ll give him children. I don’t like it!”
“Actually, I don’t think the Queen cares one way or another whether I give the duc children. She is more interested in the bits and pieces of information I may pick up from France, Spain, and the Papal States to send back to her. I am to be Elizabeth Tudor’s ears.”
He nodded. “I see now why they are sending you. A young girl would be apt to fall in love with her husband, and become totally engrossed in having and raising a family. No use at all to the Queen and Cecil. You, however, are more mature, and you’ll keep your mind on the Queen’s business.”
“Aye, Robbie,” she teased him. “I am to shortly celebrate my twenty-ninth birthday. I am most mature.”
He smiled at her, then sobered. “You know what I mean,” he said. “You have experienced great love in your life, not just once, but three times. You are barely widowed, and not apt to fall in love easily again. Your duke doesn’t sound like the sort of man who will go out of his way to capture your heart. He marries to beget children. You will therefore have the time to serve the Queen, which is exactly what Elizabeth Tudor and William Cecil have in mind. I don’t like it, Skye. It could be very dangerous, my lass.”
“I have no intention of going out of my way for the Queen, Robbie. This marriage is not to my liking. Once again the Queen has betrayed my loyalty and my friendship. I am cornered like an animal, as she knew I would be when she approved Lord Burghley’s plan. But I had no choice but go to her for aid. I am a woman alone. I chose the strongest ally, even if I can’t trust her entirely.”
Robert Small nodded. Skye had done the best she could in a very difficult situation. He knew that no one, not even a man, could have done better. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
“What?” Her blue eyes were wide with surprise.
“I’m coming with you,” he repeated. “Listen to me, lass. I will make Beaumont de Jaspre my home port on the Mediterranean, for the time being, the way I did in Algiers. There is plenty of trading to be done along the North African coast, in Spain, why, in Istanbul itself! I don’t want you cut off from everyone you love; at least not until I know what kind of man this is, and if you’ll be happy.”
“Robbie, I thank you,” Skye said, and her eyes were damp. “I was so afraid, and until now I did not even dare admit it to myself.”
“Ye’re only human,” he muttered gruffly, and she hid a smile.
“I saw Adam de Marisco before I came to London,” Skye said.
He noted the brief, sad look that filled her eyes for a moment. “Have you told him of your impending marriage?”
“No.”
“Tell him. He may want to see you before you leave England. Be fair, Skye.”
“I can’t hurt him anymore, Robbie. We cannot see each other that we don’t end up in bed. I love him as a friend, and I would be happy to be his wife; but Adam says no. He says it isn’t enough for me even if I don’t know it. He also told me that he will not be my lover.”
“You’ll break his heart, Skye, if you don’t tell him. Let him make the choice of coming up to London or not; but at least tell him. You can’t go off to some Mediterranean duchy for God knows how long without telling him!”
“Very well. I will write him this morning, and send one of the grooms to Lynmouth. They’ll see it gets to him from there.”
The door to Skye’s dayroom opened, and Daisy entered followed by several maidservants laden down with trays of food and pitchers of drink, which were placed on an oaken sideboard. “Set that round table between the chairs,” Daisy directed, and when it was done, she spread a fine linen cloth on it herself. Next came the plates, highly polished pewter rounds and matching goblets as well as heavy linen napkins. From a long narrow black leather case Daisy took two twin-pronged gold forks, the newest invention from Florence, and placed one by each plate.
“I’ve used these before,” Robbie noted. “You spear the food with them.”
“Aye,” Skye answered him. “They’re very handy, and help to keep the fingers clean.”
“Wine or ale, captain?” Daisy demanded.
“Nut-brown ale?” he asked, and his eyes sparkled.
“Yes, sir!”
“I’ve not had ale in months, Daisy lass. Pour away!”
Daisy poured the ale into the pewter goblet from a frosty, blue earthenware pitcher, then went to the sideboard for a platter that held a thick slab of rare beef, swimming in its own juices. Taking his fork, she lifted the beef from the platter onto his own plate, then replaced the fork on his plate and handed him a knife. “Cook says you’re to eat every morsel of that beef, Captain.”
With a quick glance of apology at Skye, Robbie crossed himself in blessing and fell upon the beef, cutting a wedge, popping it in his mouth, chewing it down, a beatific smile lighting his rugged features as he did so.
In the middle of the table Daisy placed stone crocks of sweet butter and honey, and a small cutting board with a fresh, steaming loaf of bread. Next came a bowl of Valencia oranges from Spain. Daisy served her mistress from a small serving dish, spooning onto Skye’s plate a fluffy mixture of eggs and tiny bits of ham and green onion.
“Wine, m’lady?”
“The white, please,” said Skye, crossing herself. Then she took up a forkful of the eggs.
Their mistress and her guest fed, the servants withdrew. Skye and Robbie ate in silence for the next few minutes. Then as Robbie mopped a piece of bread about his plate, sopping up the beef juices, she said, “Edmond gave me a miniature of the duc. Would you like to see it?”
“Aye,” came the reply. “Is he plain or fair?”
“If he smiled perhaps he would be fair. He is certainly not plain.” She rose from the table and moved into her bedchamber. Returning, she handed him a small oval edged in gold studded with pearls. Robert Small took the miniature from her and stared down at it. The man pictured was clean-shaven; his skin bronzed by his climate. He had a high forehead and a square jaw. His nose was long and aquiline, the nostrils flaring slightly. His mouth was large, the lips thin. His black eyes were almond-shaped and tipped up just the tiniest bit at the corners. His black hair was cut short, and was curly. He looked at the viewer directly, his face impersonal and cold.
Robert Small did not like what he saw. There was a hint of cruelty in the man’s mouth; a touch of overbearing pride in the way he held his head. He would not be an easy man. He did not look to be a man whose heart could be softened by a sweet smile or a gentle hand; and he was certainly not the type of man to be given a beautiful wife. More than likely he would be insanely jealous of any other man who looked upon his bride. Damn Elizabeth Tudor, Robbie thought. She was undoubtedly one of the finest rulers England had ever had for all she was a woman; but she had no heart. That was her greatest failing. She used people, playing with them as a child plays with her toys, moving her subjects this way and that way to suit her own convenience, without thought for their happiness or well-being. It saddened him doubly; once for the Queen herself, for she was basically a good woman, and secondly for Skye, whom he loved with all his heart. She was like his own daughter for all she had been born an O’Malley, and he didn’t want to see her hurt.
“Well?” She looked directly at him, and he quickly masked his thoughts.
“You’re right,” he said. “The duc would be fair if he smiled. As it is, he looks stern, but then perhaps he was nervous posing for his bride. You’ll undoubtedly bring a smile to his lips when he meets you.”
“There’s something about his eyes that frightens me,” she said quietly.
“Nonsense,” Robbie replied with bluff reassurance. “Don’t form any opinions, lass, until you’ve met the gentleman.”
“It makes no difference,” she said. “I must wed him, like him or no.”
Before they might continue their conversation the door to Skye’s apartments opened, and the young Earl of Lynmouth ran into the room. “Mama!” He flung himself into her arms.
“Robin! Oh, my dearest Robin!” Then she began to cry.
“Mama!” Robin Southwood’s voice held an amused note that reminded Skye of his late father, Geoffrey, and she wept all the more. “God’s bones, Uncle Robbie!” said the boy. “I think I had best leave.”
“Don’t you dare!” Skye wiped her eyes on her handkerchief, hastily retrieved from her dressing-gown pocket. “It is just that I am so very glad to see you, Robin, and you look and sound more like your father each day.” She held him at arm’s length. “You have grown taller. Are you happy at court, Robin? I was so proud of you last night. But you are so young to be a page. Are you sure that you wouldn’t rather live at Lynmouth, my love? Or perhaps you will come with me to Beaumont de Jaspre.”
“Beaumont de Jaspre? Where is that, Mama? Why on earth are you going to a place called Beaumont de Jaspre?” Robin had been out of the room when the Queen had briefly announced Skye’s betrothal the previous evening. He had been sent to fetch Her Majesty’s pomander.
“I can see that the court gossip has not caught up with you, Robin. The Queen is sending me to Beaumont de Jaspre, which is a small duchy between Provence and the Languedoc. I am to be bride to its duc.”
“That is outrageous!” The boy’s small face was a mask of stunned anger. “My stepfather is barely cold in his grave, and she asks you to marry with another? Surely you have misunderstood her, Mama. The Queen would not do such a thing to you. She wouldn’t!”
Skye could not destroy his faith in Elizabeth Tudor. He was an Englishman, and not just any Englishman. Despite his youth, he was one of England’s premier noblemen. But his title and all his wealth would amount to nothing if he did not give his complete loyalty to the Crown, and Skye understood that. “Robin,” she said quietly as she drew him toward her, “the Queen needs my help very badly. She must have a safe haven for English ships in the Mediterranean, and Beaumont de Jaspre will provide that haven. She must have a listening post into France and Spain, and again Beaumont de Jaspre will provide her with it. All the duc requires of England in return is a wife. It is the Queen’s decision that I be that wife, and I am proud that she trusts me to aid her, even though I am Irish,” Skye said wryly. “Niall would be pro
ud of me, as would your father, and Willow’s, too.”
“I had not thought about it that way, Mama,” he said, but his lime-green eyes filled with tears, and his small lower lip trembled. “Will I ever see you again, Mama?”
“Oh, Robin!” She hugged him quickly. “I have only to get settled, and then you will come to me. You, and Willow, and Deirdre, and your new baby brother, Padraic. Even Murrough and Ewan, if they want to come also!”
“When do you go, Mama?” His little voice quavered slightly.
“Within the month, Robin.” She kissed him soundly, once on each cheek. “Come now, my little love, I’ve been in Ireland since last autumn, and you didn’t miss me at all, I vow! You are having far too much fun with the court, my lord of Lynmouth!”
A small smile touched his lips, and he looked up at her with a look so like his father’s that Skye’s heart almost broke with the rush of memories. “Perhaps, madam,” he allowed, and she laughed.
“You are a villain,” she teased him, “and you grow more like Geoffrey every day.”
“Robin Southwood!” Willow stood in the dayroom door, her small foot impatiently tapping. “How long have you been in our mother’s house and not come to bid me good day?!”
Robin pulled from his mother’s embrace and, turning, made his half-sister a most elegant leg, sweeping his small dark green velvet cap with its pheasant’s feather from his blond head as he did so. “Your servant, Mistress Small,” he said as he bowed low.
Willow curtseyed prettily, spreading the skirts of her rose-pink velvet gown as she did so. “Good day to you, my lord Earl,” she said.
Then with a giggle and a whoop the two children were hugging each other as their mother smiled happily at their antics.
“Is there room for me, too?” a slightly deeper voice inquired.
Skye turned to see a tall, dark-haired boy standing in her doorway. “Murrough!”
“Good morning, Mama.” He came forward and kissed her. “Lady Clinton has released me from my duties as long as you are in London with the court. I hope that will be all right.” He looked anxiously at her. Thank God, she thought guiltily, there was nothing of his father about him.
All the Sweet Tomorrows Page 9