All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  Skye stepped back and viewed her offspring delightedly. Then, turning, she looked at Nicolas. “Thank you,” she said quietly. He smiled back at her, but said nothing. Words were unnecessary.

  “Chérie,” Edmond de Beaumont said, “here is a little child who would greet you.” Gently he drew Deirdre from her hiding place behind him.

  Kneeling, Skye held out her arms to the small girl, a soft smile touching the edges of her lips. Niall’s daughter looked so very much like her. Deirdre Burke was indeed her mother in miniature, with her camellia-fair skin, a tumble of dark curls, and her blue-green eyes. Thumb in her rosebud mouth, she eyed Skye suspiciously.

  “Silly one!” Willow scolded her baby sister. “This is our mama.”

  Deirdre looked at Skye, then at Willow who nodded her head vigorously, then at Skye again. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, and, reaching out, Skye pulled her youngest daughter into her arms to kiss her on her fat cheeks. The little girl snuggled into her mother’s embrace happily, and Skye almost wept. Deirdre was just two, and in the several months in which she had been separated from her mother, she had forgotten her entirely. She would never remember Niall, her father, and this fact did cause Skye to shed a few sad tears, especially when she looked up and saw her youngest child, Padraic, who was as much his father’s image as Deirdre was her own.

  “You are happy now, doucette?” He was standing by her side.

  Skye stood up holding Deirdre in her arms. “I am very happy, Nicolas. How can I thank you?”

  Deirdre looked at Nicolas. “Papa,” she said in a definite voice.

  A huge grin spread over Nicolas’s face. “Indeed I shall be,” he said happily, “if the Queen of England has granted my request. Nephew Edmond? Am I to be a happy bridegroom?”

  “Indeed, my enthusiastic uncle, you are. You have England’s blessing upon your union.”

  “I thought you were already married, Mother.” Murrough stepped protectively to his mother’s side.

  Deirdre squirmed in her mother’s arms, holding out her fat baby hands to Nicolas, who delightedly took her. Deirdre snuggled down into his arms, and coyly repeated, “Papa.” Her look was one of supreme self-satisfaction, and if her older siblings were slightly embarrassed by her behavior she was not one bit concerned.

  Skye hid a smile at the older ones’ discomfort. “The duc whom I wed seven months ago, Murrough, died shortly afterward. This gentleman is Nicolas St. Adrian, his heir, and Beaumont’s new duc. He will be your stepfather come the spring, when my year of mourning is over.”

  Murrough nodded, and then, turning to meet Nicolas’s gaze, bowed politely. “How do you do, my lord?” he said.

  “I do very well—Murrough, is it?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am Murrough O’Flaherty.”

  Skye reached out to draw her other two older children forward. “Nicolas, this is my son, Robin, the young Earl of Lynmouth, and my oldest daughter, Willow Small.”

  “Welcome to Beaumont de Jaspre, children,” Nicolas said.

  Willow curtseyed prettily, and Robin bowed gravely.

  “Are these all of your children, doucette?” Nicolas asked admiringly.

  “No, my eldest is not here. Why did Ewan not come?” she asked Murrough.

  “He did not feel it wise to leave Ballyhennessey at this time, Mother.”

  “Has there been difficulty?” Skye looked worried, wondering about her oldest child, who would in three months’ time be celebrating his fourteenth birthday.

  “Not really. The English are most respectful of the Earl of Lynmouth’s older brother.” Murrough chuckled and added, “Although it does infuriate Ewan to have to hide behind Robin’s title. Still, Uncle Michael insists he do it. The problem has been with Ewan’s neighbors, old Black Hugh Kenneally of Gillydown to be specific. He thought that because Ewan was barely weaned from his mother’s teats, as he put it, he might take some of the lands of Ballyhennessey for himself.”

  “What did Ewan do?” Skye’s voice was tense.

  “Burned Black Hugh’s fine house down about his ears, put his fields to the torch, and drove off his sheep. They were arguing about the sheep when I last heard. Ewan felt Black Hugh owed him some sort of fine for the inconvenience to which he’d been put. Black Hugh wanted his sheep back, feeling that having his house and fields burned was fair enough. I’ll wager that Ewan keeps at least half of the sheep!”

  “So he should,” Skye said. “I am glad that your brother did not hesitate to exact revenge upon Black Hugh. He must be strong else his other neighbors think him easy prey. As for hiding behind Robin’s name, ’Tis only his pride that makes him angry. What is important is that he retain his lands and his power. There is no shame in Ewan having the right family ties.”

  “Even if they be English?” Murrough teased his mother.

  “If more Irish had learned to put the English to use,” Skye said wryly, “we would not have half the troubles we have between us.”

  Nicolas stood, amazed at the conversation between Skye and Murrough. He had been even more amazed to hear Skye’s approval of her oldest son, Ewan’s, actions. This tough and fierce side of her was not something that he had seen before. He had not even suspected she had such a side. Then he laughed at himself for a romantic fool. She had been telling him of her lands, of her wealth, of the lands and wealth she administered for others. She had to be strong to hold such power!

  “Are you still sure you would wed such an independent woman as myself, Nicolas,” she gently teased him, and then put a soft hand on his arm.

  “The first moment I laid eyes on you, doucette, I knew that there was but one woman for me,” he said quietly, “and you are she.”

  Skye looked about the cabin of the ship at her children. “Let us go home, Nicolas,” she said. “I seem to have everything that I need to be a happy woman now.” Reaching out, she took her infant son from his red-cheeked Irish nurse and, turning, she walked through the door onto the deck and into the bright sunshine of the December afternoon, her children, Edmond, and Nicolas trailing in her wake.

  Chapter 6

  THE winter was a mild, sunny one, the rainy season coming only in February, and then giving way to a beautiful warm March when the hillsides filled with softly blowing red and blue windflowers. It had been a wonderful winter, and for the first time in many months Skye O’Malley and her children felt loved and safe. Beaumont de Jaspre was a happy place. The menace of France had subsided with the Pope’s message to Queen Catherine, and Nicolas’s unquestioned loyalty. There was no Elizabeth Tudor and her court to overshadow their happiness.

  It was the first time since Geoffrey’s death and the early days of her reunion with Niall that they had all been together. She saw her two older sons gradually become boys again, dropping away the sophisticated courtier’s veneer that they had worn on their arrival as easily as a snake sheds his skin. Nicolas took them hunting in the small range of mountains that served as one of Beaumont’s borders. He took all the children swimming on a deserted beach below the castle. The boys were like young dolphins, splashing and diving. Willow, however, was content to paddle around the shore with her baby sister, Deirdre; and tiny Padraic crowed with delight when Nicolas took him by his little hands and floated him in the gentle sea. The baby wriggled with pleasure in the warm waters, his plump little arms and legs moving busily. Her children quite obviously approved of Nicolas St. Adrian, Elizabeth Tudor certainly approved of him, and Skye began to believe that she might even dare to love him.

  He assuredly adored her, and he seemed to genuinely care for her offspring. She could see that he was a man who loved children easily, and would do well with them. If only she were not plagued by that tiny nagging doubt that would not leave her in peace. She yet worried that if she married Nicolas he would be touched by the bad luck that seemed to strike at all of her husbands. Still, she had no choice. The wedding was set for the day after her one-year period of mourning was over. When he had told her that, she had bl
ushingly protested his lack of decency, but Nicolas had laughed, saying that no one who had seen her would lack for understanding of his unseemly haste.

  Robin and Murrough intended to stay with their mother until midsummer, then return to court. The other three children would remain with Skye and Nicolas. Bran had sailed in early spring for Bideford to fetch Dame Cecily back for the wedding. Bran and Daisy were planning to marry shortly after Skye and Nicolas. Robbie had returned in midwinter from his voyage to Istanbul. He was very surprised by the turn of events that had made Skye a widow, and was now making her a bride again. Nonetheless he fully approved of Nicolas, and the two had become very good friends. He had never really warmed to Fabron de Beaumont, but liked his half-brother.

  It was too perfect, and she had known it. The messenger came a month before the scheduled wedding. They tried to protect her from him, Nicolas and Robbie both. Nicolas did not like the look of the dark man. To the young duc he was an infidel to be wary of, but Robbie knew better. The dark man came from Algiers.

  “Give me the message,” the Devon sea captain demanded of the messenger in flawless Arabic. “I will see that she gets it.”

  “I cannot do that, sir,” was the polite reply.

  “Who has sent you?” was Robbie’s next question.

  “I will only speak to Skye Muna el Khalid,” was the answer, and then the thin man in the long white robes stood silent.

  “I’ll have him thrown in the dungeons beneath the castle,” Nicolas said impatiently as Robbie translated the conversation.

  “It will do you no good,” Robbie remarked. “You could pull his fingernails off with burning pincers and he would not say another word. The only way we will learn anything further is to get Skye so she may hear his message.”

  Nicolas sighed. Some instinct warned him that this strange man was about to destroy his happiness. Nonetheless he had no choice. He sent a servant for Skye.

  Coming into the Great Hall, her eye instantly found the man in white, and she stopped, growing pale. She, too, had recognized the garments of Algiers, garments she had never again thought to see. “Who is this man?” she begged of Robbie.

  “We don’t know, lass. He arrived here asking for you. He will say nothing of who he is, or who has sent him. He seems to speak only Arabic. Do you remember the language?”

  She nodded and then, drawing a deep breath, walked over to the man. “You wish to see me?”

  “You are Skye Muna el Khalid?”

  “I am she.”

  The man in white bowed low and respectfully. “I am Haroun, the servant of Osman the astrologer,” he said. “I bring you a message from my master.”

  “Have you been offered refreshment, Haroun?” Skye asked. “You have traveled far if you come from Osman.” Skye turned to one of the castle servants. “Bring cakes and fresh fruit juice,” she commanded.

  “You are kind, lady,” Haroun said. “Let me do my duty, and then I will gladly partake of your hospitality.”

  “Speak then, Haroun, the servant of Osman.”

  “The message my master sends to you is this. Your husband is not dead. He whom Osman once told you was your true mate lives. You must come to Algiers immediately so that my master may tell you the truth of this matter.”

  He who is your true mate. The words rang frighteningly in her head as she collapsed in a dead faint. Nicolas’s hand went to his dagger, but Robbie, who had understood Haroun’s words, cried out, “No, lad! I don’t think the messenger’s news is bad. Here,” and he bent to cradle Skye, “help me to revive her.” He looked to a stunned servant. “You! Get wine!”

  “I did not mean to harm the lady,” Haroun said worriedly to Robbie.

  “You’ve just shocked her, man,” was the reply. “Did your master say to tell it that way?”

  “Yes, sir. I have but repeated the words given me by my master, Osman.”

  “Osman is growing dotty,” Robbie muttered as Nicolas took Skye from him and, lifting her into his arms, carried her to a nearby settle.

  Carefully he propped her up, rubbing her wrists, calling her name softly, almost frantically. A serving man ran up with a small goblet of wine, and gently Nicolas began to force some of the potent liquid down her throat. Skye coughed and then her eyes flew open.

  “He is alive!” she cried.

  “Who, ma doucette? Let me send the infidel away.”

  “No!” She turned her face to the messenger, Haroun. “Is there any more message?” she almost begged him.

  “I have said it all, lady,” he answered her, sorry to see the wonderful light go from her beautiful blue eyes.

  “How can I be sure you are who you say?” Skye demanded.

  “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said,” snapped Robbie, relieved. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “Osman sends word that Niall is alive.”

  “What? Are ye daft, lass?! Niall Burke was murdered by a crazy nun, and dumped in the sea. How the hell can he be alive, and how do you know that’s what he means anyway? He who is your true mate? What kind of gobbledygook is that?”

  “When Khalid was murdered by Yasmin and Jamil, and I grieved for him, Osman told me that my future was with the man I had first loved, the man of my own homeland, Niall Burke.” She turned to Haroun again. “Where is the proof you are who you say?” she demanded.

  “My master said if you asked for such proof I was to tell you what he once told you. Follow your instincts. They will never fail you,” Haroun replied. “Play out your part as Allah has foretold.”

  Skye grew pale again. “He is from Osman,” she said with finality.

  “What kind of proof is that?” Robbie yelled.

  “They are Osman’s words to me before I left Algiers. Since he spoke them to me when I was alone, I must accept them as proof of Haroun’s honesty. He could only have learned them from his master.”

  Robbie snorted irritably. “You, Haroun, how did you know where to find Skye Muna el Khalid?”

  “A vessel belonging to this lady stopped in Algiers several weeks ago. I brought its captain to see my master, and my master asked this captain, an old man with a strange and unpronounceable name.”

  “MacGuire?”

  “Aye, lady!” Haroun’s dark face cracked in a small smile. “My master asked this man to take a message to you, but the old man said that you were not in your homeland, but rather in this place. I was therefore dispatched to fetch you to my master. He says that you must waste no time in coming to him, for the man who is your true mate is in danger.”

  “Can we sail tonight?” Skye demanded of Robbie.

  “Aye, but I think you’re crazy, lass. Let me go to Osman, and see what it is he has to say, if indeed it is really him. Have you forgotten Jamil? God, what Jamil would not give to wreak his revenge upon you, Skye. Algiers is too dangerous for you, lass.”

  “No! I will go, Robbie! I must go!”

  Robbie looked at Haroun. “Is Captain Jamil still alive, man?”

  “He lives, sir, but at this time he is gone from the city to Istanbul to seek a cure for his illness. It will be safe for the lady. My master would not call her were it not safe.”

  “We sail tonight!” Skye said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Nicolas St. Adrian had stood by, looking from one to the other while they had spoken back and forth and to the dark Haroun. The quick language that they had used was not familiar to him, and he had not understood a word that they had said. He had known instinctively, however, that he was somehow about to lose Skye, and all his emotions gathered themselves to fight this. He could not, would not, let her go from him. “Tell me, doucette,” he begged her. “Tell me what this man has said, and why I feel you are about to go from me?”

  She had forgotten him! She had forgotten this gentle and tender man who loved her so deeply, who intended to make her his bride in a month’s time. For the last few minutes it had been as if he had not existed, for the truth was that only Niall Burke exi
sted for her. Her hands flew to her face in distress, and her beautiful sapphire eyes, dark in their sorrow, looked into his face. “I cannot marry you,” she said softly. “My husband is alive. Haroun has brought me word from an old friend in Algiers that Niall is alive. Osman would not lie to me. I must go to Algiers, Nicolas. I must find Niall.”

  “Do not leave me,” he begged her.

  “I have no choice, Nicolas,” she said low. “Niall is alive. I cannot wed another while my lawful husband lives.”

  “Let Robert go,” he said. “Let Robert go to find out if what this man says is true. Stay with me until he returns.”

  “Aye!” Robbie chimed in. “That’s what I told her too, Nicolas, but she will not listen. As always she is stubborn!”

  “Niall is alive! Osman says he is in danger,” she shouted at them. “I must go to him! I must, and I will. To send Robbie is to waste precious time. Wasted time could cost my Niall his life! If that happens I shall never forgive either of you. Never!”

  “Go then,” he shouted back at her. “Go, but if this turns out to be a fantasy, promise me that you will return to me, doucette! At least give me that hope.”

  “Osman would not lie to me,” she said softly.

  “Promise me!”

  She looked into his face and saw that there were tears in his green eyes. “Oh, Nicolas, what have I done to you! You see! Did I not warn you, my darling? I destroy in one way or another the men who love me. It has ever been thus, and I do not know why it should be.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I promise that if this is a wild and futile chase I will return to you, my dear Nicolas, for surely no woman has ever been so fortunate in love as she is unlucky.”