All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “Last year, m’lord, and within nine months of the wedding she gave him a red-faced and squalling son. They’re waiting in Devon for you both.”

  “No England,” Niall said. “I want to see Ireland again! I want to go home.”

  “The children, most of them, are at Wren Court with Cecily.”

  “My bairns?” Niall was surprised. “Why?”

  “Mistress Skye felt them safer with Cecily in Devon.”

  “Safer than with my father at Burke Castle?” Again Niall was surprised by Skye’s seemingly strange actions.

  Robbie hesitated a moment, and then he began to speak. He was going to have to tell Lord Burke everything, for the man was full of questions, having been out of touch almost three years.

  When his friend had finished, Niall nodded. Now he understood. Skye had done well despite the odds, but then she had always been competent in a man’s world. The fact that she had survived without him he found unreasonably irritating, even though he knew that she had done it before. She was an unusual woman, but he loved her.

  “Then we wait,” he said to Robbie, and the little man heaved a great sigh of relief. Niall laughed. “What, Robbie? Did you think I was going to order an immediate attack upon the city of Algiers in order to rescue my wife?” He was beginning to feel better, almost elated with the sure knowledge that he would soon see her.

  “You’ve been known in the past to act rashly, m’lord,” was the honest reply.

  “True, Robbie. ’Tis a fault Skye’s often accused me of, but I think my time in captivity has taught me patience.” He grinned mischievously. “Although I will not guarantee it, for once I am back in my own land I may very easily revert to my old ways.”

  Robbie chuckled. “I’ll not question yer behavior in Ireland, m’lord, only here while we have yet to regain Mistress Skye. Ye’ll find the cabin comfortable, and if you need anything you’ve but to ask. As you’ve said, we wait.”

  In the early afternoon Skye met Alima in the baths, who whispered once they were out of earshot of the bath attendants, “Your husband escaped this morning, and is safely at sea, dearest lady.”

  “Thank God!” Skye breathed, and Alima squeezed her hand comfortingly.

  “Osman says that the princess is hysterical and furious by turns. The Dey is embarrassed that a prized slave could walk with ease from his well-guarded palace, and no one claims to have seen him go. He has not been seen in the town, and it is a great mystery. The city guards have, of course, been doubled. It will be difficult for the next few days for you to leave. My husband advises patience.”

  Skye laughed ruefully. “From the moment I was introduced to Kedar I have been patient, but the next days will be the worst, Alima. Still, knowing that my Niall is safe lifts the burden from my heart!”

  Again Alima squeezed Skye’s hand and smiled warmly at her. “Let us walk in the gardens after we have bathed,” she suggested, “and perhaps you will tell me again of life in your Queen’s fabulous court.”

  “Of course!” Skye agreed generously. She knew how very much Alima enjoyed hearing of Elizabeth Tudor’s court, and French-born as she was, of the beautiful clothing worn by the men and women alike. Skye had many times explained in detail the quantity of beautiful gowns in her own possession, and as the two women wandered hand in hand in the garden she wondered if her clothes would now be all out of style. It was a thought she shared with Alima, who clapped her hands excitedly and exclaimed, “Oh, I hope so, lady Skye! Then you can have all new gowns made! How wonderful!”

  Skye laughed, and it was the merry sound of her laughter that attracted the notice of the blond woman who had been pacing restlessly in Osman’s library. The woman peered through the latticework that covered the windows down into the garden. She stared hard, and her breath quickened with excitement. “Who are those women in your garden, lord Osman?” she demanded sharply.

  Osman arose from the rather disquieting chart he had been silently reading, and peered down. “It is my wife, and my nephew’s favorite, Muna, who is her dearest friend. Why do you ask, lady Nilak?”

  “The dark-haired one reminds me of someone I once knew.” She turned from the window with reluctance, and then asked, “Well, lord Osman? You are reputed to be the most famous astrologer in all of Algiers, in fact one of the best in the known world. What does my chart tell you?”

  “It tells me you have done much evil, lady Nilak. It tells me that you are not one bit repentant for your wicked ways. You are as much the director of your own fate as are the stars.”

  She laughed harshly. “I am not interested in the past, lord Osman. Tell me of the present! Will the lord Jamil marry me? Tell me of the future! Will the Sultan make him the new Dey? Will we rule Algiers together? These are the things that interest me, nothing more! Jamil has recommended you highly. Tell me what you see?”

  “I see death in your chart,” he said flatly.

  Horrified, the woman stepped back, her hand going to her throat. “You lie!” she hissed at him. “You are nothing but a fraud! A faker! You know nothing! Nothing!”

  “I see your death,” Osman repeated, “and before dying you will cause the death of at least two people.”

  With a small shriek of anger and horror Nilak turned and fled the room. Osman did not bother to follow her. He was far too excited by what he had learned. Quickly he drew both Skye and Kedar’s charts from their places on the shelves. Reaching up, he drew down yet another rolled parchment, this one belonging to Jamil, once the capitan commander of the Casbah fortress, now retired with the rank of full commander, or agha. Spreading the three charts upon the large library table next to the one he had just done for the lady Nilak, he studied them carefully with growing interest. There was no mistake. The four people represented were fated to meet, and their conjunction would end in death for three of them. Osman closed his eyes briefly. Most of the time he enjoyed his gift of sight, but there were times, times like this, when he saw things that gave him pain. Then he did not enjoy his special ability. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might be able to prevent a tragedy, for every soul was offered two paths by which to travel. Wearily he sat down and tried to think what he might do.

  While Osman pondered on what he had seen, Nilak hurried downstairs and climbed back into her silk-draped palanquin. Sharply she ordered her slaves to quickly return her to her house. The girl in the garden had been Skye O’Malley’s twin, and Jamil had been enamored of Skye when she was in Algiers. If she, Nilak, could bring the girl to Jamil’s attention, and if she could buy the wench from Osman’s nephew, would not Jamil be grateful to her? Would he not see that she loved him, and was looking out for his interests? She did not care if Jamil fucked the girl a dozen times a day, as long as she, Claire O’Flaherty, now known as the lady Nilak, was Jamil Agha’s wife.

  She smiled contentedly. She was going to make Jamil so very happy, and then too, she would be happy as wife to the Sultan’s new Dey. Surely Jamil would gain the appointment to govern Algiers once the old man who now ruled for Sultan Selim II retired, which, according to rumor, would be any day now.

  Claire had gone to Istanbul with Jamil, and while the physicians had worked to successfully cure his disability, she had made friends with the Sultan’s favorite, Nur-Banu, a Venetian noblewoman by birth. When Claire had told her that she, too, was a Western noblewoman by birth, the two had struck up a small friendship which Claire carefully cultivated. It had been Nur-Banu who had compared Claire’s blue eyes to the lilacs that grew in the Sultan’s gardens. Thus Claire became Nilak, the Persian for bluish lilac flower. Even Jamil had been pleased and delighted that the Sultan’s favorite had so honored the woman he considered making his wife.

  Claire smiled again thinking how her luck had changed since the day that Niall Burke had driven her out of London, naked and stripped of all her wealth. For a moment her face darkened as she remembered the taunts of the onlookers, the jeers of the goodwives, the garbage that had been thrown at her, fouling her hair, clogging her nos
trils. Sometimes she could clearly feel the sharp sting of his dog whip upon her shoulders and back, and when she did, she hated Lord Niall Burke with such a fierce hatred that she would not be able to sleep at night with the remembering.

  When London had been left behind, Niall had slashed furiously at her helpless body with a final few strokes, and then had tossed her a long shapeless sack. “It’s better than you deserve, bitch!” he had snarled at her. “Don’t ever let me see your damnable face again, madam. The next time I will kill you!”

  Claire laughed with the memory. The next time they had met she had come close to killing him! Killing, however, was not what she had had in mind. A quick death would have been too easy, and she had wanted Niall Burke to suffer, for having spoiled her successful venture as Claro, the most corrupt and famous madam in all of Bess Tudor’s London. God’s cock, how she hated Niall Burke.

  The Devil, however, had smiled on his own. Claire had grimly begun walking. She slept that first night in a hedge by the side of the road, where she had been found the following morning by an elderly merchant traveling down from London. He, good soul, knew nothing of Claro and the scandal she had caused in the Tudor court.

  Adney Darton was a godly and gentle man who had neither chick nor child, and he accepted Claire’s story of being an orphaned noblewoman fallen upon hard times. Generously he took her home with him. Claire kept his house and attempted to cook his meals, seeking to insinuate herself into his life. He was therefore devastated when she announced that she would have to leave his home. What would people think of an unmarried maiden of poor, but good background, living in the house of an unmarried man. She could stay no longer, she said.

  Adney Darton was old enough to be Claire’s grandfather, but he proposed marriage, as she had expected he would.

  Claire demurred.

  Adney Darton fell to his knees and begged Claire to accept his suit.

  “Yes,” she whispered finally, inwardly unable to believe her good luck. The old man couldn’t be long for this world, and within a short time she would be a rich widow!

  The banns were quickly posted, and within the month Claire became Mistress Darton. It was then that she learned her husband had one living relative. Isham Darton arrived too late to prevent the wedding, but in time for the funeral of Adney Darton, who had perished in the act of consummating his marriage. Isham Darton was furious, for his cousin had thoughtfully rewritten his will prior to his marriage, and the marriage was quite legal. Claire Darton was now a wealthy woman, and Isham Darton had lost his inheritance.

  Isham Darton, considerably younger than Adney, had coveted the elder’s wealth. It was clear that he lusted after Claire, and Claire succumbed to his blandishments. Isham Darton was a vigorous lover, almost as venal and lustful as Claire, who set about to lure the man into marriage.

  Isham Darton suggested that Claire come with him to Algiers, where he was going to set up a trading company. Boldly Claire told him she would only go as his wife, and to her delight he agreed without hesitation. Isham Darton had already decided that Claire would be easy to dispose of in Algiers, and as her husband he would inherit her fortune. Isham and Claire planned their marriage for the day after her year’s mourning was over.

  In the meantime Claire proposed that she travel to her former home in Ireland to visit a final time the graves of her dear, departed father and brother. He need not accompany her. Claire had sailed to Ireland upon one of her late husband’s two ships to work her evil; paying its captain a rather large sum to take the wounded Niall Burke aboard, and sell him into the galleys.

  Returning to England, she was married to Isham Darton, and together they set sail for Algiers. As they crossed the Bay of Biscay, Isham Darton was swept overboard in a severe storm. The widow kept to her destination. Claire settled herself in Algiers. As a single, seemingly respectable, and very wealthy European widow living in a Turkish city, she had quickly come to the attention of Capitan Jamil of the Casbah fortress.

  Claire knew that she must remain a proper matron, or she would not be able to associate with the right people. She also intended to add to her wealth by continuing trading. If the damnable Skye O’Malley could do it, then so could she! She soon had a thriving business going, and there wasn’t a man in Algiers who drove a harder or tighter bargain than Claire Darton. She remained very circumspect in her behavior, and that in itself was most taunting and provocative to the men of Algiers. They very much wanted to meet with the beautiful blond woman with the lilac-blue eyes. How, though, was the big question.

  Capitan Jamil succeeded where all others had failed. Soon he would retire, and the rich wife he had picked for himself those long years ago, the magnificent Skye Muna el Khalid, had eluded him. He had arranged her husband’s murder, but somehow she had discovered he was responsible, and fled him, transferring all of Khalid’s riches out of Algiers. Then, through her maidservant Skye had sent him a plate of sweetmeats containing a potent drug which had rendered him unable to function as a man. For five long years he had been totally impotent, and then his manhood had begun to revive, but only slightly. Another four years had passed, and then he had heard of a physician in Istanbul who could cure him.

  He had not the gold he would need to pay the physician, but he knew that the rich infidel widow did. Jamil waited a few weeks until the days grew shorter with the approach of the winter season and the evenings came early. He arranged for the lady Claire’s palanquin to be set upon as it passed through a particularly dark, deserted area. Then he and a small troupe of mounted Janissaries arrived to beat off the attackers. When the tumult had died down, he presented his compliments to the lady and personally escorted her to her house, begging permission to call again. Claire had said that she would think on it, but by the time his gift, a carved lavender jade bracelet wrapped in a handkerchief of cloth of gold, arrived the next afternoon Claire had ascertained who her rescuer had been, and whether he could be of use to her. He could, and consequently Capitan Jamil was invited to take coffee with her.

  The relationship had quickly blossomed. Jamil was genuinely intrigued by Claire’s blond beauty as well as her vast wealth; and Claire for the first time since her brother, Dom, had died, loved another human being. Strangely, he had been able to consummate their relationship the first time he attempted to do so, but he had been quite honest with regard to his situation. Eventually he had told her of the doctor in Istanbul who could cure him. Her revenge against the Burkes had been successful, and she was in love. She begged her lover to let her foot the expenses to the capital for them both so he might be cured. Jamil refused. Claire persisted. He refused again, but now she would not be denied, and finally he gracefully gave in to her pleas.

  It was while they were in Istanbul that she learned of his previous involvement with Skye O’Malley. Jamil did not know then that Skye Muna el Khalid was Skye O’Malley; but Claire knew. How strange, she thought, that she was so passionately in love with the very man whom her bitterest enemy had scorned, and almost destroyed by turning him into a partial eunuch. She would settle with Skye O’Malley once she and Jamil were married. She would destroy Skye’s own shipping interests by using the corsair Reises who would be under her husband’s command once the Sultan appointed Jamil the new Dey. For now, however, she was delighted that the famous physician who treated Jamil had been successful. Her lover had regained his full potency, and was a veritable bull in their bedchamber.

  Before they departed Istanbul for their return to Algiers, he proposed marriage, as she had known he would. She blushingly accepted, despite the fact that he warned her he would want, nay, he would keep a harem. Claire, now the lady Nilak, cared nothing for the others he might bed as long as he loved her, and she was his wife with the power a dey’s wife had. Jamil smiled at her honest admission thinking that they were really quite suited, and agreed that their marriage would take place in the month of Shawwal following the fast month of Ramadan.

  Ramadan was now half over, and Claire was feeling qu
ite pleased with herself at having discovered a Skye look-alike. How happy Jamil would be, and she, Claire, would insist on paying Osman’s nephew whatever he wanted for the slave girl. It would be one of her bridal gifts to her beloved Jamil.

  Arriving at her home, she hurried to find Jamil. He was being vigorously massaged by two young black girls, but as she entered the room he sat up smiling at her, his arms outstretched. Claire flew into them, and was rewarded with a kiss; a kiss that flamed into quick desire for both of them. “Get out!” Claire hissed at the two slaves, and they fled. Jamil didn’t even wait for the door to close behind them before he was pulling her clothing off and drawing her down onto the couch with him. Being already hard, he wasted no time on the preliminaries and, parting her thighs, thrust into her with one smooth motion.

  “Ahhh, Nilak, my love,” he murmured, moving quickly on her, and Claire sighed with delight.

  Afterward, as they lay together, he nibbling on her shoulder, she said excitedly, “I have just come from the house of Osman the astrologer, my darling, and what do you think I saw? A slave girl walking in the garden, the favorite of his nephew. She is a twin to Skye O’Malley! The same gardenia skin, the same marvelous black hair, and although I was not close enough to tell, I will wager the same blue eyes! I want to buy her from Osman’s nephew for you.”

  “No,” he said. “You must be mistaken. There could not be two women in the entire world who look like Skye Muna el Khalid.”

  “But she does, I tell you!” Claire insisted. “I know her as well as you do, Jamil. After all, she was married to my brother. This slave girl could be her twin!”

  Jamil Agha sat up. “You are certain?” he said sharply.

  “I am certain.”

  “Perhaps it is she, the beauteous Skye herself,” he half whispered to himself. “Dear Allah, to have her in my power!”

  “It cannot be Skye, Jamil. She grieves in Ireland for her dead husband, and besides, Osman knew her, too. How could Skye become the favorite of his nephew without him knowing it? This wench looks very like her, but she’s much younger.”