Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  “I will come for you myself,” he replied. Then he caught her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. “You’ve made me the happiest of men tonight!” Grasping at a heavy vine growing against the wall, he pulled himself up and quickly disappeared over the top.

  Shrugging, Skye picked up her flower basket and returned to the house. If she was to be ready when he came this evening, she had a great deal to do. She stopped, and told herself that this was just a simple dinner, not a romantic liaison.

  Robert Small emerged just then from the library. “Well, lass, we’re done now. May I treat you to dinner at the Swan tavern up the river?”

  “Oh, Robbie. I’m having dinner with Lord Southwood. He is, it seems, my neighbor.”

  “That knave! Christ’s toenail, Skye, are you mad?”

  “Now, Robbie, he has apologized for his rudeness. I have no friends here in London, and you’ll soon be off again. I must start somewhere.”

  “He has a wife,” stated Robert Small flatly.

  “I suspected so, but I do not seek a romantic entanglement with Geoffrey.”

  Robert Small’s bushy gray-black eyebrows shot up. “Geoffrey, is it? Well, my lass, so you’ll know a bit about the man, attend me. His first wife died when she was a child. His second wife is a woman of no beauty, but much wealth. She’s borne him one son and seven daughters, and for her perfidy she and her daughters are exiled to Lynton Court, her childhood home. He sends his steward each Michaelmas to pay the servants there for the year. Cold bastard, I’d say. He’s rich, though. At least we don’t have to worry about him being after your money.”

  His dour concern over fortune-hunting men made her laugh. She ruffled his thinning hair. “Dear Robbie, you’re a good watchdog, and I thank you. You and Dame Cecily and Willow are my entire family. I promise to be very careful in my relationship with Lord Southwood, but it’s only a late supper.”

  “I’ll stay the night, Skye. It’s best you have a man in the house.”

  “Thank you, Robbie. Now, I’d best prepare myself,” and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek she ran upstairs to her own apartment. “Daisy!” she called. “Have a footman set up my bath and lay out the peacock-blue velvet gown with the gold thread flowered underskirt.”

  As the footmen lugged the buckets of steaming water up the back stairs from the kitchen, Skye sat at her dressing table sliding necklaces through her slender fingers. She decided upon a double strand of perfectly matched pale-pink pearls from which hung a teardrop diamond of slightly deeper pink. The necklace had been Khalid’s gift. It no longer hurt quite so much to think about Khalid.

  The footmen departed and she undressed slowly. Daisy took each garment, and Skye reached for some tortoiseshell hairpins and secured her dark hair. It would not be necessary to wash it tonight, as she had done so yesterday in a mixture of fresh rainwater and essence of roses. Now she walked naked across the room and poured some of the same rose essence into her tub. Daisy averted her brown eyes. She could simply not get used to her mistress’s habit of bathing regularly, let alone bathing naked. The young woman liked her mistress, however, and so she bore with her eccentricities.

  Skye chuckled. “You can open your eyes now, Daisy. I’m safely in the tub.”

  “Oh, mum, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “Haven’t you ever looked at yourself, Daisy? Women have very lovely bodies, but men are never quite so pretty.”

  “Oh, mum! How you talk! Look at myself indeed! If me mother had ever caught me doing such a thing she’d have beat me black and blue.”

  Skye smiled to herself and wondered why the English—no, she amended—why the Europeans were so afraid of their bodies. Then she laughed at herself for, though she could not remember it, she too was European. But she couldn’t imagine herself bathing only a few times a year, and then in a cotton shift!

  She picked up the damask rose soap, built up a rich lather, and washed her face. She lathered the rest of her lithe body, slowly and thoroughly, summoning an almost unbearably sensuous feeling. Good Lord, she thought, as she watched the nipples of her breasts harden, I’m alive again, and I want a man to love. She blushed with the memory of how Geoffrey Southwood had looked at her this afternoon.

  Stepping hastily from the tub, she took the big warmed towel from Daisy and began to dry herself. “Bring me a light wool caftan,” she said. “It’s too early to dress yet. I’ll sleep for a bit.”

  Slipping on the caftan, she added, “Leave the tub till later, I’ll rest now, and ring when I want you. Go get your dinner.” The little maid curtseyed and left the room.

  Skye lay upon her bed, drawing a fur robe over herself. Geoffrey Southwood had a finely turned leg, she thought, and those lime-green eyes had undoubtedly melted many a heart. She was much too vulnerable to be having dinner with him. Oh, why had she accepted the invitation? She was lonely. Perhaps that was why. Khalid had been dead almost two years, and suddenly she was again aware of the fact that she was a woman, a woman who, up until her husband’s death, had been well loved. She would have to be very careful lest she present the Earl of Lynmouth with the wrong impression of herself. She drifted into a light sleep and awakened at Daisy’s touch.

  “The Earl of Lynmouth’s footman is below, mum. His lordship will be here in half an hour.”

  Skye stretched languidly. “Fetch me a basin of rose water, Daisy. Is my gown ready?”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Skye bathed her face, hands, and neck, having shed the caftan. With averted eyes Daisy handed her mistress her silk undergarments, lacing the little boned busk up tightly, smoothing down the several petticoats, the last one threaded through with blue ribbons, as was her silk underblouse. Skye slipped on her new knitted silk stockings which were of the palest blue with a tiny silver thread vine pattern. Her garters were also blue with deep pink rosettes.

  Daisy carefully slipped the gold-threaded underskirt over Skye’s head, and laced it up. Lastly came the beautiful peacock-blue velvet gown, split to show the embroidered underskirt. The puffed sleeves were slashed to reveal a soft creamy sheer silk underblouse. Skye slipped on her blue satin slippers and stood before the pier glass, a faint smile on her lips. She slid the pearls around her neck, watching with fascination as the pink diamond nestled in the deep valley between her breasts. Yes, it was perfect.

  Daisy held up a tray of rings, but Skye selected only a large baroque pearl and placed it on her right hand. She held out her hands and was pleased with the simple effect the single ring created. Her hands were especially beautiful, slender with long, well-shaped fingers, the nails delicately rounded and buffed to a healthy pink.

  She gazed at her image again. I am beautiful, she thought. Then she laughed softly.

  “His lordship is here, mum,” said Daisy. “The footman has just come up with word.”

  “Have the footman tell his lordship I shall be down directly, and escort him into the small receiving room. Have Walter pour him some wine.”

  Daisy curtseyed. “Yes, mum.”

  Skye moved slowly to her dressing table and reached for her scent bottle. She daubed the rose fragrance on all the available pulse points, remembering Yasmin as she did. Dear God, she thought, if there is a Paradise, please don’t let Yasmin be Khalid’s houri. I forgave her for the sake of both our immortal souls, but I couldn’t bear it if she was with him when I can’t be. The tears sprang to her eyes, and she quickly snatched up a lace-edged handkerchief. Then, fixing a little smile on her lips, she left to join the Earl of Lynmouth.

  Geoffrey Southwood had declined both a seat in the receiving room and the wine. With undisguised admiration he now watched as Skye descended the staircase. Reaching the bottom, she swept him an elegant curtsey. “Good evening, my lord Southwood.” He admired her lovely breasts which momentarily swelled over her seemingly modest square neckline.

  “And a good even’ to you, Señora Goya del Fuentes. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve arranged for the door in our garden wall t
o be opened. I assume you won’t object to a stroll in the gardens.”

  “No, I don’t mind a stroll.”

  He offered her his arm, and they moved through the house and out into the evening. The air was mild, and the night sky clear. His slim hand covered hers, and as they walked he said quietly, “Are you aware of how beautiful you are? There isn’t a woman at Court who compares with you.”

  “Even the Queen?” she teased.

  “Her Majesty is in a class by herself, my pet. No one compares with Elizabeth Tudor.”

  “Bravo, my lord Earl! The perfect courtier’s reply,” she mocked mischievously.

  “I am the perfect courtier, Skye, for only by the Queen’s favor can an ambitious man progress.”

  “You are titled, intelligent, and wealthy,” she said. “Why should it matter to you if the Queen favors you?”

  The question pleased him, for it showed she had intelligence. Oddly enough, he liked intelligent women. “The Southwoods have never been important in the history of England, Skye. We won our lands with William the Conqueror and our title with Richard, Coeur de Lion, in the Holy Land. That particular Southwood, upon returning to England, advised his family to remain in Devon and not go gadding about. We’ve taken his advice. Nevertheless, probably thanks to my merchant antecedents, I seem to be an ambitious sort, and Court is the place for ambitious men. The Queen has need of them.”

  “And what of ambitious women, Geoffrey?”

  He smiled as they walked through the wall gate into his garden. “What are your ambitions, my pet? If you seek a titled lover, then I’m your man.”

  She ignored the remark. “I’ve just formed a trading company with Robert Small. It would help if I had a royal charter. Help me get it, and I’ll give you a two-percent interest in it.”

  The Earl of Lynmouth was astounded. “By God, sweetheart, you are ambitious!” he laughed. “I’m not sure if I’m shocked or simply amazed.”

  Skye was as surprised at herself as was Southwood. Where in Heaven’s name had that idea come from, and where had she gotten the nerve to suggest such a thing? Having ventured it, however, she decided to follow it through. “Well, my lord,” she said coolly. “What say you?”

  She was serious, thought Southwood, amused. They had reached Lynmouth House by now, and he escorted her up the steps of the marble terrace into a small room with a lovely bow window that overlooked the river and the gardens. A candlelit table had been set up in the bow.

  “Let us have some wine,” he said, pouring a Burgundy and handing her a goblet. “Now, mistress, what guarantee do you give me that I’ll see a return on my investment?”

  “Captain Small was my husband’s partner in Algiers. Kha—Diego financed him, and our secretary, Jean Morlaix, kept the records. It was up to Robert to handle the rest of it, and he did. He was my husband’s partner for ten years. Nothing has changed. The Goya del Fuentes money will finance him. Jean Morlaix remained in my employ after Diego’s death. I do not need a royal charter, but it would help enormously. What do you risk, my lord? Neither gold nor prestige. You waste more money gambling. If you would prefer, set a price upon your aid and I will pay you. Then you risk nothing,” she finished scornfully.

  “Ah vixen,” he chuckled, “so you would shame me into it, eh? You’re a damned hard bargainer, but I’ll see what I can do. After all, a two-percent share in a good trading company is not to be overlooked.”

  Inwardly she heaved a sigh of relief and, with a casual air, sipped at her wine. His mouth twitched with suppressed amusement, for Geoffrey Southwood could appreciate a jest on himself better than most men. She had outbluffed him, the little devil. What a woman she was, he thought to himself. The thought of her in his bed sent shivers down his spine. For now, however, he would be a gentleman, for to move too quickly with this lady could cost him de Grenville’s barge as well as the beauty herself.

  The footmen began serving the meal, which began with a silver bowl of cold, raw oysters. Skye happily cracked open the shells and swallowed half a dozen luscious, icy oysters. Southwood ate two to her every one. The next course was bright yellow mussels in white wine with a Dijon mustard sauce, thin slices of Dover sole on a bed of crisp watercress, accompanied by very thin slices of lemons imported from the south of France, and tiny pink shrimp broiled in herb butter. Skye ate sparingly but tasted of everything. The Earl had been quite right—his chef was a master.

  The second course cleared away, the third was set on the sideboard. Three ribs of juicy beef with horseradish sauce and a large plump pink ham vied for attention alongside a platter of small quail, roasted golden and stuffed with fruit. Salad of new lettuces, venison slices in red wine, and a rabbit pastry rounded out the third course.

  Skye directed a footman to serve her one of the quail, some ham, a slice of rabbit pie, and a dish of salad. The Earl, who sampled everything, looked on approvingly. “I like a woman who enjoys her food,” he grinned, his green eyes bright.

  “But keeps her figure,” she shot back.

  “Aye. A pretty woman is far more pleasant to gaze upon, sweetheart.”

  “Is your wife a pretty woman?”

  “Mary? Not really. She’s too tiny, like a Spanish dwarf. Her hair is no real color, her eyes a pale brown, her complexion, sallow. Was your husband handsome?”

  “Aye,” she said softly. “He was very handsome. But more important, he was kind and good.”

  “How long have you been widowed?”

  “Two years now.”

  “You should think of remarrying, Skye. You’re far too lovely to remain alone.”

  “I know few people here, my lord. And besides, there is no one who could take my lord’s place.”

  “If you don’t have friends in England,” he ventured, “why did you leave Algiers?”

  “The Turkish governor decided I should make him an admirable wife. Since I did not choose to marry him, it became necessary to leave. None of my lord’s real friends would have dared to protect me. I was helpless against that powerful beast, but he got nothing of my lord’s, neither his widow nor his wealth! I shall build that wealth and make it even greater. My little Willow will be very wealthy.”

  He smiled slowly at her. “You are an ambitious wench, sweetheart, but damme if I don’t approve! The Queen is ambitious too, and though some men may be fearful of such women, I’m not.”

  The last course was offered then, ripe pears covered with meringue and baked to a faint golden brown, thin sugar wafers, and a clear sweet wine. The Earl apologized for the simplicity of the dessert. As there were only two diners, he had suggested to his chef that he limit the sweets.

  When she had spooned up the last of her dessert, Skye sat back in her chair, her sapphire eyes half closed, and smiled. Southwood laughed. “You look like a well-fed cat.”

  “I am, my lord, and I must have the recipe for the quail stuffing. It was delicious.”

  “It’s yours. But come, sweetheart, up with you! We’ll walk in the gardens by the river to settle our meal.”

  He escorted her outside after first dropping his black velvet cloak about her. The night had turned chilly. The full moon silvered everything, and a faint mist was beginning to rise from the Thames. They walked in silence, watching as a brightly lit barge went by, hearing laughter drift across the water. A steady measured beat of oars and a single lantern announced the approach of the enterprising waterman who offered taxi service to those who wanted to go up- or downriver. They stood watching the moonlit water, and after a while Geoffrey said softly, “I would not offend you, but I would kiss you.”

  “No one but my husband has ever kissed me,” she whispered.

  “He’s gone, sweetheart,” was the hoarse reply. And tipping her pale face firmly toward him, he touched his warm mouth to hers. He kissed her gently, but she could sense the desire that he held firmly in check. The tip of his tongue licked at the edges of her mouth, sending a shiver through her, awakening the long unsatisfied passions. He held her tightly,
his masculine scent assaulting her senses. She began to relax within the circle of his arms. He was as big and tall as Khalid had been, and very male.

  Then, gently, as suddenly as he had kissed her, he released her and whispered softly, “I will take you home, sweetheart, lest I do something that would lose me your friendship.” And without another word he took her arm and walked with her, back through the wall gate, across her gardens, and into her house.

  In the moonlit library she gazed openly at him and her musical voice said firmly but softly, “Kiss me just once more, Geoffrey.” A quick smile touched his mouth, and then he bent to meet her lips again. This time he allowed his passions a looser rein and the pressure of his mouth forced her lips apart. His tongue ran swiftly along her teeth, pushing through, finding her silken tongue and caressing it with his own.

  To Skye’s shock, her own passions rose swiftly, fiercely from deep within her. Her tongue fenced skillfully with his, and she quivered at the fire and ice racing through her veins. His big hands caught her face and he kissed her again, this time very tenderly. Then his smooth fingers trailed down her slender neck to drift along the swelling tops of her breasts, and she moaned softly.

  “No, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “There’s no honor in taking a vulnerable woman, and you are very vulnerable right now.” And silently he disappeared through the French doors, and she was alone.

  Skye stood very still, rigid with shock. She had nearly thrown herself at him, and had he not been the gentleman he was … Shivering, she made her way upstairs. Once within the safety of her room, she stood for a bit clutching Geoffrey’s cloak about her. It carried the scent of orris root, and she buried her face within the sable collar trying to quiet her pounding heart.

  “Are you all right, mum?”

  She started. “Daisy? You needn’t have waited up for me.”