Skye O'Malley

by Bertrice Small

  To his infinite frustration, he could not bring Bess Tudor to heel, but he damn well would bring this haughty Irish beauty to her knees. She was going to learn tonight who the master was. Gulping some of her excellent Burgundy, he lurched to his feet.

  “Where the hell were you?” he demanded. “And where is my ward?”

  Furiously she strode into the hall and up to the board, her scornful glance taking in his rumpled appearance, ignoring the leers of the other men. “Your ward is visiting with his sister at Wren Court. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “And where were you?” he pressed.

  “Go to Hell, Dudley! I’m not your business.”

  There was drunken laughter at this, and the Earl of Leicester flushed a dull red. She stood there defying him, and he felt his anger double. “Bitch!” he snarled, leaping at her. His fingers dug into her soft upper arm and she felt bruises begin to form.

  “Where were you?” He shook her.

  Skye attempted to pull free. “Dudley! You’re drunk! Disgustingly drunk!”

  “She’s a fractious filly, Leicester,” came a mocking voice. “You can’t seem to control any of your woman, can you?”

  “I am not his woman!” shouted Skye. “I am Geoffrey Southwood’s widow, and I ask that you all remember that!”

  “You’re my whore, madam, because if you are not, then I’ll remove your son from your custody! Remember that well!”

  “Never, Dudley! Never! Never! Never!”

  Angrily Dudley pushed her until she sprawled backward upon the same spot where little Anne Evans had so lately been abused. “That’s it, Dudley,” sounded the same mocking voice. “Show the wench who’s master here. We’ll all help you! Right, men?”

  She was being dragged onto the table, her skirts brutally lifted, her arms and legs yanked apart. Nightmare faces with bulging, bloodshot eyes, laughing mouths, tongues that licked quickly at dry lips, loomed over her. She was almost suffocated by the sour smell of wine. At least a dozen men leered at her, men who a year ago had eagerly sought the honor of an invitation to the Southwood’s Twelfth Night masque, who had once paid her elegant compliments. Now these same men leaned over her like a pack of savage dogs.

  She began to scream, screaming ceaselessly though she doubted anyone could hear her. Dudley’s body flattened hers, and she felt him seek entry into her body. Skye struggled wildly, twisting this way and that. One foot wrenched free and she kicked out viciously, the sole of her foot finding a target. She managed to slip from underneath Dudley, but he was less drunk now and mounted her again. Before she could twist aside he thrust himself into her. Skye screamed.

  Then suddenly a huge roar of outrage echoed in the Hall. The painful grip on her arms and legs was loosened. Dudley was lifted off her in the middle of his rutting and thrown clear across the room, causing the others to scatter. Adam de Marisco helped her up. “Do you want me to kill the bastard, little girl?”

  “Yes!” she sobbed, then, “Oh, God, no! It’s Dudley, the Queen’s pet, Adam. You must not! Just put them out! All of them! Now!”

  The castle’s men-at-arms had returned and, under de Marisco’s direction, put the Earl of Leicester and his cronies out into the cold night. Then the lord of Lundy returned to the Hall where he wrapped a cloak about the shivering woman and held a cup of wine to her lips. “Drink it, little girl, it will warm you.”

  She gulped from the goblet gratefully. Finished, she said, “Thank God you came, Adam. Oh God, I wish I could kill him!”

  “Who will come the next time, Skye O’Malley?”

  “What?”

  “I said who will come the next time? You were lucky tonight. Who will rescue you the next time? You need a husband, my dear. You’re far too beautiful to be alone, and you simply cannot protect yourself. Now listen to me—if you can’t protect yourself, how can you protect your children?”

  “I’ve kept them safe so far!” she retorted hotly.

  “By sending them away from you, Skye. Alone and unprotected is no way for a woman to live.”

  “Then marry me, Adam!”

  He shook his head. “No, little girl, it would never do for the widowed Countess of Lynmouth to wed a simple island lord. I know now I’ve neither the great name nor the power you need.”

  “But you love me.”

  “Oh, Skye O’Malley, I do love you, but I’ve my pride, too. You’ll never love me, and I’m old-fashioned enough to want a woman who will truly love me. Think, little girl. There must be someone who has the name and the power, and with whom you might live in peace, possibly even in love.”

  She shook her head. But he refused to give up and when Robbie and Dame Cecily arrived the following day, they immediately agreed with Adam de Marisco, and added their voices to his. Robbie was horrified that Robert Dudley would make so free with Lynmouth Castle.

  “I’m writing your uncle,” he said. “He’s bound to come up with a good match for you.”

  “No!” she was becoming agitated, and paced the Hall frantically. “I cannot go through the pain of loving and losing someone again, Robbie. I cannot!”

  The giant Adam de Marisco looked on in amazement as Captain Sir Robert Small, just a shade over five feet tall, shouted at his beloved friend in a voice that would have split stone. “At what cost, Skye? The Queen bides her time. It amuses her to please Dudley, knowing you’re no threat to her. But what if Elizabeth decides to wed you to Dudley? Or bestow you and your fortune upon some other man she wishes to honor? She can do it, Skye. And if she does, there’ll be no premarriage agreement as there was with Southwood. You’ll lose everything you have and find yourself dependent upon your husband for pin money.” He could see the effect his words were having on her. She looked totally panicked, and he felt sorry for her. But she had to see the danger she was in. “Have your uncle make you a match. You don’t have to marry just anyone. There’ll be several men to chose from, and the choice is yours. It won’t be like when your father forced Dom on you.

  “In the spring I must begin another voyage, lass. I would feel happier knowing I leave you safely wed. Besides protection, you need a husband to take your mind from schemes such as last summer’s piracy.”

  “You knew?”

  “It had your fine touch, lass. And when Jean rendered me the year-end accounts, I showed no losses even for our two ships that were pirated.”

  “I would hardly rob you, my business partner,” she said indignantly.

  He chuckled. “What did you do with the rest of the cargoes?”

  “They were sold and the money was dispersed among the poor and the churches.”

  “It was a good jest on Bess Tudor, Skye, but no more. You were lucky not to be caught. Next time, you could be. I want you to promise me you will not go pirating again.”

  “No, Robbie, I’ve not finished with the Queen yet. Besides, I’ve Adam to protect me.”

  Adam de Marisco shifted uncomfortably. “You’ll have your new husband to protect you, little girl,” he said as Robbie and Dame Cecily nodded mutual approval.

  Skye threw up her hands in mock exasperation. She understood how right they were. “Very well then, you can write to my wily uncle, and I’ll send my own note with yours.”

  Their two letters were enough to rouse Seamus O’Malley, the Bishop of Connaught, from an attack of winter doldrums. With the holidays over and Lent just ahead, he had been feeling depressed. Robert Small’s letter instantly ended his dark mood. Mounted upon a fine bay gelding, he hurried off to see the MacWilliam.

  The overlord of Middle Connaught was delighted to hear that Skye O’Malley was again in need of a husband. Here was the answer to all his problems. This was the one woman Niall would marry happily, and he would finally see some grandsons!

  “On the same terms as before?” he asked the bishop.

  Seamus O’Malley looked pained. “My lord,” he said, “my niece is a very wealthy woman now in her own right. She is the widow of a belted Earl.”

  “An English
man!” was the scornful reply.

  “But a titled one,” rejoined the bishop smoothly.

  “She may be too old now to breed safely,” mused the MacWilliam slyly. “She’s at least five and twenty.”

  “And at the peak of her fertility!” came back the quick reply.

  The two men argued for some time. The minutes strung themselves into hours. Finally an agreement was reached and the bishop said, “I want a proxy marriage now, as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” demanded the MacWilliam suspiciously.

  “Because Skye is not overly enthusiastic about marrying. I’m afraid if we wait until after Easter she may change her mind. There’s no time to prepare a big wedding now, so if we don’t wed them by proxy now, we’ll have to wait until after Lent. D’you really want them to wait?”

  “Jesus, no!” swore the MacWilliam. “There’s been enough waiting already between those two! Have your priests draw up the contracts as quickly as possible so they can be taken to England and signed.”

  “They don’t have to go to England to be signed,” said Seamus O’Malley. “My niece has given me permission to act for her.” And then he thought, God forgive me, for Skye will have murder in her heart when she learns what I’ve done. Skye had indeed given him permission to act for her, and although she hadn’t spelled it out he knew that his aid was required only in the matter of seeking prospective bridegrooms. Skye would make the agreement all by herself. Still, he reasoned, he was the eldest O’Malley, and there wasn’t a court that wouldn’t uphold his right to make a final decision.

  Three weeks later the walls of Lynmouth Castle echoed with the outraged shrieks of its chatelaine. The servants, who had never seen the beautiful Countess in such a fine tearing Irish temper, wondered whether they should flee. Daisy, in the very eye of the storm, sent a groom at top speed to Wren Court to fetch Robert Small. The little captain arrived and hurried up the stairs of the castle in the direction of the screams and breaking crockery.

  Skye stood in the center of her antechamber, broken crystal and china about her. Her dark hair was loose and swirling and she wore only petticoats and a low-cut white blouse. At the sight of Robbie, she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. He held her and made soothing sounds until she finally quieted. Still holding her, he asked, “What is it, Skye lass? I can’t help you unless I know what is happening.”

  “It’s all your fault, Robbie! All yours! You all had at me! All of you! You and Adam and Dame Cecily all insisting I must marry to protect myself. Now look what you’ve done!”

  He thrust her from him. “What did we do?” he demanded.

  “What did you do?” she cried, her voice beginning to rise again. “Let me tell you what you’ve done! That wicked devil who calls himself my uncle, that saintly man of the Church that you asked to help me seek a new husband, that bastard has already wed me by proxy. I’ll have it annulled! I’ll not be wed against my will!”

  Robbie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was astounded by Seamus O’Malley’s actions and wondered why the man had acted in such haste. While Skye continued to pace and swear, Daisy caught his eye and held out a parchment to him. He took it and began to read, admiring as he did so, the cool way in which the elder O’Malley had taken complete advantage of his unsuspecting niece.

  “I am glad,” wrote the bishop, “that you have come to your senses and decided to marry again. To this end I have matched you with Niall, Lord Burke. Your wedding was celebrated by proxy on February third of this year with myself standing in to represent you. You may expect Lord Burke to arrive in England shortly. I do not have to tell you that the MacWilliam is very pleased with this match, as am I.” The letter went on for several more sentences, ending with the bishop’s hope that the union would be fruitful. The marriage contracts were enclosed, and Robbie was pleased to see that Seamus O’Malley had seen that his niece’s wealth remained in her hands. Her uncle had done an excellent job.

  Drawing a deep breath, Robbie said, “I cannot see why you’re so upset, Skye lass. You were to wed with Burke several years ago and you weren’t distressed by the idea then.”

  “I was but a girl, Robbie, and I believed I loved him. When I regained my memory Niall was horrible to me. What happened to separate us was not my fault, yet he blamed me. He accused me of all sorts of terrible things. He is spoiled, and I hate him. I told my uncle several months ago that I’d not wed with Lord Burke.”

  “If not Lord Burke, Skye, then who?”

  “I don’t know, Robbie, but anyone would be better!”

  “The marriage is valid, lass. There isn’t a court anywhere that would invalidate either the contracts or the proxy ceremony and there are no grounds for annulment. Whether you like it or not, you’re now Lady Burke.”

  “Go to Hell!”

  Robbie began to chuckle. “By God, I never thought to see you bested, but that sly old ecclesiastical fox has done it and done it well.”

  Skye’s blue eyes began to narrow and grow smoky with anger. But Robbie was so tickled by the situation that he failed to note her growing rage. He prattled on. “At least he’s chosen you a real man. Lord Burke is similar in character to both Khalid and Lord Southwood. No, indeed, you can’t complain, Skye lass.” And his mouth fell open with shock as the crystal decanter shattered just above his head, spattering diamond shards of glass and ruby-red droplets of wine down the wall.

  “This match has been made by my uncle, Lord Burke, and the MacWilliam with the sole purpose of breeding another generation. Well, without my cooperation they can’t get the new generation, can they?” she said softly, ominously. Then she continued, “Geoffrey has not been dead a year. I cannot possibly be a proper wife to Lord Burke while I am still in deep mourning. And then, of course, there is my semi-mourning for another year. As you are certainly aware, Robbie, propriety must be strictly observed.”

  Robbie began to look worried. “You can’t mean you’re going to deny him his rights?”

  She laughed, a harsh sound. “His rights? What rights?”

  Robbie felt a sinking sensation. “He’s your husband,” he said weakly.

  “I didn’t pick him. It was all your idea, and de Marisco’s and my uncle’s and the MacWilliam’s. All I asked was the right to chose, for I am the one involved. I am entirely capable of planning my own destiny. Instead, I have been married off without even the courtesy of a single discussion. Well, Robbie, if I must live with the consequences, then so must you all—including Niall Burke.”

  Robbie’s sinking feeling deepened. What had they done? Not just to her, but to Niall Burke as well? He did not regret his advice. Marriage had been the only solution. But the Bishop of Connaught had acted high-handedly. Robbie suddenly realized that he knew her better even than her own family did. Well, why not? When Skye had left them she was still a girl, her character just beginning to form. They still thought of her as a young girl. Those two sly old men hadn’t stopped to realize that a cleric and a provincial nobleman could scarcely conceive of the kind of life Skye had led in the last several years. What could they know of men like Khalid el Bey? He sighed. God, how much simpler it would have been if Khalid had lived. Skye would have had a dozen of his children and grown pleasingly plump on Turkish pastries. Then he chuckled at himself for being a fool. She simply wasn’t that kind of woman.

  “You cannot hold Lord Burke responsible for this situation. Though I am sure the idea of finally being wed to you has him ecstatic.”

  “He of all people should have known better than to wed with me without my personal consent.”

  “Perhaps your uncle convinced him that he had it.”

  In actuality Niall Burke had been astounded when, arriving home from a hunting trip, he had found Seamus O’Malley and his father sitting together getting companionably drunk.

  “Behold! The bridegroom cometh,” chuckled the bishop.

  Niall Burke felt his anger rise. “I warned you,” he snarled at his father, “I warned you to mak
e no matches for me!”

  The old man snickered. “You are being married February third, my son.”

  “The hell I am!” was the outraged reply.

  “My niece will be so disappointed,” the bishop cackled, and the MacWilliam joined in his laughter, the two old men doubling up like fools.

  Niall wondered if the smoky peat whiskey they were drinking had been tainted. His bewilderment caused the two to laugh harder, tears running from their rheumy eyes and down the worn old faces. Finally the bishop wheezed, “My niece, Skye, has given me her permission to arrange another marriage for her, now that Lord Southwood is dead. Your father and I have decided that since you were once intended to wed, you should do so now.”

  “And Skye is coming to Ireland to wed me?” Niall was incredulous.

  “No. We’re celebrating the marriage by proxy on February third. You are to go to England, for she’ll not come to Ireland and rob her little son, the Earl, of his rightful inheritance.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Niall was suspicious, knowing these two old schemers for what they were.

  “Lent, my lad. You know we cannot celebrate a marriage in that solemn season. D’you truly want to wait till after Easter to wed and bed Skye? After all these years?”

  “Very well then,” said Niall. “I agree.”

  “He agrees!” wheezed the MacWilliam with helpless mirth.

  “Praise be to God!” cackled the bishop, gasping for air. Niall Burke thought them both drunk, or mad, or possibly both.

  The contracts were signed the following day, and all Niall could think about from that point on was that Skye would soon be his. How sweetly modest she still was, even after all this time. What an adorable creature to have her uncle arrange the match instead of making the contracts herself. After all, she was hardly a maiden and not likely to be shy of him. His mind was so full of memories of Skye that the woman he had known so unhappily in England faded and the girl he had known so long ago took her place.

  Consequently he was unprepared for the cold woman who greeted him at Lynmouth Castle. It was but a few weeks after their marriage, when the winter weather had cleared. He had left the MacWilliam’s stronghold to travel across Ireland and take an O’Malley ship from the east coast town of Cobh to Bideford. In Bideford he repeated what he had done several years prior, and hired a horse for the ride to Lynmouth. He came alone, unheralded, without an escort. Riding across the lowered drawbridge into the courtyard, he said to the servant who ran out to greet him, “Tell the Countess that her husband has arrived.” The servant’s mouth dropped open, then he turned and ran.