Niall Burke calmly stripped off his riding gloves and strode into the castle. As he entered the hall, Skye came toward him. She was dressed totally in black. She was cool and elegant and very formal. “You should have told us you were coming, my lord. Have my servants seen to your retainers?”
“I have none. I came as soon as the weather cleared. There was no time to send word ahead.”
“We’ll have rooms readied for you, my lord.” He looked puzzled and she explained, “My husband is not dead a full year, my lord. I am still in mourning.”
“I am your husband, Skye.”
She smiled frostily. “My late husband,” she amended in a tone meant to convey how crassly he was behaving.
“Then why did you marry now, Skye?”
“My uncle had my permission to seek possible candidates for a marriage for me and nothing more. Instead he arranged this proxy marriage. I did not even know of the wedding until two days ago.”
“You didn’t want to marry me?”
“It is of little importance to me whom I wed, though I should have preferred having a choice. You see, Lord Burke, it was necessary that I take a husband.” She told him about Dudley and her need to protect both herself and her children.
Her words stunned him, and as their import sunk in he was torn between anger, pity, and laughter. In his eagerness to regain her, he had accepted a simple explanation for a situation that he ought to have known was not simple. From her icy demeanor, he decided that the MacWilliam would have a long wait for a grandchild. Oh, he could shout and bluster about his marital rights, but he suspected that would gain him only scorn. He decided that he would play the gentleman and wait. A rueful smile touched the corners of his mouth, for it seemed he was forever waiting for Skye O’Malley.
“You do need a permanent man in your life,” he said, “and who better than me? We loved one another once. Perhaps we will again.”
“Or perhaps not,” she said. “Love, it has been my experience, brings more bitterness than sweetness. I have lost two men I loved to death. I have the memory of bitter words between us, and although I forgave you because Geoffrey asked me to, I cannot forget those words.”
“I regretted them the moment they escaped my lips.”
“You were ever impulsive, Niall. Impulsive and heedless of the havoc your actions wrought. You are now my lawful husband but unless I can learn to love you again this marriage will be in name only. I have never given myself to a man I disliked.”
“You liked Dudley?”
“I despise Robert Dudley as I did Dom. They took, yes, but I never gave! Do you understand me?”
“And I do not make a habit of forcing unwilling women, my dear wife. I have no intention of doing so now. Do you understand me?”
“Then we should get on quite well, Niall Burke. You will keep to your place, and I to mine.”
He bowed mockingly to her. “It shall be just as you say, madam. Has the Queen been notified yet of this match?”
“The messenger left for Hampton Court the same day I received word from my uncle.”
“Then Elizabeth should know by now that a man stands by your side at Lynmouth.”
And Elizabeth did know. The Queen had been angry at first. “How dare she?” stormed Elizabeth. “She has not my permission!”
“Aye, she does, madam,” put in Cecil, Lord Burghley.
“She does?”
“Indeed,” the chancellor said smoothly. “You signed the papers several months ago when the Bishop of Connaught applied for permission for his niece to wed again. I believe that Lord Burke was at one time betrothed to the Countess of Lynmouth. It is an excellent match, madam. Skye O’Malley is head of the O’Malleys of Innisfana, a wealthy seagoing family. She will not, I suspect, leave England until her son can manage his own estates—which will not be for a long time. Her family will never dare to rebel against the Crown for fear of reprisals against her. We have therefore neutralized a potentially powerful enemy. The same can be said of the Burkes. Niall Burke is the only heir to the MacWilliam of Mid-Connaught. He and his people dare not act against England as long as his heir is in England, and he will be as long as his bride cannot leave. That is why I advised you to sign the papers allowing the Countess to wed again.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. Leicester would be very disappointed. Still, he had had his fun, and she didn’t want him becoming overly involved with Skye. Why, he might have eventually desired marriage with the lovely Countess. And surely dear Skye could not have remained forever impervious to darling Robert’s charms. What woman could? No, it was better that dear Skye had married again.
“I think it would be wise, under the circumstances, to transfer the guardianship of little Lord Southwood to his stepfather,” remarked William Cecil.
“Yes,” said the Queen thoughtfully. “But Rob will be upset. The child is a rich prize. Find him another such prize quickly so we may sever the connection immediately.” She turned to one of her secretaries. “Send our felicitations to Lord and Lady Burke along with the transfer of guardianship of the young Earl of Lynmouth. Also, a purse of a hundred gold marks and a pair of silver candelabra. Say we will be happy to receive them at Court anytime.”
Lord Burghley was pleased. She might be her father’s cub, but she was his student. He, Cecil, had guided and taught her well, and at that moment he was proud of her. “I think Lord Dudley would be pleased with the guardianship of the Dacre heiress. She was the posthumous only child of Lord John Dacre. Her mother died in childbirth.”
Elizabeth Tudor nodded. Yes, Rob would be pleased with such a rich prize, and the royal influence would be needed more in the north where border families like the Dacres swung back and forth in their allegiance. There was no question of the young Southwood’s loyalty.
The royal messages were dispatched along with the royal gifts. Skye cared nothing for the purse of gold marks or the silver candelabra. But her delight in the transferral of Robin’s guardianship to Lord Burke was boundless. Niall watched her sardonically as she exulted in her victory.
“It seems,” he remarked pleasantly, “that I have managed to be of some use to you.”
“You must feel quite fulfilled,” she answered sarcastically.
“I am more fulfilled than you are, my dear. How you exist with cold iced water in your veins instead of warm red blood is beyond me.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about your barmaid,” she answered with a nonchalance she did not feel.
“Have you?” he drawled and the corners of his mouth twitched in a way that infuriated her.
“They call her the ‘Devon Rose’ I am told. Is that because she is overblown, or because she smells?” Skye’s face was a study in innocence.
Niall Burke burst out laughing. “Dammit, woman, your tongue is knife-sharp! You’re a hell of a lot more interesting than the maid I knew ten years ago, Skye.”
“Yet you feel it is necessary to take and flaunt a mistress, sir.”
“Madam, I am a man, and whether we discuss it or not, you do deny me of my marital rights. I am willing to be patient, but I am not willing to be celibate.”
“I have been in mourning.”
“For a man dead a year. We have been wed two and a half months.”
“Dead a year today,” she said, her voice trembling. “Would it were you instead of Geoffrey.” And she ran from the room so he could not see her weeping.
Niall swore softly. He had liked Geoffrey Southwood, but he was fast becoming sick of his ghost. He had thought that she would thaw and accept their marriage sooner or later. Instead she had grown colder and more distant with each passing day. They could not leave Lynmouth until little Robin was six or seven and could be sent to page in another household. In the meantime, he must live in Geoffrey Southwood’s house, fathering Geoffrey Southwood’s son, but not husbanding Geoffrey Southwood’s widow who was now his wife.
The children had accepted him easily enough. Willow had said flatly, “You’re my third father, y�
��know. The first died before I was born, and the second just last year. I hope you’ll stay longer.”
“I shall do my best,” he had told her gravely.
Robin had been delighted to have another man in the family again. “What shall I call you?” he asked.
“What would you like to call me, Robin?”
“I—I don’t think I could call you ‘Papa.’ It’s what I called my father.” The boy’s voice was tremorous.
“I understand. Why don’t you call me Niall? That’s my name, and I’ve no objections if your mother doesn’t.”
For the children it had been a settled matter, but for the adults it was simply not that easy. Niall had taken over the management of the Lynmouth estates, and Skye had had no objections to that. She seemed always preoccupied. After their argument of the afternoon Niall vowed he would charm her that evening at dinner, but she did not appear at table.
“Where is your mistress?” he asked Daisy, who was eating with the other upperservants down the board. Daisy rose from her seat and came to stand beside him. She curtseyed, then said, “I believe she may have taken the boat out, my lord.”
“Her boat?”
“Aye, my lord. The boat is moored below the cliffs. My little brother, Wat, cares for my lady’s boat. He’ll be happy to show you the way, sir.”
Niall finished his meal, thoughtful, and then waved the boy over to him. “Did Lady Burke take her boat out, Wat?”
Wat shuffled his feet, but nodded.
“Do you know where she went?”
“Don’t know, sir.” But Wat suspected that his lady had gone to Lundy. He knew her moods by now.
“Do you think she’ll be back tonight, lad?”
“Maybe, maybe not, my lord. Sometimes she stays all night, but sometimes she comes back, late. Her and the sea is friends.”
Niall smiled. “Thank you, Wat. I’d like you to show me the boat mooring now.”
“Aye, my lord,” was the obedient reply, and Niall hid another smile. The boy was obviously loyal to Skye. She engendered fierce loyalties. Niall could see that young Wat resented what he considered an intrusion into his mistress’s private life. So, as he followed the boy, Niall spoke quietly to the lad.
“Did you know that I’ve known your mistress since she was a slip of a girl? I know how good she is with boats. But I worry. You see, Wat, I love her.”
The boy said nothing, but Niall noted that the stiff set of his shoulders eased somewhat. He trotted silently along ahead of the tall Irishman until they finally reached the cave. Lord Burke’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and his lips pursed softly. It was a good-sized space and well lit to boot. He saw the wide-mouthed entrance and walked out onto the ledge, noting the steps to the water, the iron ring. Niall turned to the boy. “You can go back, Wat. I’ll stay here a bit.” The boy seemed in a quandary, but then shrugged and headed back up the stairs. It wasn’t his business to tell the gentry what to do.
The April evening was warm and pleasant. Niall sat out on the ledge, the cave wall at his back, watching the sunset. The sea was calm and dark and above him he heard the mewling cries of a nest of gull babies settling in for the night. The sky now began to darken, the first pale stars twinkling tentatively as if they weren’t quite sure it was time for them to be there. Niall Burke sat quietly on the hard stones of the ledge. Soon the sky was black, the stars no longer pale but diamond-bright. A faint wind sprang up, and the air grew damp. Still, he waited. He was deeply curious. Where had she gone? Would she be back tonight? Here was a whole new aspect of Skye’s life that he hadn’t known of. It was growing cold and he wished he had thought to bring his cloak. Soon, then, as if he had voiced the thought aloud, he heard Wat saying:
“I’ve brought you a cape, m’lord, and Daisy said you were to have a flask of wine.”
Niall stood stiffly, and taking the fur-lined garment, wrapped it tightly about his chilled body. “Thank you, lad,” he said as he uncorked the flask. He drank deeply and was grateful for the warmth that hit his innards like molten rock, then spread upward. Wat nodded and lit the ledge beacons. “The mistress be late tonight. Could be she not be back till late,” he ventured.
“I’ll wait,” said Niall.
Wat disappeared back into the cave, and Niall could hear his steps as he mounted the stairs. It was quiet again, only the gentle slap of the sea against the rock of the ledge to cut the silence. The star formations overhead moved slowly across the heavens, and new ones took their place. Niall dozed, waking suddenly to find the sky gray with the early dawn, and Skye’s small boat sailing toward him. Slowly he rose, shaking his lean frame loose, and walked down the steps to take the rope she tossed casually to him. Fastening it to the ring, he reached down and pulled her up. She moved past him, and he smelled the scent of tobacco on her sea clothes. Jealousy surged up in him and he had a difficult time controlling his voice.
“Where the hell were you?” he demanded.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “At sea,” she replied shortly.
“I waited all night!”
“Did you? I’m touched, but you wasted time you might have spent rutting with your Devon Rose in a warm bed.”
She was mounting the stairs and he leaped after her.
“You weren’t at sea all this time,” he said flatly.
“No?” She looked over her shoulder, a mocking expression on her beautiful face.
“Not unless you’ve taken up smoking tobacco, Skye.”
“What?”
“Your clothes reek of it!”
She stopped and sniffed at her doublet. “You’re absolutely right, Niall,” she said, and continued on her way without another word.
Astounded, he stood rooted to the stairs for a few moments. The bitch had a lover! It was the only possible explanation. What was it about him that sent his wives seeking other men? Nothing! he decided, slamming his fist into his palm. He remembered women who had lain panting with passion beneath him. He would not allow memories of Constanza’s treachery to obliterate good sense.
Suddenly, he heard the door click shut above him and he returned to the present. The little bitch! To hold him off in the guise of mourning for Geoffrey Southwood when all the while she was sailing off to join a lover! How they must have laughed at him, she and her lover. His rage grew. Who was the man?
He mounted the stairs purposefully. There would be no more waiting. Her little game was over. And after he had settled the score with her he intended sinking her damned boat so she could not run off again. This might be Lynmouth Castle, and she might be the Countess of Lynmouth, but she was also Lady Burke, a fact he was about to bring home to her.
Time had taught Niall Burke the value of subtlety. Reaching the door that led into his own apartment, he entered and called to his body servant. Mick came running. “A bath!” ordered his master, and the deep oak tub was filled with hot water. Niall spent a good half-hour washing, including his short-cropped dark, wavy hair. Climbing out, he toweled himself vigorously while standing before the fire. His body was still long and lean, and had matured well. He was warm and the blood raced in his veins as he thought of Skye. Mick held out his dressing gown and he wrapped it tightly about him. Then he went through the door that connected their bedchambers.
Skye, too, was freshly bathed, as the tub before the fireplace bore evidence. She sat naked at her dressing table brushing her long black hair while Daisy turned back the bed. Startled by his entry, she reached for the lacy shawl that lay on the edge of the table. He snatched it away. Suddenly wary, she sprang up.
“Daisy! Get out!” His voice barked the command.
“Daisy! Stay!” she countermanded desperately.
Frantically Daisy looked back and forth between the two, caught in a terrible quandary. Niall took a menacing step toward the servant woman and, with a shriek, Daisy fled, slamming the door behind her. Niall calmly threw the bolt, then leapt across the room in two strides to close and bolt the connecting door that separated their two apartments
. In doing so he successfully captured Skye, who had been trying to escape through that door.
He towered above her, his handsome, craggy face dark with rage. His eyes blazed a chill, silver fire, colder than anything she had seen in those eyes before. Real fear began moving upward from her belly, and she fought to hide it from him.
Niall pinioned his wife against the door, his arms making prison bars on either side of her. Neither of them spoke for the space of several heartbeats, and he did not fail to notice the frightened pulse leaping at the base of her slender throat. At long last, Skye managed to whisper hoarsely:
“You have no right.”
“More than your lover!” he snapped, his eyes fastened on her perfect small breasts, their rosy peaks rigid with fear.
Bewildered, caught off guard, she nearly stammered. “My—lover? I have no lover!”
“You stay out all night and come home with your clothes reeking of tobacco smoke and tell me you have no lover? What then, madam, is your explanation? And think not to tell me this is not my business. You’re my wife.”
Christ’s bones! she swore silently. She couldn’t tell him, for he’d never understand. How could she say, you hurt me, and I sailed off to Lundy because I have a friend there? How could she tell him that she and Adam de Marisco had spent the whole night just talking, that the reason her clothes smelled of tobacco was that Adam had recently taken up a pipe? How could she explain the lord of Lundy to a husband? Niall would never know that Adam had indeed once been her lover, for de Marisco was no more eager to tangle with Lord Burke than Skye was for him to know.
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