All the Sweet Tomorrows (32 page)

Skye stopped crying. There was Adam. Adam had never been really harmed for loving her, but then Adam had never been married to her. Some instinct warned her not to mention Adam, for she had seen that Nicolas could be jealous. “There is no one,” she said softly.

“Then I shall have the honor of being the man to destroy your dragon,
doucette!”
he said gaily. “Do not fear,
ma chérie!
I am a lucky man. I always have been. I was conceived a bastard, and my father might have disowned me, but my mother and my grandfather did not. They loved me and nurtured me. My grandfather even legitimatized me, allowing me to inherit his title, such as it was. My half-brother made me his heir, the Pope confirmed it, and now I am a duc. A wealthy duc! I shall be lucky in love, too! In a year’s time I shall marry you, and we shall make beautiful children together, and we shall live happily ever after as they do in all the children’s tales.” He tipped her face up and looked down into her blue-green eyes. “Do you believe me, my beautiful
doucette?
Will you trust me to make everything all right?”

She looked into his eyes, eyes that were filled with love for her, eyes that honestly believed the words he spoke. He was so sure of himself. He was so sure of his ability to make everything all right. She wanted to believe that he could, and why not, she thought. “I will trust you, Nicolas,” she answered him. “Oh, my darling, I will trust you! Perhaps this time it will be all right.”

In the days that followed it seemed that she had made the right decision. Nicolas St. Adrian was a perfect lover, and he was also a man of his word. He worked very hard to understand the sort of woman that Skye was, and as he came to understand her he found he liked an independent woman. He began to admit to himself that as sweet as his mother had been, he had sometimes found her helplessness irritating and cloying. It had been an effort for her to choose between venison and rabbit pastry for her supper, and he wondered why his father had been attracted to her in the first place. He could only suppose that it was his pretty mother’s innocence that had been so enticing. Skye, however, had no such difficulty reaching decisions. She was a woman who seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. She
was a woman who knew power and had dealt with it, and she quite fascinated him.

To her immense delight, Skye found that as well as being a magnificent lover, Nicolas had an excellent mind. That he had never had the opportunity to learn the things she knew had not been his fault; and under her tutelage he began to acquire an excellent knowledge of finance, and trading, politics and government, courtly behavior and maneuvering that would stand him in good stead in the years to come. Skye enjoyed teaching so apt a pupil, and the days slipped by, turning into weeks, and gradually into months.

In Beaumont de Jaspre Skye found herself living a life far different from any she had ever lived. Away from the mainstream of a powerful court and a powerful country, their lives were quiet and calm. The de Beaumonts had never had an important court like some of the larger city-states, but now with an elegant and gay young duc the livelier members of the little duchy’s nobility began to congregate about the castle. It was quickly apparent to the young women among this group that Nicolas St. Adrian had chosen his duchesse. They accepted this with as good a grace as they could under the circumstances, but it did not prevent some of the bolder among them from flirting outrageously with the duc. Nicolas was flattered by their attention, but he had made his decision within the first hour of his arrival in Beaumont, and his heart remained true to Skye.

As Christmas approached she began to grow sad once more. A year ago she had been pregnant with Padraic, and Niall had been alive. With their baby daughter, Deirdre, and the MacWilliam they had celebrated in the Great Hall at Burke Castle. Huge oak Yule logs were dragged into the hall to be burned in the enormous fireplaces. The hall itself was decked in garlands of pine and holly. There were great haunches of venison to eat, and casks of frozen cider into which red-hot pokers were plunged, the sweet liquor being drawn off a little at a time into the silver goblets. There was a minstrel who could sing all the stories of old, of the time when Ireland was free from England, and the land was peopled with giants and fairies, and great heroes and brave, beautiful women; of a time when grand and noble deeds were done, and love was always undying.

Nicolas could see the sudden, drastic change in her mood, and intuitively sensed that she was thinking of another and happier time in her life. He half hoped that she was pregnant, so he might have an excuse to marry her now; but Skye had told him
quite gravely when he had once mentioned it that they would not have children until after they were married. The positive way in which she spoke led him to believe that she practiced some forbidden sort of contraception, but he would not press her on it. She was not yet his wife, and he realized that she needed time; a time to grieve that had been denied her before and that he would not deny her now.

Nicolas had a wonderful surprise for Skye, something that he knew would make her gay and happy once more. Each day he scanned the mouth of Villerose’s harbor for the return of Bran Kelly’s ship, which, he hoped, would bring Edmond, the Queen of England’s blessing on his union with Skye, and the surprise. Three days before Christmas the
Seagull
sailed back to Beaumont de Jaspre’s main harbor.

Nicolas and Skye rode down the hill from the castle and through the town, a small coterie of guards escorting them. It was a perfect Mediterranean day, and she looked so very beautiful in the deep-blue silk riding dress, its sleeves lavishly trimmed in cream-colored lace, which dripped gracefully from just below her elbows, her lower arms being bare. Upon her hands she wore cream doeskin gloves embroidered in tiny freshwater pearls and gold thread. Although the sun was quite bright and it was a warm day, Skye had chosen not to wear any headdress. Instead, her long black hair was bound back only by an embroidered ribbon. She rode a white palfrey with a red leather saddle and a bridle that was hung with tinkling silver bells.

The road wound down from the castle through the pink town with its balconies filled with their profusion of brightly colored blossoms, the millefloral scent perfuming the air around them. Upon some of the balconies hung cages of songbirds trilling happy tunes. It was all so beautiful that Skye wanted to cry. It would be so wonderful to have her children with her. How they would enjoy the days of golden sunshine and warm weather. She sighed, determined not to be sad and spoil Nicolas’s mood. He was trying so hard to make her happy, and it was not his fault that he was unable to supply her with the one thing that she needed to complete her happiness. As they passed through the main square of the town the market-day crowds took up the delighted cry,
“Vive le Duc! Vive Madame la Duchesse!”
It was impossible not to smile, and wave a hand at these friendly people who were obviously so eager to love them.

Ahead, the street opened into the harbor area. The docks of Beaumont de Jaspre were alive with ships unloading their goods
from all over the Mediterranean and northern Europe. She could smell the fragrance of spices, the strong scent of uncured hides and fish all mingling into a smell particular to docks the world over. The vessels were flying flags from virtually every nation: England, Norway, France, Spain, the Ottoman Empire, Sweden, Algiers, Morocco, Portugal, Scotland. There were so many languages being spoken that when she tried to concentrate on one, her head began to spin.

They were able to ride directly to Skye’s ship, which had been given a preferred dockage near the open-air harbor market. She could see the O’Malley flag fluttering in the soft afternoon breeze around the ship’s mast. On the open main deck she could see some of the crew moving about. They came to a stop before the gangway, and dismounting, Nicolas helped her from her saddle. Bran Kelly appeared from the main cabin, and calling out to him Skye waved. He flashed her a delighted grin and waved back. Skye hurried aboard.

“Have you brought Edmond back?” she demanded.

“Indeed, m’lady, I have, and a surprise from your duc that I hope will please you.” Bran turned to Nicolas. “Now, sir?”

Nicholas smiled. “Now,” he said.

“If you will come into the main cabin with me, m’lady,” Bran said politely, and Skye, puzzled, followed as he opened the door and stepped back to allow her through first.

Walking over the threshold, Skye suddenly stopped, and stared hard. Then without warning she burst into tears. Instantly she was surrounded by her children all laughing, shouting, and crying themselves. A small dark-haired little tot peered wide-eyed around Edmond de Beaumont’s legs at her, and another, a fat blue-eyed baby boy, gazed seriously at her from his nurse’s arms.

“Are you not glad to see us, Mama?” the practical Willow demanded.

Skye O’Malley stared at five of her six children, quite overcome with pure and total joy.
She had everything!
Speechless for a brief moment, she held out her arms to the children and the three older ones rushed to her, all talking at once. She hugged Murrough. God’s nightshirt! He was taller than she was now. How had that happened in only seven months? She kissed Willow, her beautiful and treasured little daughter. Willow’s cheeks were damp, but she smiled a blindingly radiant smile at her mother, and words were not necessary between the two. “Robin!” She finally found her voice, and gathering Geoffrey
Southwood’s son into her arms, she hugged him hard. Robin, usually very conscious of his position in life, did not complain, but kissed his mother’s cheek enthusiastically.

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.”