Skye O'Malley (32 page)

The
Mermaid
was berthed in Plymouth on the channel side of Devon. Jean would go to London with Skye, but Marie would remain at Wren Court caring for both babies. She had already taken over the nursing of Willow, her large peasant breasts producing more than enough milk for the two children. To Dame Cecily’s relief, Skye considered the mild air of Devon more salubrious for her daughter than the climate of London. Dame Cecily could not have been happier. Skye had become the daughter she had never had, and Willow her grandchild. It pained her to part with one, but to part with both would have broken her heart.

Skye was feeling the pain of separation as well. “Oh, I wish you would come with me, Dame Cecily! I have so much to do, and your help would be invaluable. Heaven only knows what condition the house is in, and I shall probably have to refurnish it. Promise me
that when it is done, you’ll come up to London with Marie and the children.”

“Of course I will, my child. Lord bless me. I’ve not been to Londontown since I was a girl and that’s thirty years past! I believe I’ve a hankering to go again, and I’ll come when you’ve got your house in order.”

They rode out from Wren Court on a bright, early autumn morning. Skye had lingered with Willow, loath to leave the baby. Finally Robbie had shouted at her in exasperation, “Dammit, lass! The sooner you get to London, the sooner she can be with you again!” Skye kissed her daughter and, mounting her horse, rode off. The countryside through which they traveled was hilly. They rode by grain fields ready for harvesting, meadows of sheep and Devon cattle, and thriving orchards. Ahead of them the flat granite tableland of Dartmoor thrust up from the rolling hills, and it was there in an inn called
The Rose and Anchor
that they spent the night.

When they had arrived the inn was empty, so Robbie decided they could eat in the taproom. But as the meal was served, a party of riders arrived and trooped noisily into the inn.

“Damn,” muttered Robbie irritably, “I wish I’d asked for a private room. They’re noblemen, and if they get rowdy we’re in for it.”

Suddenly a voice boomed across the room and a man detached himself from the crowd. “Robert Small! Is that you, you old sea trout?”

Robbie’s eyes lit up, and he quickly stood. “My lord de Grenville! It is good to see you. Join us in a cup of wine.”

De Grenville had reached the table. “Your manners, Robbie,” he chided. “You’ve not introduced the lady to me yet.”

The sea captain flushed. “Your pardon, Skye. May I present Lord Richard de Grenville. My lord, this is Señora Goya del Fuentes, the widow of my late Algerian business associate. I am escorting her, and her secretary, Jean Morlaix, to her house in London.”

Skye slowly extended her hand and de Grenville kissed it. “My lord.”

“Madam. A pleasure, I assure you. I find it most reprehensible of Robbie to have such extraordinary luck.”

“Luck, my lord?”

“To be escorting quite the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen to London.”

Skye laughed as she blushed. “My lord de Grenville. I fear you’ll quite overwhelm me with your flattery. Please, do sit down and join us.”

“You’re not Spanish,” he observed as he seated himself.

“No, I am Irish.”

De Grenville poured himself a goblet of wine. “I thought so. Most outrageously beautiful women in the world. Tell me, madam, how do you find England? Is this your first trip here?”

“Yes, it is, and I find England a joy, sir. I have been living at Robbie’s home for close to a year now.”

“Skye was
enciente
with her husband’s child when we first arrived,” Robbie explained hastily lest de Grenville misunderstand.

“A son or a daughter, madam?”

“A daughter. Her name is Willow. I have left her at Wren Court with Dame Cecily and her wet nurse. I know not in what condition I will find my husband’s house, so until I have time to refurbish it, she is best left in Devon.”

Across the room, where de Grenville’s party of friends were sprawled about a table, one man, lean, blond and arrogantly handsome, stared boldly at Skye. She was incensed when he caught her eye and then raised an elegant eyebrow in a manner that could have but one meaning. It was as plain a request as though he had spoken aloud, and just as insulting. Angrily she turned away, tossing her head, and listened once more to what de Grenville was saying.

“Very wise, madam. London is not a town for tender creatures.”

“So I have heard, my lord,” replied Skye. Then, “Tell me, sir, who is the gentleman in your party who stares at me so rudely? The one with the face of an angel.”

De Grenville didn’t even bother turning around. Her description was enough. “Lord Southwood, madam, the Earl of Lynmouth.”

“Robbie, please escort me to my room and arrange to have a tray sent up. The Earl makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. He gazes at me as he would a tray of sweetmeats.” She stood, casually brushing her long riding skirt free of crumbs. “My lord de Grenville. I bid you good night.” She held out her slim hand and he kissed it. “Madam. I hope we will meet in London. Now, allow me to escort both you and Robbie past your ardent admirer.”

But it wasn’t to be that easy. As they neared the taproom door, the Earl of Lynmouth moved to block their way.

De Grenville grinned. “Give over, Southwood. The lady is leaving.”

“Not before we’re introduced, my dear Dickon. You simply cannot hoard all the beauties to yourself.”

De Grenville shrugged. “Señora Goya del Fuentes, Lord Geoffrey Southwood. Now, Geoff, let us pass.”

“Señora, will you share a goblet of wine with me?”

“No, sir. I will not,” snapped Skye. She pushed past him and left the taproom, Robbie in her wake.

De Grenville laughed softly. “Geoff, you’ve been quite properly bested, I do believe.”

Lord Southwood went white about the corners of his mouth. “Who is she, Dickon?”

“The widow of Captain Small’s business partner.”

“She’s not Spanish.”

“Her husband was. She’s Irish.”

“She’s magnificent. I intend having her,” said Southwood.

“I have heard that your taste runs to women unable to protect themselves, Geoff. Señora Goya del Fuentes is a very wealthy woman. You won’t be able to bully her, and she’ll not be bowled over by a few baubles or a cheap gown. I wager she’ll send you packing.”

“How much will you wager, Richard?”

De Grenville let a slow smile spread over his face. Southwood had a magnificent stud stallion that de Grenville coveted. “One year’s time, Geoff. At the end of that time you’ll turn over your stud, Dragon’s Fire, to me.”

“Six months, Dickon, at which time you’ll turn over to me your magnificently outfitted river barge.”

De Grenville winced. His barge was the most elegant on the river, and even the Queen coveted it. Still, he reasoned, the beautiful Señora Goya del Fuentes was no lightskirt and she had obviously detested Southwood on sight. It was unlikely that she would succumb, and besides he wanted that stallion very much.

“Done!” he said decisively. “Your stallion against my barge. The time period to be six months from this day.” He held out his hand and Southwood shook it firmly.

“Try not to damage my barge this autumn, Dickon,” Southwood said mockingly. “Come spring, I shall want to take my new mistress cruising on the river.”

“I won’t, Geoff. And you see that my stallion is well cared for and not overbred?”

The two men parted then, each secure in the knowledge that he would soon possess a coveted new toy.

Geoffrey Southwood did not know what intrigued him the most—the lovely widow’s beauty, her air of breeding, or her dislike of him. He would enjoy the challenge of seducing and taming her. And he would be the envy of London for owning such a fine mistress. By fair means or foul, Southwood vowed he would have her.

CHAPTER 14

S
KYE’S HOUSE WAS LOCATED ON THE
S
TRAND ON THE
G
REEN IN
the village of Chiswick outside the city of London. The last building in the row, it was much less pretentious than its neighbors. Farther down the line were the palaces of such great lords as Salisbury and Worcester, and the bishop of Durham.

They had sailed from Plymouth up the coast into the mouth of the Thames. There the
Mermaid
had anchored in the Pool awaiting her chance to dock in London. Skye, Jean Morlaix, and Robert Small had disembarked and ridden ahead. It would be several weeks before the
Mermaid
was assigned a wharf space, and Robert Small trusted his reliable first mate to oversee the ship in his absence.

Skirting the main portion of the city, they soon arrived at Chiswick. It was a small and charming village with an excellent inn, the Swan, on the far side of its green. Here they stopped to refresh themselves with cups of freshly pressed cider, warm newly baked bread covered with pink ham, and a sharp, pale golden cheese. Skye was ravenous and ate eagerly, much to the beaming approval of the fat innkeeper. He poured her another foaming goblet of cider.

“Be you passing through?” he queried.

Skye sent him a blinding smile that quite stunned him. “No,” she said, “I own a house here, Master Innkeeper, and I’ve come to live in it.”

“Which ’ouse is that, madam? I thought I knew all the great lords and their families. I grew up here, you see. Ever since there’s been an inn in Chiswick, there ’ave been Monypennys in Chiswick. In fact,” and here he chuckled, his fat belly heaving with mirth, “no one ’as ever been quite sure which came first, the Swan or the Monypennys! Aha! Ha! Ha!”

Jean and Captain Small looked askance but Skye giggled, thus increasing the innkeeper’s approval of her. “I am Señora Goya del Fuentes, Master Monypenny. The house I own is ‘Greenwood,’ the last one on the Strand. It belonged to my late husband.”

“You’re Spanish?” his voice was now edged in disapproval.

“My husband was. I am Irish.”

“Almost as bad,” came the reply.

“Mon
Dieu
!
Quel cochon
!” muttered Jean.

“Master Monypenny! I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Señora Goya del Fuentes is a good and gentle lady, and not to be abused while under my protection.” Robert Small’s hand was on his sword.

The big innkeeper looked down at the little sea captain. “Lord bless me!” he began to chuckle. “She must be a fine lady that the ant would challenge the sparrow! My apologies, ma’am. It’s just that the memory of Bloody Mary and her Spanish husband dies hard.”

“Bloody Mary?”

“The late Queen. Her that was married to Philip of Spain. Young Queen Bess’s half-sister.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Master Monypenny. Now I understand,” said Skye. She had heard the story of the sad daughter of Catherine of Aragon from Dame Cecily. “Well, I promise you I am nothing like Bloody Mary. My daughter and I have no family left anywhere that we know of, and so we have come to England to make a new life. English hospitality is famous worldwide.”

The innkeeper ruffled with pride. “And so it should be, ma’am. So it should be. You’ll be quite happy here upon the Strand. Now, if I may involve myself in your business for a moment … You say your house is the last one in the row. Tsk! The last tenants left it in shameful condition, and if you’ll allow me, ma’am, I’ll have rooms for you and your party set aside. The plain fact is that your house is not habitable.”

“Robbie! Was the agent not notified to prepare the house for me?”

“He was, Skye.”

The innkeeper shook his head dolefully. “That would be Mr. Taylor, wouldn’t it? He’s a bad ’un, but how were you to know that?”

“Bad? In what way, Master Monypenny?” asked Robert Small.

“He’s been renting the house out to youngbloods for their—oh, dalliances, you might say. Charges ’em twice what you asks for the house, pockets the overage, and then collects his commission too.”

“And how do you know
that
?”

“He’s in the habit of taking a drink here now and then. But he can’t hold his liquor. More than two pints and he begins to talk. One night during the late Queen’s reign he bragged about how he was cheating the Spaniard who owned the house.”

“We had best go and check the house, Robbie.” The sea captain nodded. “I should be grateful, Master Monypenny, if you
would set aside rooms for us, as well as a private dining room. I shall require a bath upon our return.”

“At once, ma’am!”

Remounting their horses, they rode across the green and down Riversedge Street. Skye was impressed by the great houses that lined the waterside. As they neared the end of the street the buildings became less grand, however, the last three being an elegant mansion, a small palace, and finally a charming house of mellowed pink brick. It was set within a private green park. The gates showed rust, and hung loosely open. Robert Small pursed his lips. Pushing open the gates, he led the way into the grounds.

The park was overgrown and unkempt, the woodland filled with brambles, the lawns waist-high in weeds. When they reached the house they found several windows broken and the front door hanging open on broken hinges.

“Master Taylor is going to have a lot to answer for,” growled Robbie. “Where the hell is the gatekeeper? He should be guarding the premises. Jean, didn’t you pay wages last year for a year’s gatekeeping service?”

“
Oui
, Captain, I did, but the monies were forwarded to Master Taylor, the agent.”

“It’s neither here nor there now,” said Skye. “The damage is done. Let us see if the inside has fared as badly.”

The three entered the house and gasped with shock as they moved from room to room on the main floor. Then Robert Small ran quickly upstairs inspecting the second and third floors. His face was a thundercloud when he descended again.

“Stripped!” he roared. “There isn’t a stick of furniture in the entire house! Nor draperies, rugs, linens, or plate! You’ve been robbed! The dirty bastard has taken everything!”

“Master Monypenny knew whereof he spoke,” observed Skye drily. “I won’t be played for a fool, Robbie. Master Taylor must be caught and prosecuted. I imagine, however, that the furnishings are long gone. You were in the house several times, Robbie. Do you recall seeing anything of great value?”