Skye O'Malley (40 page)

In the early afternoon Robbie stood in the doorway and watched sadly as she rode off down the drive of Greenwood, keeping her red horse to a slow trot. Earlier he had gone down to the Thames and arranged for a waterman to take her little trunk upriver to the Ducks and Drakes. He sighed. He wished he were happier about the liaison.

Skye had been radiant when she departed. She wasn’t worried and enjoyed herself very much. Dressed quite elegantly in a black velvet riding habit, ecru lace at the sleeves and a froth of lace bubbling up at the neckline as well, she cut a superb figure. Her cloak was made up of alternating bands of sable fur and black velvet with heavy carved gold frog closings. The attached hood was edged in the same dark sable, and made a perfect contrast to her creamy complexion. Her black boots were of the finest Spanish leather, her cream-colored scented gloves of French kid. Her big red gelding adored her with a singular devotion.

As Skye had explained to Robbie, she and the Earl would meet a mile or so from the Strand, on the river road. They were less likely to be seen together at that point. The afternoon was cold and clear, and Skye fought the urge to set her horse acantering. Since noon was the dinner hour, few people were out. She had ridden for some
minutes when she heard the steady beat of hooves behind her and turned to see a tall man riding a large black stallion.

“Señora Goya del Fuentes, I bid you a good day.”

“Sir?”

“Niall, Lord Burke. We met last night at the Earl of Lynmouth’s gala.”

Her gaze swept over the tall dark man with the silvery eyes. He was really quite attractive, she thought, but he looked disapproving of her, and Skye found herself growing annoyed.

“Oh, yes, of course. How is your wife’s headache, my lord?”

“Gone, thank you.” He moved his horse next to hers. “Do you generally ride unescorted, madam? A dangerous practice, I would say.”

“I am meeting someone just a short ways away, my lord. I scarcely thought a groom necessary,” she dismissed his question. How dared he criticize her! But Lord Burke was not easily dismissed.

“I understand you were raised in Algiers.” The silvery eyes looked at her searchingly.

“Yes, my lord, I was.”

“Your parents were Irish?”

“So I was told, my lord.”

“Didn’t you know them?” He was incredulous.

“I do not remember them, my lord. I was brought by a sea captain to the convent of St. Mary and placed in the care of the nuns there.”

“Your name is unusual,” he noted, after a moment.

“It was what I called myself when I arrived there, though the nuns added Mary to it, thinking Skye not quite Christian.” Now why had she embroidered her tale? What did it matter if her name was Skye? Damn the man! Why didn’t he go about his business? She was almost sure that Geoffrey was around the next bend in the road. She flashed Burke a sweet smile. “I must go now, sir. My friend will be waiting.” And before he could protest she put spurs to her horse and was gone.

He could not make a display by following her, so he was forced to continue at a sedate trot. As he rounded the curve in the road, he saw her moving away accompanied by a man on a big chestnut stallion. It was likely Lord Southwood, thought Niall bitterly, remembering the gossip he had overheard last night.

Now Niall was more confused than ever. She looked and spoke like Skye O’Malley. Even her name was the same. It had to be his
Skye and yet … He shook his head. She gave no sign of recognizing him.

Then it struck him that perhaps she had survived after all, but had been despoiled by her captors, incarcerated in a harem, and was ashamed to face him. Maybe she was putting on an act for his benefit? Ah then, said his saner self, how pray tell did she escape captivity? And there was a child, too. And Captain Sir Robert Small, a most reputable man, not only supported her story, but appeared to be her protector.

Then another thought struck him. A sea captain had left her in Algiers. Had it been Dubhdara himself? Was it possible she was one of the old man’s bastards? God knows he’d had enough of them. The old satyr had never denied his urges. But if Dubhdara had done that, the question was,
why?

Sighing, Niall turned his horse back toward the Strand. He had been on his way home when he saw her riding out from her house, and he followed her in order to speak with her. He was being foolish. It was just a coincidence of names and looks. He had a wife who loved him and his Skye was dead. He had to believe that. Otherwise he might well go mad.

The Earl of Lynmouth and Skye rode happily together. Geoffrey Southwood was wildly in love for the only time in his life, and he was now to have three lovely days alone with his beloved.

“You’re beautiful,” he growled, and she laughed happily, throwing back her head so that her hood fell off, exposing her face and the pure white pillar of her neck. He wanted to stop, pull her from her horse, and cover that smooth creamy throat with his kisses. “How is it,” he continued, “that you are as fair in sunlight as in moonlight? Do you know you’ve bewitched me, Señora Goya del Fuentes?”

She colored becomingly, her lashes making charcoal smudges against her pink cheeks. “My lord, you make me feel shy of you.”

“Why, Skye! Didn’t anyone ever pay you outrageous compliments?”

“My husband.” It was stated simply.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart. I
am
sorry! Would you rather we went back?”

“No, Geoffrey. I don’t want to go back.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and cursed himself for a fool. This was only her first adventure, and she was hesitant. Reaching out, he took her hand and silently they rode on together. All about them the English January day was magnificent—the sky a cloudless bright
blue, the sun a sharp piercing yellow, the air cold, crisp, and invigorating. Their own warm breath and the horses’ heaving breaths made tiny clouds. The Thames River valley rolled gently, on and on. The lovers seemed entirely alone in the world, like Adam and Eve.

Skye rode quietly with her thoughts. She liked this man, though she doubted she would ever love him or any other man again. Love was both a passion and a pain. She didn’t think she could bear another loss like the loss of Khalid. If she simply enjoyed Geoffrey’s company and his lovemaking, she would be safe from hurt.

As the January sun began to sink away they came to a charming small inn set upon the river bank. It was separated from the road by a low stone wall that opened into a brick courtyard. Upon either side of the entry hung an oval sign depicting a drake surrounded by several ducks. The building was whitewashed and half-timbered, with a thatched roof and lead-paned bow windows that had window boxes filled with holly and ivy. From the great brick center chimney rose a curl of gray-blue smoke. As they clattered up to the inn door an ostler ran out from the stable to take their horses. Geoffrey’s hands lingered on Skye’s waist as he lifted her from her horse, and she felt her skin tingling against her silk undergarments. Taking her hand firmly in his, he led her into the inn.

“My lord Southwood!” A tall, moon-faced man came forward. “Welcome, my lord, my lady. We received your message this morning, my lord, and your room is ready. There will be no other guests for the duration of your stay.”

“My thanks, Master Parker. I think we will have dinner as soon as it can be made ready. It’s been a cold ride.”

“Very good, my lord! Rose! Where is that lass? Rose!”

“Here, Dad!”

“Escort my lord Southwood and his lady to their room, girl.”

Rose, a very buxom young lady whose ample bosom threatened to overflow its blouse, bobbed a curtsey, and smiled saucily at the Earl. “This way, m’lord, madam,” she said, leading them not upstairs but down a short sunlit hallway and into a small wing off the main inn building. The door swung open to reveal a charming white room with a bowed window, large fireplace, and big carved oak bed with heavy green and white linen hangings. Dark beams timbered the walls and ceiling. On one side of the fireplace was a round polished table holding a brown glazed earthenware bowl filled with pine boughs. There were two matching chairs. At the foot of the bed was a blanket chest. There was a seat built into the
window, with plump cushions of the same homespun green and white linen as the bed hangings.

Rose touched a brand to the perfectly laid fire and it blazed up instantly. “Your trunks are on either side of the bed, m’lord,” she said. “Can I bring you anything?”

Geoffrey looked to Skye. “Sweetheart?”

The little maid almost sighed her envy of the beautiful lady. “A bath,” pleaded Skye. “I can smell nothing but horses.”

He smiled down on her, then turned to Rose. “Will you see to it, love?” His big hand cupped the girl’s face, and he looked down into her bovine brown eyes.

Rose nearly fainted. “A-aye, m’lord. A b-bath. At once!”

He dropped his hand and she spun about and fled. He laughed softly, and Skye chided him, “Oh, Geoffrey, what a wicked man you are.”

He grinned at her. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. Then “I’ll bathe with you. I stink of horses too.” Reaching out, he pulled her into his arms, pushed her hood off, and loosened her hair so that it tumbled down her back in a shining black mass. One strong arm pressed her tightly against him. The other hand caressed her silken hair. She could feel herself growing weak with his touch, and fought to control her emotions. His green eyes mocked her efforts, and for a moment she became angry and struggled to escape him. He released her instantly.

“I’ll never force you, Skye,” he said aloud. The thought lay between them: because I don’t have to.

There was a scratching at the door and then a sturdy boy lugged in a small round oak tub. Several other boys carried in buckets of water. Rose ordered the tub placed before the fire, and set a carved screen about it. When the tub was filled and the male servants gone, she asked, “Shall I stay and help you, madam?”

“Thank you, Rose. I should appreciate it.” Her blue eyes twinkled wickedly. “Sorry, Geoffrey, but the tub is much too small for us both, as you can see. You will have to bathe after me.” It was a small but delicious revenge, and she was hard pressed not to laugh. She slipped behind the modesty of the screen and slowly removed each garment.

Sitting on the bed, he watched through narrowed eyes as first her velvet riding habit and then her perfumed, silken undergarments were handed over the screen to the solicitous Rose. Soon he heard the water splashing gently as she lowered herself into the tub.

“Will you need help, madam?”

“No, Rose. I can wash myself.”

“I’ll take your riding habit and cloak to be brushed, ma’am, and your underclothing to be washed. Then I’ll come back.”

“Don’t bother, I will care for my lady,” said the Earl as he escorted the servant girl to the door and firmly thrust her out. To sweeten the rebuff he slipped a gold piece down her front and, patting her backside, sent her on her way. The door was shut, the bolt slammed home. “And now, madam!” He strode across the room and yanked the carved screen aside. She sat covered by suds, her dark hair loosely pinned on top of her head. She looked up at him mockingly.

“My lord?”

He stripped off his clothes, letting them lie where they fell, and strode purposefully toward the tub.

“No!” she shrieked, “you’ll flood the room!”

He grinned wickedly. “Then get out and let me bathe.”

“I am not through!”

“But I am ready!”

“Oh, damn you, Southwood! Hand me a towel.”

He held it just out of her reach so that she was forced to stand in order to get it. The suds sluiced down her lush form, and Geoffrey Southwood drew in his breath sharply. The beast in him stirred. Clinging to an end of the towel as she grabbed it he pulled her over and kissed her. Her small full breasts, wet and warm, pushed demandingly at his chest.

“Skye, oh sweet Skye!” His voice was rough with longing. Then suddenly he felt the ground give way beneath him and he landed rudely in the warm, scented tub. She was laughing uproariously, the red mouth wide and luscious.

“There, Master Lecher! Cool your heels, and wash the stink of the road from your handsome body! Geoffrey! Geoffrey! How accustomed you must be to getting your way with women! Shame, my lord! Fie! We barely arrive and you ogle the maidservant. Then you kiss me, ogle the wench again, and pat her backside! Yes! I saw it! Then attempt to climb into
my
tub for another kiss and a cuddle. No, my lord! If you would have me as your own then I will demand fidelity. Are you capable of fidelity, Geoffrey Southwood?”

For the briefest instant he was angry. Angry with this nameless female, the Whoremaster of Algiers’ woman. How dare she impose conditions on him? But as he gazed at her he felt the anger dissolve. She was right. She wasn’t some common trull to love or ignore as the spirit moved him.

“
Touché
, sweetheart,” he admitted ruefully.

“I’ll teach you manners yet, Southwood,” she said mischievously.

“Scrub my back,” he shot back and, laughing, she complied.

She had decided in the early hours of the dawn that if she was to become his mistress it must be on her terms. She would not be one of many. She must be his only love. She would give to him affection and respect, but in return he must give her the same. And as she would be loyal and faithful to him, so must he be to her. She had, just now, won their first battle.

They ate in their room by the fireplace. It was a simple but very tasty meal of boiled lobsters, artichokes in oil and vinegar, newly baked bread with sweet butter, whole apples baked in pastry with colored sugar sprinkled over them accompanied by clotted cream, sharp cheese, and a pitcher of white wine.

Afterward they lay back against the plump goose-down pillows on the lavender-scented bed and, holding hands, fell asleep. Skye woke to watch the firelight dancing against the wall. Instinctively she knew he was awake too. Turning, she lay her head against his heart.

“What a wench you are,” he said softly, and stroked her hair. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Skye. You know that, don’t you? I’ve never loved before, sweetheart, but as God as my witness I do love you.”