Skye O'Malley (52 page)

“I have proof, ma’am, but I should not like to present it publicly.”

“Sir! You saw fit to begin this affair publicly, so that is how we will air it. Speak or else tender your apologies to Lord Burke without delay.”

“Madam, as you will.” Basingstoke sighed, and then began. “Several months ago I made Lady Burke my mistress. After a time I gave her as a token of my affection and admiration a rare book of … of pictures. Pictures of … ah … lovemaking.” A snicker ran through the crowd but was silenced by the Queen’s quick frown. Basingstoke continued, “I soon began to hear stories of a new attraction at Madame Claro’s, a woman they called the Book Lady, and several weeks ago I heard of a contest to be held at Claro’s. It was to be a battle between Claro herself and the Book Lady, a contest … forgive me, Majesty, for my bluntness, over who could fuck the most men within a day-and-night period. The wagering was great, and as there was to be no charge for entry to Claro’s that day I went with friends to observe the fun. My God, ma’am! The men were coming and going out of the women’s rooms so quickly it would make your head spin! A tally was called as each man left. Observers were permitted, for a gold piece, to stand at the doors of each bedchamber. I decided to watch. Imagine my shock in discovering that the infamous Book Lady was my own mistress!”

“And just how did you discover it, Lord Basingstoke?” demanded the Queen. She had no choice but to hear the whole story.

“Constanza has an unusual identifying mark. Also, my book was open on a bookstand next to the bed. I have been promised that there are no two in existence.”

Elizabeth Tudor pursed her lips thoughtfully. This was the worst scandal to occur at her Court since she had become Queen. “I want the men who have visited the Book Lady to step forward,” she said. “Come, gentlemen! I’ll wager you weren’t so shy with the whores at Claro’s!” And Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the number of men who finally stepped forward. “Bless my soul, sirs, I thought you were kept well busy chasing my maids of honor,” she remarked sourly to the large group of shamefaced courtiers. Choosing ten, she dismissed the rest. “Have you all seen the lady’s birthmark?” They nodded solemnly. “Very well then, gentlemen. Each of you is
to step up to Lord Burke, and whisper to him the description of that mark.”

Niall Burke stood rocklike, his face an icy and impenetrable mask as, one by one, the ten embarrassed men moved up, whispered, and then slipped away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as they could.

“You also, Basingstoke,” commanded the Queen. When Constanza’s accuser had finally stepped back Elizabeth asked, “Very well, Lord Burke, do these men speak the truth?”

“Aye, madam, they do, to my everlasting shame.”

Constanza had revived and, cradled in Skye’s arms, moaned as if in terrible pain. Niall sent her a bitter yet pitying look.

“Do you wish to withdraw your challenge, Lord Burke?” asked the Queen in a softer tone than she had used during the awful interrogation.

“No, madam. Lord Basingstoke, for all his fine outrage, is nevertheless responsible for being the first to debauch my wife and bring dishonor upon my name. I will not withdraw my challenge.”

“Very well, sir, we will settle this matter here and now. Lord Dudley, will you see to it? The ballroom will do. See to the seconds.”

“I will act as Lord Burke’s second,” Geoffrey Southwood stepped forward.

Skye gave a little cry of distress and the Queen reached over and patted her. “No danger, my dearest Skye, I promise. Sirs, this
will not
be a fight to the death. Do you both understand what I say? Honor must be served, but that is all!”

Lord Dudley chose a reluctant second for Basingstoke from among the men who had admitted to visiting the Book Lady. “Birds of a feather,” he quipped, receiving contemptuous looks in return for his humor. The others knew that he had been a visitor to the lady involved, but had not dared admit it before the Queen.

The paneled ballroom was quickly cleared of chairs and tables, and the musicians in the gallery above were dismissed. Skye helped Constanza Burke to her feet and led her to stand by the Queen. Elizabeth would not even look at the distraught woman, but said quietly, without moving, “From tonight, my lady Burke, you are banned from this Court.” Constanza bowed her head.

The combatants stood at either end of the room. Having shed their elegant and ornate doublets, they stood in shirts open at the neck. With an air of great self-importance, Dudley bustled back and forth between the two groups. Whip-thin rapiers, made of the
finest Toledo steel, were brought forth, tested, and chosen by the seconds.

“What a pity you can’t kill the pompous bastard, Niall,” Geoffrey Southwood murmured.

“God’s will be done,” said Niall Burke in a low voice as he very loosely attached to his sword the protective tip ordered by the Queen.

“A-men,” answered the Earl piously, pretending to inspect the tip.

“More lights!” commanded the Queen, and fresh tapers were brought.

“The gentlemen and their seconds forward, please,” commanded Dudley. “Now, sirrahs, this is a combat to satisfy honor. Honor will be satisfied when one of the combatants is totally disarmed and helpless. Is that understood?” The participants nodded. “Seconds to neutral corners, please. Gentlemen,
en garde
!”

So began an exquisite ballet of courtly battle technique. The combatants were fairly evenly matched. Basingstoke was not quite as tall as Niall, but he was heavier. They circled each other slowly, engaged in a brief flurry, separated quickly. Each was guaging the other, testing for strengths, seeking weaknesses.

The courtiers leaned avidly forward, fascinated, silently egging the combatants onward. The young Queen stood quietly, only the faint quivering of her long, elegant hands betraying her nervousness. She was frankly disgusted by the beauteous Lady Burke’s disgraceful behavior, but at the same time thrilled by the sight of two stalwart men brought to battle by that very behavior. If only men would fight over her like that, thought Elizabeth.

Constanza Burke watched with a sense of growing desperation. What would Niall do to her? Probably kill her. God knew she deserved it. Why did she have this awful sickness? What drove her to these terrible acts of perversion? She wept softly.

Skye, Countess of Lynmouth, watched the battle nervously. Thank God the Queen had ordered the protective tips. If Geoffrey had to fight he wouldn’t be injured. Why had he volunteered to second Lord Burke? She hadn’t been aware of any friendship between them. Still, he was their neighbor on the Strand. And she felt a deep pity for both the Irishman and his unfortunate wife. Khalid had told her about women like Constanza Burke, women who could not get enough loving. Skye knew that Lady Burke was not wicked, but sick. She suddenly felt tired. When this was over she would beg the Queen’s leave to go home for her lying-in.

Niall Burke circled his opponent, parrying a vicious thrust. Leaping forward, he executed a quick riposte. His eye checked the protective tip on his sword. It was loose, and would soon be off. He pressed his attack hard, the anger burning coldly and deeply within him.

Lionel Basingstoke, valiantly defending himself, knew he had made a terrible mistake in allowing his pride and his temper to overrule his sense. He had seen the loose tip on his opponent’s sword and he fully realized Lord Burke’s intent. He was going to die. And over a worthless tramp. Why had he not simply given her the beating she deserved and left her to pursue her lusts? His body grew wet with fear and anger.

The two men battled back and forth until, older and heavier, Basingstoke began to tire. In a moment of rashness he again allowed his temper the upper hand and, yanking the protective tip from his sword, snarled at Niall, “All right, you damned Irish cuckold, let’s end this now!”

Niall’s silver eyes narrowed speculatively, and then he grinned, savagely, wolfishly. The idiot Englishman had made the first move, and now he could kill him without any qualms. Flicking the tip off his own blade, he replied, “I hope you’ve a legitimate heir, you stinking English pig, for if you’ve not your line ends now!” And he lunged forward, slipping easily beneath his opponent’s guard to bury his blade in Basingstoke’s chest.

A look of complete surprise crossed the Englishman’s face and then he fell forward. As he fell, his own blade flew upward, opening a small but very bloody flesh wound on the Irishman’s chest. It blossomed scarlet on Lord Burke’s white silk shirtfront.

An unearthly shriek shattered the utter silence. The Court turned, expecting to see Constanza Burke’s hysteria. But it was the Countess of Lynmouth who stood rigid, her eyes staring inward at some nameless terror. She screamed once again, then cried, “I’ve killed him!” She wept piteously. “Oh, sweet Christ, I’ve killed him!” A spasm of pain crossed her face and suddenly her gaze returned to the scene before her. Clutching at her belly, she fainted, sliding slowly to the floor in a crumpled heap.

In the uproar and confusion that followed, both Geoffrey Southwood and Niall Burke leaped forward to catch her, but the Earl was first to his wife’s side, shooting Burke a venomous look. Cradling Skye in his arms, he pushed past the babbling courtiers and carried her through the palace and down to the river bank where his barge was docked.

“The Countess is going into labor,” he told his bargemen. “Row for home and row as you’ve never rowed before! A gold rose noble to each of you for getting us there safely.”

The cool air revived Skye as they pulled away from the river bank. Her eyes opened. “Geoffrey?”

“I am here, my darling. How do you feel?”

“The baby’s coming.”

“I know. You clutched at your belly and then you fainted. Damned provident, this duel. People will believe it brought on the premature birth of our son.” He glanced anxiously at her.

“I remember, Geoffrey. I remember everything!” she breathed.

He sighed. “I know, Skye,” he answered her quietly. “I saw the look on your face before you fainted. What brought it all back, my darling? Burke’s injury?”

“Yes! The pirates shot at the jollyboat and wounded Niall. His shirt was so bloody I thought he’d been killed. When he was wounded again now it all came back to me. He is all right, isn’t he?” The Earl nodded. She fell silent, a pensive look on her face.

“I love you, Skye.”

The heart-shaped face tipped up, and the sapphire-blue eyes looked unwaveringly into his. “And I love you, Geoffrey, my darling. I do!”

He held her close. Of course she loved him. She was in pain now, in labor with his child, a child conceived in a moment of love, conceived when Niall Burke had been wiped out of her memory. But when the child was birthed, and she had time to think clearly, would she love him then?

Skye lay quietly in his arms, her mind whirling. O’Malley! She was Skye O’Malley!
The O’Malley of Innisfana!
She had two sons, Ewan and Murrough! Oh God! Who had looked after her boys all this time? Anne! Surely Anne would have looked after them, and Michael, and her half-brothers too. Lord! Who had cared for the O’Malley shipping interests? She would ask Geoffrey, for surely he knew. It seemed he knew her identity.
And
she would be interested in knowing how long he had known it!

She felt the pain beginning deep within her, so deep that her toes tensed. She let it sweep upward. Breathing deeply into it took the edge off of it. Skye wasn’t even aware that she was clutching her husband tightly, but Geoffrey relished the fierce grip that almost rendered his elegant hand pulp.

“My sons?” she said. “What has happened to my sons?”

“They’re safe with your stepmother.”

“And the family?”

“Your uncle took care of them, and the O’Malley interests. He’s now Bishop of Connaught.”

“How long have you known my identity?”

“A few months. Lord Burke went to Robbie just after our wedding. At the bedding ceremony he noticed that very fetching little star on your breast. I was curious that, having been like a brother to you all your life, he would know of such a mark.”

“I am curious too,” said Skye, and though he knew she lied, he loved her all the more for loving him enough to try and protect him. “I am more curious,” she continued, “that he was not suspicious of my identity prior to seeing my birthmark. Surely I have not changed so greatly.”

“Señora Goya del Fuentes didn’t react to his hints. And though she looked like Skye O’Malley, her credentials were impeccable. He has since told me he thought you were one of your father’s by-blows.”

Another wave of pain swept over Skye, but she giggled despite it, and Geoffrey was forced to laugh too. “It would have been just like Da to leave a bastard daughter in a convent in Algiers. How did he account for the name being the same?” The pain receded.

“He couldn’t, and that almost drove him mad. There was simply no explanation.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I imagine it would have driven him mad. Niall was always an impatient man.”

“He’s in love with you, Skye.”

“I know, Geoffrey.”

“And you?” He knew he shouldn’t ask her, not now, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Geoffrey, my dearest husband, I am yours and I want to be. When I have finished this business of birthing our son I shall tell you all about Niall Burke, and Skye O’Malley. And when I have finished my tale I shall still be yours because I choose to be.”

It was what he wanted to hear, or was it? Still, he had to be content with it for now. They both fell silent, listening to the slap-slap of the oars against the water as their barge knifed through the river down to Lynmouth House. The pains were coming more frequently now, and with the knowledge that this was her fourth child, the Earl despaired of reaching home in time. Suddenly Skye groaned, and cried out sharply.

“My love, what is it?” He felt so damned helpless.

“The child is being born, Geoffrey! I can wait no longer. You must help me birth it!”

“My God, Skye! In the barge?”

She managed a chuckle. “Tell your son!”

“What do I do?” He was sweating, but this was his child, and he’d manage.