Because this was an informal home garthering, the married sisters
wore their hair loose, parted in the center. Sine and Peigi had added
pretty arched linen caps. And of course Eibhlin, whose hair had
been cut when she took her vows, wore starched and pleated white
wings over her white wimple.

Presiding over this gathering was Dubhdara O’Malley’s second
wife. Anne was the same age as her stepdaughter, Eibhlin, and a
pregnant with her fourth child as was her stepdaughter, Sine. Anne
was a pretty woman, with chestnut-brown curls, merry brown eyes,
and a sweet, sensible nature. Anne’s silk gown was of a deep win‹
shade, and fashioned identically to her stepdaughters’ gowns. But
over her ruffled bodice Anne wore a double strand of creamy baroque
pearls. None of the O’Malley daughters had resented their father’:
marriage to Anne and everyone liked her enormously. One could
not help liking Anne.

For nine years after Skye’s birth Dubhdara O’Malley had obeyed
his priest brother’s edict, and stayed out of his wife’s bed. He really
did not wish to kill Peigi. Free of yearly pregnancies, Peigi regained
her strength and even began to bloom. Then, one night, Dubhdara
O’Malley had arrived home from a long voyage. It was late. He had
no current mistress, and there wasn’t a servant girl in sight. He had
gotten drunk and sought his wife’s bed. Nine months later, Peigi
O’Malley died giving birth to the long-awaited son, born September
29th and baptized Michael. The little boy was now almost six.

Within an almost indecently short time O’Malley had taken his
second wife, a girl of thirteen. Nine months from their wedding day
Anne had birthed Brian; a year later, Shane; and in another year,
Shamus. Unlike her meek predecessor, Anne O’Malley possessed
good health and high spirits. This child she carried was to be the
last, she told her husband firmly. It would also, she assured him,
be a boy. Five sons should give him the immortality he craved.

O’Malley had laughed and slapped her playfully on the backside.
His daughters took this to mean that he was either in his dotage or
growing mellow with age. Had their own mother ever made such
a statement she would have been beaten black and blue. But then,
Anne O’Malley was the mother of sons.

Moire looked up from her embroidery to gaze with pleasure about
the hall. It had never looked so nice in their mother’s time for she,
poor soul, had spent much of her life in her own rooms.

The stone floors were always well swept now, the rushes changed
weekly. The oak trestles were polished to a mellow golden hue,
reflecting the great silver candlesticks with their pure beeswax tapers.
The big brass andirons were filled with enormous oak logs, ready
to be lit when the evening arrived. Behind the high board, promi-
nently displayed, hung a large new tapestry depicting Saint Brendan
the Monk on a sky-blue background, guiding his ship across the
western seas. Anne had designed it, and had been working on it
almost every evening. of her married life. It had been a labor of love, for the second Lady O’Malley adored not only her bluff, big husband,
but their sons and their home as well.

Moire’s eyes lit upon several big colorful porcelain bowls filled
with roses. Their pungent, spicy scent gave the room a wonderful
exotic smell. Moire wrinkled her nose with pleasure and said to
Anne, “The bowls are new?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your father brought them back from his
last voyage. He is so good to me, Moire.”

“And why not?” demanded Moire. “You are good to him, Anne.”

“Where is Skye?” interrupted Peigi.

“Out riding with young Dom. I am surprised at your father in
pursuing this betrothal. They do not suit at all.”

“They were promised in the cradle,” explained Moire. “It wasn’t
easy for Da to find husbands for us all, for we’ve none of us large
dowries. Skye’s marrying the heir to the Ballyhennessey O’Flaherty’s
is the best match of us all.”

Anne shook her head. “I fear this match. Your sister is a very
independent girl.”

“And it’s all Da’s fault for he has spoiled her terribly,” said Peigi.
”She should have been married off two years ago at thirteen, like
the rest of us. But no, Skye did not want it. He lets her have her
way all the time!”

“That’s not so, Peigi,” Eibhlin chided her sister. “Anne is correct
when she says that Skye and Dom do not suit. Skye is not like us
in temperament. We favor our mother while she favors Da. Dom
is simply neither strong enough nor sensitive enough to be Skye’s
husband.”

“Hoity-toity, sister,” said Peigi sourly. “It amazes me how much
the wee nun knows about human nature.”

“Indeed and I do,” replied Eibhlin calmly, “for whom do you
think the poor women of my district pour out their unhappiness to,
Peigi? Certainly not the priest! He tells them it is their Christian duty
to be abused by their menfolk! And then he adds to their guilt by
giving them a penance.”

The sisters look shocked, and Anne broke the tension by laughing,
”You’re more a rebel than a holy woman, stepdaughter.”

Eibhlin sighed. “You speak the truth, Anne, and it troubles me
greatly. But though I try I cannot seem to change.”

Anne O’Malley leaned over and fondly patted her stepdaughter
on the hand. “Being a woman is never, ever easy,” she said wisely,
”no matter what role we chose to play in life.”

The two young women smiled fondly at each other with complete
understanding. Then everyone looked startled as they heard shouting in the entry hall below them. As the noise came toward them up the
steps the O’Malley sisters glanced knowingly at each other. They
recognized the voices of Dom O’Flaherty and their sister, Skye.

As the two burst into the main hall, Anne O’Malley was again
struck by the beauty of the two young people. She had never seen
two more physically perfect people, and perhaps this was why her
husband insisted on the match. Anne shivered with apprehension.

Dom O’Flaherty threw his riding gloves on a table. At eighteen
he was of medium height, slender, with beautifully shaped arms,
hands, and legs. Having inherited his French grandmother’s color-
ing, he had glorious, close-cropped, curly golden hair, and sky-blue
eyes. He affected a tailored short beard that hugged the perfectly
sculpted sides of his face and ended in a softly rounded point.
Because he was angry, however, his fair skin was now an unattrac-
tive, mottled red. His handsome face with its long, straight nose and
narrow lips was contorted with rage.

“It’s indecent!” he shouted at Skye. “It’s indecent and immodest
for a maiden to ride astride a beast! My God, Skye! That horse of
yours! When we’re married I will see that you’re more suitably
mounted upon a palfrey. What ever possessed your father to let you
ride mat big, black brute, I’ll never know!”

“You lost, Dom,” came the infuriatingly cool reply. “You lost
the race to me, and as you always did when we were children, you
try to retaliate by clouding the issue. Well, let me tell you what you
can do with your bloody palfrey!”

“Skye!” Anne O’Malley’s voice was sharp with warning.

The girl looked to her stepmother, then laughed. “Oh, all right,
Annie,” she acquiesed prettily, “I will try to behave myself. But,
Dom O’Flaherty… hear me well. Finn is my horse. I have raised
him from a colt, and I love him. If we’re to be happily married, you
must accept that, for I have no intention of exchanging him for a
rocking horse just to soothe your male pride.”

And while her bridegroom fumed, Skye signaled to a servant to
bring some wine. As if in afterthought, she ordered some for Dom
as well. Flinging himself into a chair, he glowered at her, but all
the while his eyes roamed her body and he thought how beautiful
she was in her dark-green silk riding habit. The skirt was divided,
and the neckline open, plunging into the valley of her young breasts.
Tiny beads of moisture had gathered on her chest and the sight
excited him. He realized that he longed to possess this lovely young
woman.

At fifteen Skye O’Malley was well on the way to fulfilling the
promise of unequaled beauty that she had shown at birth. She stood
every bit as tall as her betrothed. Like him, she was beautifully proportioned, with a slim waist that moved into softly rounded hips.
Her breasts were small but full. She had a heart-shaped face. Her
eyes were still the color of the seas off the Kerry coast, sometimes
pure blue, sometimes dark, sometimes azure with a faint hint of
green. They were fringed in thick ebony lashes that brushed tender
pink cheeks. Her nose was slim, turning up just slightly at the tip.
And if you looked carefully you could see a few soft, golden freckles
across the bridge of her nose. The red mouth was surprisingly se-
ductive with a full lower lip, and when she laughed she revealed
small, perfect white teeth. Her skin was the color of cream and
seemed even fairer by the contrasting mass of blue-black hair that
tumbled about her shoulders.

She excited Dom very much, although he, it seemed, did not
interest her. She far preferred galloping that great black stallion of
hers at breakneck speed about the countryside, or sailing off with
her father on some piratical adventure. The realization was quite a
shock to his pride.

Dom O’Flaherty was not used to indifference from the fair sex.
Women ordinarily made fools of themselves over him, and he was
very proud of his sexual prowess.

Dom tried to console himself with the thought that once he bedded
her she would soon be tamed. Hot-tempered virgins usually turned
out to be passionate lovers. He licked his thin lips in anticipation,
and quaffed his. goblet of wine. He was not aware that his betrothed
was eying him with disgust. Dom O’Flaherty would run to fat in his
middle years, Skye decided.

Again from the entry below came the noises of arrival. Anne
O’Malley rose to her feet with a smile. “Your father is back,” she
said, “and it sounds like he brings guests.”

Two large wolfhounds, several setters, and a large terrier all
bounded into the hall. One of the wolfhounds trotted up to Anne
and dropped two small velvet bags at her feet. Bending, Lady
O’Malley picked up the bags and, loosening the strings, poured the
contents of one bag into her cupped hand. She stared at the sapphire-
and-diamond necklace that nestled in her palm. “Holy Mary!” she
gasped.

Dubhdara O’Malley chuckled with pleasure from the doorway.
”Then you like it, lovey? There’s earbobs, and a ring to match in
the other.”

“Like it? Oh, Dubh, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned!
Where…?

“Portuguese galleon got itself blown off course and then wrecked
aways up the coast. We were just in time to save the captain from
the scavengers. He was most grateful.”

Anne said no more, but she read between the lines. It was obvious
that her husband and his crew had battled coastal wreckers for pos-
session of the damaged galleon. The O’Malleys had been pirates for
centuries. It was their way of life. Undoubtedly the captain of the
unfortunate ship and the survivors among his crew were now housed
in the dungeons below, where they would spend the next several
months awaiting ransom. Anne shuddered and reminded herself that
such thoughts were not her concern.

“And where’s my wee lass?” demanded the O’Malley.

“Here, Da.” Skye rose from her chair and came forward.

Seeing her garb, he frowned with disapproval. “Still riding
astride, poppet?”

“Don’t scold me, Da,” she wheedled him prettily. “It was you
who taught me, and I simply can’t gallop Finn sitting sideways. It’s
most unnatural.”

The O’Malley cocked an eyebrow. “Must you gallop him?
Wouldn’t a nice trot do you? You must think of the babes you’re
going to bear Dom now, poppet.”

She ignored his last remark. “Have you ever tried to trot with
one leg slung over a pommel, Da? The last time I tried it I ended
up with bruises all over my-“

“Skye! We’ve guests!”

For the first time her attention was drawn to the man by his side.

“My Lord,” she heard her father say, “this is my youngest daugh-
ter, Skye, who will shortly be the bride of young O’Flaherty. Skye,
this is Niall, Lord Burke, the MacWilliam’s heir.”

“Niall an iarain, Niall of the Iron,” she said softly. This was a
famous man, the secret dream lover of half the maidens in Ireland.

“I see my reputation precedes me, my lady Skye.”

“It is an open secret that you are Captain Revenge, and that you
conduct those daring raids against the English who live in the Dublin
Pale. Of course, no one would dare accuse you of this.”

“Yet you, my lady, do not fear me,” he murmured, holding her
fast with his gaze until she blushed.

The voice was deep and sure, but as smooth as fine velvet. She
shivered. She raised her eyes to his. They were a silvery gray, and
she imagined that in anger they would be colder than the far northern
sea, but in the heat of passion they would be fiery warm like rich
wine. Guilty color flooded her cheeks at these immodest thoughts.
The gray eyes twinkled infuriatingly, as if reading her mind.