Now the time had come for him to make his first move to capture
the lady. He would woo her gently at first, and then if necessary he
would threaten her with exposure. Through a fantastic piece of luck,
he had discovered her true history. He owned a one-third share in
a ship that traded in the Mideast, and when it had returned recently
to London he had gone aboard to see to his interests. Through the
bow window of the master’s cabin he had seen Robert Small. He
asked his Captain Browne, “Do you know who that man is on the
next ship?”

“Aye, my lord. That be Captain Robert Small of Bideford in
Devon. The Mermaid is his ship.”

Captain Browne drew in on his pipe, then gently puffed out a
curl of blue smoke. “Robbie Small is a lucky devil, my lord. He
needn’t go off to sea at all, for he’s a wealthy man and was born
of gentry, too. But the sea’s a wanton bitch, and when she gets in
your blood it’s hard to rid yourself of her.”

“Was he born to wealth?” prodded the Earl gently.

“No. The family fortunes were pretty low until he went into
partnership with the great Whoremaster of Algiers, Khalid el Bey.
How they met I don’t know, but they somehow became friends and
the bey backed Robbie in several ventures. Finally when he was on
his feet, they became equal partners. And so they remained for over
ten years.”

“What happened then?”

“The bey was killed a year and a half ago, murdered by one of
his women. Bless me! He ran the finest cathouses in the East, he
did. The most famous of them was called the House of Felicity, and
the woman who ran it for him finally did him in. They say she was
jealous of his young wife, and thought it was the wife she was
stabbing. At any rate, the young widow soon disappeared and it was
discovered that she had sold everything her husband owned. The
captain-governor of the Casbah fortress went wild with rage. He’d
had his eye on the young widow. God help Robbie Small if he ever sets foot in Algiers again, for the Casbah captain knows Small helped
the lady Skye leave Algiers.”

Geoffrey Southwood felt his heart lurch wildly. “Skye?” he asked.

“The bey’s wife. Her name was Skye muna el Khalid. She herself
is another wild tale. More wine, sir?”

“Tell me!”

And so Captain Browne told him all he had heard about Skye,
which was a great deal indeed. And when Geoffrey left the ship,
he was elated. His coach clattered back through the noisy city streets
and he began to plot.

It was her! There could be no mistake! And he had her, for there
was a child. The bey’s child? Probably. Robert Small did not act
like her lover. She would probably do anything to protect her child,
for the child’s future would be determined by its family’s reputation.
As long as she was the respectable young widow, all would be well.
She would not want her true story known, for her own sake and for
the child’s. Yes… Geoffrey had her!

Geoffrey Southwood was a wealthy man. Although he seldom
discussed it, his paternal grandmother had been a rich merchant’s
daughter. Over the past few centuries many noble families had mar-
ried into the monied middle class to increase their finances. The
Southwood family understood that money was power. They were
not an important family, but their title was an ancient one, earned
on the field at the Battle of Hastings.

The first Earl of Lynmouth had been Geoffroi de Sudbois, the
third son of a noble Norman family. He had joined Duke William’s
invasion of England in hopes of winning a place for himself and his
descendants, for there was nothing for him in his native France. His
oldest brother was his father’s undisputed heir and had three sons
of his own. The next de Sudbois brother had opted for the religious
life, and was already the valued right hand of his prior. The Duke
of Normandy’s invasion of England was a godsend to Geoffroi de
Sudbois, for it offered him a chance to make a place for himself.

His father gave him war-horses and their equipage, along with
a small velvet bag of gold. When Geoffroi’s oldest brother protested,
his father said, “As long as I live, what is mine shall be disposed
of as I choose. When I am gone, and it is yours, you may dispose
of it your way. Do not be greedy, Gilles. Your brother cannot
succeed unless he is properly equipped and mounted. Do you want
him to always have nothing? To be constantly coming back here
coveting your position, his mere presence a threat to your boys? It
will be better for all if he makes a place for himself in England.”

The eldest de Sudbois son understood his father’s point, and even
pressed upon his surprised brother a fat purse of silver marks. This purse proved the means by which he recruited himself a small troop
of cavalry. Those who joined him supplied their own horses, mail,
and weapons. He paid them one silver mark upon debarkation for
England. What booty they could take in battle was theirs to keep.
and there was always a chance to win oneself land and even a title.

The young Seigneur de Sudbois and his thirty-five men made an
impressive addition to Duke William’s invading army. Even more
impressive was the soldier that de Sudbois proved himself to be. He
managed to fight near his Duke twice, once even preventing a direct
attack upon his overlord. Toward the end of one day, he found
himself in.on the kill of the English King, Harold.

Duke William of Normandy had seen enough of the young lord-
ling to be both amused and impressed. “He’s a valuable man,”
observed the Duke, “and God knows he’s worked hard enough to
win a bit of this land for himself. I’ll give him something down in
the south, toward the west If he can take the land and hold it, it’s
his.”

Geoffroi de Sudbois took and held the little earldom of Lynmouth.
He ruthlessly slew the Saxon lord of the holding and all his kin,
with the exception of the Saxon’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Gwyneth.

He raped her upon the hall’s long table and, when the girl was
proved a virgin, he sent for a priest and wed her instantly. The
practical Gwyneth cleaved to her new lord and dutifully sired the
next generation. Within a hundred years de Sudbois was anglecized
to Southwood, but through the many generations the ruthlessness
of the original Norman Geoffroi de Sudbois and the determination
of his Saxon wife remained strong traits, even down to the sixteenth-
century Geoffrey Southwood.

This Earl of Lynmouth was twenty-eight years old. Six feet tall,
he had dark-blond hair, lime-green eyes, and, as Skye had observed,
the face of an angel. It was a beautiful face, yet an entirely masculine
one. Oval, the forehead was broad, the cheekbones high, the nose
long and slim, the mouth sensuous, the chin slightly pointed. His
fair skin was tanned, and because his face had no flaws, he kept it
smooth-shaven. His wavy hair was cut short. His body was the lean
one of a man used to regular exercise.

He had been married twice. At twelve he had wed a neighboring
eight-year-old heiress. She died two years later of smallpox, along
with her parents. This left him considerably richer, having inherited
money, lands, and the barony of Lynton. Sexually active, he had
mourned his wife for the shortest time possible and then wed again.
The second wife was five years his senior, painfully plain but very
wealthy. An orphaned heiress, her guardians had thought themselves
stuck with the poor girl until Geoffrey Southwood’s father offered for her for his son. Mary Bowen was of an old and noble family.
More important, her lands adjoined those of the Earl of Lynmouth’s.

On her wedding day, the poor plain bride showed herself enam-
ored of her handsome bridegroom, and grateful to have been rescued
from the shame of spinsterhood. On her wedding night, however,
her opinion changed. Her shrieks could be heard all over the castle
as Geoffrey Southwood battered his way through her maidenhead
and impregnated her. During the next six years she delivered a child
every ten months. All but the first were daughters, and each was as
plain as her mother. In disgust, Geoffrey finally stopped visiting his
wife’s bed. His seven plain daughters were more than enough for
one man to dower.

Mary Bowen Southwood was more than content to remain in
Devon. She feared her husband. After the horror of her wedding
night she had learned to lay quietly during their mating, occasionally
even simulating the response expected of her. When it was first
apparent that she was pregnant, he had treated her in a kindly fashion.
She was glad to have pleased him, especially when Henry was born.
But then had come Mary, Elizabeth, and Catherine. The week after
little Phillipa’s birth he had been so furious that he slapped her,
shouting that she had done it deliberately, that she’d give him a son
next time or he would know the reason why. She had learned fear
in her subsequent pregnancies. Susan was born next. Geoffrey was
in London. Frightened but dutiful, she sent him word. A six months’
silence followed. When he finally arrived home he handed down
one final ultimatum. “Produce another son, madam, or you’ll spend
the rest of your life here in Devon with your brood of daughters.”

“What of Henry?” she dared to ask.

“Henry goes to the Shrewsburys’ household,” he said flatly.

When the twins, Gwyneth and Joan, were bom, the Countess
found herself and all of her daughters moved from Lynmouth Castle
to Lynton Court. Geoffrey Southwood had had enough.

From that time on he saw his wife and family once yearly, at
Michaelmas, when he arrived to hand over the money needed to run
their little household for the following year. He refused to make
matches for his daughters, on the premise that they were all like
their mother and he would not be responsible for other men’s dis-
appointment when the girls produced a string of daughters, as their
mother had done.

Mary Southwood was frankly relieved to be rid of her husband,
but she worried over her girls. Through personal sacrifice and great
frugality she managed to save half of what he gave her each year.
Added to a small, secret hoard left her by her late guardians, she
slowly built up small dowries for her daughters. She taught them the arts of housewifery. There would be no grand matches, but she
would get them all settled. Eventually fate helped her out when
Geoffrey Southwood stopped even his yearly visit, delegating that
chore to his majordomo.

The “Angel” Earl, as he was known, spent his time following
the Court. The young Queen Elizabeth enjoyed his elegant beauty
and sharp wit. Even more, she appreciated his astute knowledge of
business and overseas trade. Trade was where England’s future lay,
and the educated Queen needed all the advice about it she could
obtain. Elizabeth had already demonstrated herself to be a working
monarch, and nothing escaped her sharp eyes or ears. Geoffrey
Southwood might have an appetite for the ladies, but he deliberately
went out of his way to avoid her maids-of-honor, and his respect
for her was much appreciated by the vain young Queen. Best of all,
Geoffrey came to Court without the encumbrance of a wife, and was
therefore free to play one of Elizabeth’s gallants.

The next day dawned bright and blue, as perfect an October day
as one could wish for. Skye spent the morning indoors overseeing
her household, which was finally beginning to run smoothly, then
working with Jean and Robert Small in setting up a new trading
company. Later she eagerly snatched up her flower basket and garden
shears and escaped to the beckoning outdoors.

The gardener and his assistants had done miracles in a few short
weeks. Gone were the waist-high weeds and brambles. Brick walks
had been discovered beneath the overgrowth, as well as small re-
flecting pools and rose bushes. Pruning had brought forth an abun-
dance of late blooms, which Skye now clipped. “Damn!” she swore
suddenly, jabbing her thumb on a thorn, then popping it into her
mouth to soothe it.

A deep, amused masculine chuckle sent her whirling about. To
her anger and embarrassment, the handsome Earl of Lynmouth was
sitting on the medium-high wall separating her house from the next.
He leaped down gracefully and took her hand. “Just a prick, my
pet,” he said.

Skye snatched back her hand furiously. “What were you doing
on my wall?” she demanded.

“I live on the other side of it,” he answered smoothly. “In fact,
my pet, you and I own the wall in common. The building next to
yours is Lynmouth House. It was built by my grandfather, who also
built this charming little house for his mistress, a goldsmith’s daugh-
ter.”

“Oh,” said Skye coldly, shocked. “How very interesting, my
lord. Now… if you will please leave?” she managed.

Geoffrey Southwood smiled ruefully, and Skye noticed that the corners of his strangely green eyes were crinkled with laugh lines.
”Now, Mistress Goya del Fuentes,” he said. “I realize that we got
off on the wrong foot, and I will apologize now for having stared
so rudely at you at the Rose and Anchor. Surely, however, you will
not be too hard on me? I cannot be the first man who has ever been
stunned by your extravagant beauty, now can I?”