Bertrice Small - Skye O’Malley

“Let us have some wine,” he said, pouring a Burgundy and hand-
ing her a goblet. “Now, mistress, what guarantee do you give me
that I’ll see a return on my investment?”

“Captain Small was my husband’s partner in Algiers. Kha-
Diego financed him, and our secretary, Jean Morlaix, kept the rec-
ords. It was up to Robert to handle the rest of it, and he did. He was
my husband’s partner for ten years. Nothing has changed. The Goya
del Fuentes money will finance him. Jean Morlaix remained in my
employ after Diego’s death. I do not need a royal charter, but it
would help enormously. What do you risk, my lord? Neither gold
nor prestige. You waste more money gambling. If you would prefer,
set a price upon your aid and I will pay you. Then you risk nothing,”
she finished scornfully.

“Ah vixen,” he chuckled, “so you would shame me into it, eh?
You’re a damned hard bargainer, but I’ll see what I can do. After
all, a two-percent share in a good trading company is not to be
overlooked.”

Inwardly she heaved a sigh of relief and, with a casual air, sipped
at her wine. His mouth twitched with suppressed amusement, for
Geoffrey Southwood could appreciate a jest on himself better than
most men. She had outbluffed him, the little devil. What a woman
she was, he thought to himself. The thought of her in his bed sent
shivers down his spine. For now, however, he would be a gentleman,
for to move too quickly with this lady could cost him de Grenville’s
barge as well as the beauty herself.

The footmen began serving the meal, which began with a silver
bowl of cold, raw oysters. Skye happily cracked open the shells and
swallowed half a dozen luscious, icy oysters. Southwood ate two
to her every one. The next course was bright yellow mussels in white
wine with a Dijon mustard sauce, thin slices of Dover sole on a bed
of crisp watercress, accompanied by very thin slices of lemons imported from the south of France, and tiny pink shrimp broiled in
herb butter. Skye ate sparingly but tasted of everything. The Earl
had been quite right-his chef was a mqwter.

The second course cleared away, the third was set on the side-
board. Three ribs of juicy beef with horseradish sauce and a large
plump pink ham vied for attention alongside a platter of small quail,
roasted golden and stuffed with fruit. Salad of new lettuces, venison
slices in red wine, and a rabbit pastry rounded out the third course.

Skye directed a footman to serve her one of the quail, some ham,
a slice of rabbit pie, and a dish of salad. The Earl, who sampled
everything, looked on approvingly. “I like a woman who enjoys her
food,” he grinned, his green eyes bright.

“But keeps her figure,” she shot back.

“Aye. A pretty woman is far more pleasant to gaze upon, sweet-
heart.”

“Is your wife a pretty woman?”

“Mary? Not really. She’s too tiny, like a Spanish dwarf. Her hair
is no real color, her eyes a pale brown, her complexion, sallow. Was
your husband handsome?”

“Aye,” she said softly. “He was very handsome. But more im-
portant, he was kind and good.”

“How long have you been widowed?”

“Two years now.”

“You should think of remarrying, Skye. You’re far too lovely to
remain alone.”

“I know few people here, my lord. And besides, there is no one
who could take my lord’s place.”

“If you don’t have friends in England,” he ventured, “why did
you leave Algiers?”

“The Turkish governor decided I should make him an admirable
wife. Since I did not choose to marry him, it became necessary to
leave. None of my lord’s real friends would have dared to protect
me. I was helpless against that powerful beast, but he got nothing
of my lord’s, neither his widow nor his wealth! I shall build that
wealth and make it even greater. My little Willow will be very
wealthy.”

He smiled slowly at her. “You are an ambitious wench, sweet-
heart, but damme if I don’t approve! The Queen is ambitious too,
and though some men may be fearful of such women, I’m not.”

The last course was offered then, ripe pears covered with me-
ringue and baked to a faint golden brown, thin sugar wafers, and
a clear sweet wine. The Earl apologized for the simplicity of the
dessert. As there were only two diners, he had suggested to his chef
that he limit the sweets.

When she had spooned up the last of her dessert, Skye sat back
in her chair, her sapphire eyes half closed, and smiled. Southwood
laughed. “You look like a well-fed cat.”

“I am, my lord, and I must have the recipe for the quail stuffing.
It was delicious.”

“It’s yours. But come, sweetheart, up with you! We’ll walk in
the gardens by the river to settle our meal.”

He escorted her outside after first dropping his black velvet cloak
about her. The night had turned chilly. The full moon silvered every-
thing, and a faint mist was beginning to rise from the Thames. They
walked in silence, watching as a brightly lit barge went by, hearing
laughter drift across the water. A steady measured beat of oars and
a single lantern announced the approach of the enterprising waterman
who offered taxi service to those who wanted to go up- or downriver.
They stood watching the moonlit water, and after a while Geoffrey
said softly, “I would not offend you, but I would kiss you.”

“No one but my husband has ever kissed me,” she whispered.

“He’s gone, sweetheart,” was the hoarse reply. And tipping her
pale face firmly toward him, he touched his warm mouth to hers.
He kissed her gently, but she could sense the desire that he held
firmly in check. The tip of his tongue licked at the edges of her
mouth, sending a shiver through her, awakening the long unsatisfied
passions. He held her tightly, his masculine scent assaulting her
senses. She began to relax within the circle of his arms. He was as
big and tall as Khalid had been, and very male.

Then, gently, as suddenly as he had kissed her, he released her
and whispered softly, “I will take you home, sweetheart, lest I do
something that would lose me your friendship.” And without another
word he took her arm and walked with her, back through the wall
gate, across her gardens, and into her house.

In the moonlit library she gazed openly at him and her musical
voice said firmly but softly, “Kiss me just once more, Geoffrey.”
A quick smile touched his mouth, and then he bent to meet her lips
again. This time he allowed his passions a looser rein and the pres-
sure of his mouth forced her lips apart. His tongue ran swiftly along
her teeth, pushing through, finding her silken tongue and caressing
it with his own.

To Skye’s shock, her own passions rose swiftly, fiercely from
deep within her. Her tongue fenced skillfully with his, and she
quivered at the fire and ice racing through her veins. His big hands
caught her face and he kissed her again, this time very tenderly.
Then his smooth fingers trailed down her slender neck to drift along
the swelling tops of her breasts, and she moaned softly.

“No, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “There’s no honor in taking a vulnerable woman, and you are very vulnerable right now.” And
silently he disappeared through the French doors, and she was alone.

Skye stood very still, rigid with shock. She had nearly thrown
herself at him, and had he not been the gentleman he was…Shivering,
she made her way upstairs. Once within the safety of her room, she
stood for a bit clutching Geoffrey’s cloak about her. It carried the
scent of orris root, and she buried her face within the sable collar
trying to quiet her pounding heart.

“Are you all right, mum?”

She started. “Daisy? You needn’t have waited up for me.”

“And who would help you with your gown, I should like to
know?” Daisy drew the cloak from Skye. “His lordship’s?” Skye
nodded. “Ha, ain’t he the gallant one!”

“Yes. He is,” said Skye, a little regretfully.

Daisy prattled on as she helped her mistress disrobe. “They say
he’s left a trail of broken hearts from here to Devon. Highborn or
low, they all loves the ‘Angel Earl’.” She looked slyly at her mis-
tress’s flushed cheeks. “They say he’s a grand lover, and Lord knows
you have no husband to answer to, mum.”

“Shame, Daisy!” Skye broke away from her reverie long enough
to remember how young her maid was. “You take on London man-
ners and morals too quickly. I think it not wise of you. Beware lest
I send you back to Devon!”

“Oh, mum. I meant no harm! But with him so handsome and ye
so bonny…” she trailed off, her head hanging lower and lower,
with such a woebegone expression that Skye almost laughed. She
sent Daisy off to her bed, cautioning her to think on her sins.

Grateful to be alone, Skye slowly washed her face and hands and
cleaned her teeth. Sliding a simple mauve silk nightgown over her
naked form, she climbed into bed. Dear God, how she had responded
to the Earl’s kisses! And he had known it! She trembled. What kind
of a woman was she to respond so fervently? She began to weep
softly, ashamed of her wantonness, ashamed of her inability to re-
main faithful to the memory of her beloved husband. When at last
she fell asleep, it was an exhausted and restless sleep.

The next day, as Skye sat hollow-eyed, sipping Turkish coffee
in the library with Robert Small, there arrived a messenger in the
green-and-white livery of the Earl of Lynmouth. He flourished a
bow and presented her with an exquisitely carved rectangular ebony
box. The captain raised an inquisitive eyebrow as Skye accepted the
box and lifted the lid. On the red velvet lining lay one perfect carved
ivory rose, its stem and leaves wrought from green gold. Beneath
it was a folded sheet of vellum. It read: “In memory of a perfect evening. Geoffrey.” A pink flush rose in her cheeks, but she said merely, “Convey my deepest thanks to Lord Southwood.” The footman bowed himself from the library.

“So,” remarked the captain, when they were alone again, “the evening went well. I would not have believed it, judging by your woebegone expression, Skye. Perhaps the gift is by way of an apology?”

“You needn’t worry, Robbie.” She handed him the Earl’s note.

Perusing it, he looked back up at her. “Then what is it, lass? Why are you so troubled?”

“Oh, Robbie! He asked if he might kiss me, and-I let him!”

“And you found it distasteful?”

“Nooo,” she wailed. “Oh, Robbie! I liked it, that’s what’s wrong. And worse, I wanted him to make love to me! How could I? Whatkind of wanton am I?”

“Christ’s blessed nightshirt!” roared the little man. He thought a moment, his head in his hands, and then he began. “Listen to me,Skye. I sometimes forget that damned memory of yours still hasgaps in it. Khalid has been dead for two years, and it is time you found yourself another man. You’re not expected to remain true to his memory forever. There is nothing wrong in what you felt. God Almighty, you’re a beautiful young woman, lass, and it’s natural you responded to the Earl. He’s a handsome devil. Try your wings with him if he attracts you. But remember this-he’s a married man. Don’t get hurt.”

“Oh, Robbie, how could you even suggest such a thing? My lord Khalid-“

“Khalid is dead, Skye! He would be the first one to tell you to go on with your life. He wouldn’t want you to bury yourself along with him.”

“But Robbie, I don’t love Lord Southwood.”

“Lord, lass, I should hope not. He’s married.”

“But I still want him to make love to me.”

He began to laugh. “What you feel for the Earl is desire, lust, passion. Sometimes those feelings go along with love, but more often not. The churches would like us to feel guilty about such emotions, but don’t you do it! Those feelings are human nature. You won’t have them with every man you meet, so don’t fret.” He put a friendly arm about her. “Skye, lass. I know I’m many years older, but if having the protection of marriage and my name would make you feel safe, I’d gladly marry you. I’d ask nothing of you.

It would be in name only.”

She was stunned. “Why, Robbie, how kind you are. You always have been, since our first meeting. What a good man you are!
Thank you, but I must stand on my own two feet. I somehow feel
that Khalid would want me to be strong and independent.”

“Aye, lass. I think he would, but should you ever change your
mind, the offer stands open. Remember that.”

She bent and kissed his cheek. “I do love you, Robbie, but not
the way a woman loves a man. I could not marry you, even for
safety’s sake, but never stop being my friend.”

“I won’t, lass. I won’t,” he said quietly, thinking, I owe Kha-
lid more than I can ever repay, and watching over you is such a
small thing. Lord God, let her find happiness, the fierce man
prayed.

Ever since Elizabeth Tudor had ascended the throne of
England, the Earl of Lynmouth had held a masqued ball on
Twelfth Night. Not the first year, however, for Queen
Mary had died on the morning of November 17, 1558, and
Twelfth Night had been only seven weeks later. The Court was
still in mourning for her.