Bertrice Small - Skye O’Malley

Niall Burke was the only son of Rory Burke, the MacWilliam of
Middle Connaught. The MacWilliam had almost despaired of ever
having an heir. All three of his wives had died in childbirth. The
last of them, Maerid O’Brien, had given him his only child. From
the moment of his birth Niall had been a strong and healthy lad, but
the MacWilliam anxiously protected him.

His wet nurse ate at the MacWilliam’s table so that the lord of
Mid-Connaught could oversee her diet. The baby’s nursery was kept
well warmed in the winter and dry in the damp weather. No child
had ever been so well taken care of. Even his sleep was overseen
by a night nurse who sat first by his cradle, and later by his bedside,
monitoring his every bream.

Despite it all, the boy flourished. Convinced that he had a lively
heir, the MacWilliam finally eased his stranglehold. Intelligent, Niall
was educated first by the priests and then sent to England for polish
at Cambridge. In sports there was no one to touch him, and because
he could not be bested in any field, he was called Ironman.

He could run faster than any man in Ireland, was unbeaten in
wrestling from the time he was twelve, was both an excellent swords-
man and an excellent falconer. He swam as though bom to water,
rode like a centaur, and could follow a stag’s trail better than most
hounds.

Niall proved a lusty animal between the ages of fourteen and
sixteen. There wasn’t a serving wench in his father’s castle, or a
girl in the surrounding countryside, who was safe from his attentions.
Gradually, however, he calmed down and became more discerning.

Rory Burke adored his only son. And in the number of Niall’s
bastards scattered about the countryside, the father saw a resurgence
of his branch of the Burke family.

Rory now wanted his heir safely wed to a suitable young woman.
Niall, however, had preferred to remain free.

But today had changed that. He had fallen instantly in love with
Skye O’Malley. Never having been denied anything in his entire
life, Niall fully expected to have her.

On Niall’s right sat Eibhlin O’Malley, and throughout dinner he
devoted himself to the nun, much to Eibhlin’s secret amusement.
Like her perceptive stepmother, she had seen the sudden, powerful
attraction between Skye and Lord Burke. She pitied them both.

After dinner, O’Malley suggested that Skye show the O’Malley
rose garden to Lord Burke. It wasn’t an unusual request, for Dubhdara was proud of his youngest daughter’s beauty, wit, and manners.
He enjoyed impressing his guests with her. Anne could only hope
to God that Lord Burke remembered Skye was to be wed in a few
days.

Niall and Skye walked slowly from the hall, down the steps to
the entry, and across the lowered drawbridge. Neither spoke. The
mauve and golden twilight of the early Irish summer gave more than
enough light. The air was cool, with an occasional slight breeze that
carried to them the sensuous fragrance of the roses.

“My mother planned this garden for years,” murmured Skye.

“She loved roses. It was the one thing Da indulged her in. He had
bushes brought in from all over the world. It’s a beautiful garden,
isn’t it?”

“It is most charming,” replied Lord Burke gravely.

“Thank you.”

They walked a bit farther, in silence once more. As they came
to the end of the roses, Skye turned to go back to the castle, but
Lord Burke touched her shoulder and she stopped, her face upturned.
His strong arms wrapped about her. A flame of fierce joy shot
through her. She had known this would happen! She had wanted it
to happen! His dark head dipped, and Skye O’Malley’s lips parted
slightly like an opening rosebud as she received her very first kiss.

To her great surprise his lips were soft. She hadn’t expected that
in a man. Then he was drawing her even closer, and the mouth on
hers became demanding. Instinctively she answered that demand,
freeing her arms and sliding them around his neck so that their bodies
touched. For a brief moment she was floating. Then suddenly,
abruptly, he released her mouth. His eyes were dark with passion.
Looking down on her, he muttered huskily, “I knew it! I knew it
would be this way with you!”

For the briefest moment reason returned, and she began to trem-
ble. Concern filled his eyes and, catching her face between his thumb
and forefinger, he whispered, “No, sweetheart! Don’t regret, or be
afraid of me. God, not that! I could not bear it!”

“I… I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t understand 
what is happening to me.”

‘To us, sweetheart! It’s happening to me too, Skye! I barely know
you, but I’m in love with you. I have never been in love before,
Skye, but I know that I am in love with you.”

“No!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You must not say these
things to me, my lord. In a few days’ time I am to wed with Dom
O’Flaherty.”

“But you don’t love him, Skye!”

“My lord Burke! You know the way of these things. I have been
betrothed since the cradle.”

“I will speak to your father at once, sweetheart. You must not
marry young O’Flaherty!”

She looked at him wonderingly. “Are you not contracted, my
lord?’

“She died before we could be wed. I did not even know her.
Come, sweetheart, I would kiss you again.” His mouth swooped
down, and Skye gave a small cry of joy as she yielded herself wholly
to him.

It was utter madness, yet he loved her! This great and famous man loved her! And dear God! she loved him. She, the level-headed
Skye, had fallen in love at first sight. She could feel his powerful
body restraining itself in its desire, and she loved him the more, for
if he tried to take her now she would give herself gladly, and he
must surely know it.

Reluctantly he loosed her, his eyes warm and caressing. “Skye
sweet Skye! How you intoxicate me, my love! Come, sweetheart
Let us return before I lose my head.” He took her hand and led he
slowly back to the castle.

Anne O’Malley watched them enter the hall, and silently she
despaired. Skye’s cheeks were flushed, her lips softly bruised with
recent kisses, her eyes dreamy with anticipation. Anne rose from
her chair. She had to talk with her husband! Suddenly a pain tore
through her belly, her waters broke, soaking her stockings, shoes,
and her petticoats. “The baby!” she cried, doubling over clutching
her swollen middle. Instantly she was surrounded by the women.
Dubhdara O’Malley shouldered his way through the crowd and,
picking up his wife, carried her out of the hall and upstairs to their
bedchamber.

No one could believe that a woman who had borne three children
so easily would have such a difficult labor with the fourth, but Anne
O’Malley struggled for two days. Eibhlin, trained in midwifery,
worked hard. But the child was large, and turned the wrong way.

Four times the young nun turned the baby to the correct position,
and four times the infant reversed itself. Finally, in desperation,
Eibhlin turned the baby a fifth time and, finding its small shoulder,
gently grasped it and drew the child slowly down the birth canal.
After that, Anne was able to finish the job. As Anne had predicted,
it was a son. The boy weighed over ten pounds. He would be named
Conn.

Dubhdara O’Malley came to his young wife’s bedside. They had
bathed her and put her between clean, lavender-scented sheets. She
had been given a nourishing drink of beef broth mixed with red wine
and herbs, which would stop the bleeding and help her sleep. She
was exhausted.

The room emptied. O’Malley bent and kissed his wife’s cheek.
He looked somewhat older, for he had suffered untold agonies at
the possibility of losing this loving woman.

“No more, Annie! I am happy to settle for five sons, and the
bonniest wife in Ireland! I don’t want to lose you, love.”

She smiled weakly and patted his hand. Then suddenly she re-
membered her promise. “Skye…” she began weakly.

For a moment he looked puzzled, then his brow cleared. “Skye’
Ah, yes! The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow. You’d not have it called off, eh love? Well, don’t worry, Annie. Skye will be wed
tomorrow, never fear. You just rest and get strong, and if you’re
awake before tomorrow evening I’ll send the bride and groom in to
visit you.”

She tried to speak, tried to tell him that he must call it off, that
the wedding of Skye and Dom would be a terrible mistake. But the
herbs and exhaustion had taken effect. Anne struggled to speak, but
could not. Her eyes slowly closed and she couldn’t open them again.
Anne O’Malley had fallen into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Dubhdara O’Malley stood looking down at his sleeping daugh-
ter. It shocked even him to realize how beautiful Skye really
was, and he wished he had the name and the fortune to assure
her a nobler husband than young O’Flaherty.

He bore no love for the English, but he knew mat their royal
court was at this moment the center of the earth, and he thought how
Skye would shine there.

Still, he hadn’t done badly by her. Her husband would be the
next chief of the Ballyhennessey O’Flahertys, and Skye would be
mother to the chief after Dom. He had her safely settled. He’d miss
her, though. Well, he chuckled to himself, why not admit he had
a special place in his heart for the lass? She was pure O’Malley.
Himself in female form, and like none of his other children.

For a few minutes more he watched her in silent wonder, and
men he gently shook her by the shoulder. “Wake up, Skye! Wake
up, lassie.”

She resisted, having no desire to be yanked from the dream in
which she and Niall were kissing. He persisted, however, and finally
she opened her eyes a bit. “Da? What’s the matter?”

“Annie’s been delivered of a fine, healthy son, poppet. But she’s
fair worn with the effort. Still, she doesn’t want your marriage
postponed. The wedding feast will go on as scheduled, but you and
Dom are to be married in an hour in the family chapel. Get up, Skye
lass! This is your wedding day!”

She was instantly awake. “No, Da! No! Anne promise!-“

“It’s all right, love,” he interrupted. “It’s all right with Anne.

She’s sorry to miss the festivities, but she knows that, with a castle
full of guests, we couldn’t postpone it.”

Skye sat up, her long dark hair tumbling about her white shoul-
ders. Her eyes were enormous and deep blue in her heart-shaped
face. He shifted his eyes uncomfortably from the perfection of her
small breasts, visible through the thin lawn of her shift. “Da! Listen
to me, please! I do not want to marry Dom O’Flaherty! Oh, why
won’t you listen to me?!”

Dubhdara O’Malley sat down on the edge of his favorite child’s
bed. “Now, poppet, we’ve been over this before. Of course you’re
going to marry Dom. He’s a fine young man, and it’s a good match
for you. These bridal nerves are natural, but you must not give way.”

Why didn’t he understand? “No, please, Da! No! I hate Dom! I
cannot… I will not marry him!” There was an hysterical edge to
her voice.

“Skye!” His voice had become stern. “Enough, now! I have post-
poned this wedding for two years in hopes you would outgrow your
willfulness, but no more, poppet! You’ve no reason to cry off, no
religious calling, only silly maiden fears that will have vanished by
this time tomorrow.” He stood up. “Make yourself beautiful for
Dom, poppet.” And he left her.

Skye began to weep, a combination of frustration, anger, and
fear. Great, gulping sobs of anguish poured hot and salty from her
eyes until they were almost swollen shut. Molly, finding her young
mistress in this shocking state, turned about and sought the lady
Eibhlin. The young nun came instantly and, taking her younger sister
into her loving arms, tried to soothe her. When the sobs had finally
abated, Eibhlin laid her sister back on her pillows and mixed some
herbs in a goblet of wine that she made Skye drink. The medication
would soothe her. Eibhlin had seen cases of bridal nerves before.

Next the nun took soft pads of linen soaked in rose water, and
lay them on Skye’s closed eyes.

“It will take the swelling down,” she told Molly. “We’ll let her
rest for half an hour, then dress her for the wedding.”

Very soon thereafter, Skye O’Malley stood beside Dom O’Flaherty
in the castle’s candlelit chapel and was wed. All the guests agreed
that there had never been a more beautiful bride. Her gown was of
creamy white satin with a deep, square neck edged in a wide ruffle
of silver lace. The low neckline gave the groom a fine view of her
breasts, and Dom O’Flaherty licked his lips in anticipation at the
sight of small, pink nipples.

As the elderly priest intoned the ancient Latin words of the cer-
emony over them, the bridegroom thought lasciviously of how he
would pillow his head tonight on those soft breasts. When she raised her hand to receive the marriage ring, Dom noted the richness of
her gown for the first time. The sleeves were slashed, the inserts
filled with silver lace. This lace also edged the wrists. Her beautiful
Mack hair was unbound, in recognition of her innocence, and topped
by a simple wreath of sweetly scented white flowers.