Bertrice Small - Skye O’Malley

The Earl nodded and moved to place his arm tightly about bis wife’s shoulders.

“These are my sons?!” Her look was incredulous. “Geoffrey! They were still babies when I saw them last!” Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Ewan! Murrough! Come to Mama.” Her arms opened wide and were filled instantly by the two young boys, who clung to her, unashamed, sobbing their own happiness and relief. “Oh my darlings,” she wept, “I did not realize until this moment how very very much I’d missed you both.” She hugged them again. “Let go of me, little monkeys, and let me look at you.” She untangled them from her neck and set them back. “Well, you’re nothing like your father, either of you-and I thank God for it. You’re pure O’Malley with your black hair and deep-blue eyes. Ewan… you are seven now, and Murrough is six?”

“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.

“Then,” she said wistfully, “you will soon be sent to a good family as pages. But first we will get to know each other again. I would present you to your stepfather, the Earl of Lynmouth.”

The boys both turned and, under Niall’s threatening gaze, made a leg to Lord Southwood. Having seen Niall’s stern look, Geoffrey chuckled inwardly with suppressed amusement. So the two little savages resented him? Well, that was only natural. He bowed back to the two children. “Ewan and Murrough O’Flaherty, I am most pleased to have you as my stepsons, and welcome you to my home.” “And they must meet the other children, Geoffrey,” said Skye. “You have three stepsisters, boys. Susan is six, the twins, Gwyneth and Joan, are five. And you have a half-sister, my daughter Willow. She is three and a half. Your new baby half-brother is called Robbie.

Come my darlings, and I’ll take you to the nursery to greet them.”

She had said nothing at all to Niall, nothing.

“I had forgotten that she hates as fiercely as she loves,” said Niall softly.

“You hurt her badly the last time you met,” replied Geoffrey. “I know. God only knows I never meant to, but suddenly we were quarreling.”

“It was kind of you to bring Skye’s boys from Ireland. Did you settle your wife there safely?”

“Constanza is still in London. I went to see my father. I shall leave for London tomorrow. My wife is very ill and I am taking her home to Mallorca.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Let me have a servant show you to your room,” he said politely.

A few minutes later Niall stood alone in his room. Like the lovely family hall he had just left, this room faced the sea. The sunset was staining the waters below him a dark wine red, and in the earlyevening autumn haze he could see the Isle of Lundy, that mysterious pirate haunt. Skye would be happy here, thought Niall, within the sight and smell of the sea.

Dinner that night was simple, and a restrained, almost uncomfortable affair. The children were not there, having eaten earlier in the nursery. Ewan and Murrough were more comfortable now. Their stepsisters were in total awe of them, and they had instantly fallen under the spell of their half-sister, Willow. Their infant half-brother had been dismissed as uninteresting.

The Southwoods and Lord Burke sat at the high board. Below them were only a few retainers, for the Earl was not holding state. The meal was simple, the conversation spare. Finally only Niall and Geoffrey and Skye remained sitting, the others having either left the hall or gathered about the fireplace. Niall knew he could not leave in the morning unless he first spoke with Skye. She had managed to avoid speaking directly to him all evening while making it appear as if nothing was wrong. Niall realized he must take the direct route. “Skye.” he said quietly, looking directly into her eyes, “I would tender my apologies for our last meeting.”

Her lips turned up in a little smile. “You were under a great strain, my lord,” she replied pleasantly. The smile did not reach to her blue eyes, which were devoid of all expression. “Now I hope you will excuse me, my lord. It has been an exciting day, and I am weary.” She didn’t pause to wait for an answer. Bending to Geoffrey, her eyes warm now, she said, “Do not be long, my darling.” He caught her hand and, turning it, kissed the palm lingeringly.

“I won’t, my love.” Her hand caressed his face.

Niall felt himself painfully the intruder in witnessing this short intimate moment. Skye paused at the door to the hall and, turning, said, “God speed, Niall.” Then she was gone.

“She really has forgiven you, Niall. But you hurt her and she is proud.”

“She was always proud,” he said. “Proud and defiant of the entire world. I think that’s why her father loved her best, and left the O’Malleys in her charge.” Niall rubbed bis forehead wearily. “Ah, that is history now, history of another time, another place. And, I’m thinking of another woman. Well, I’m off to bed, Southwood. I plan to make an early start. If I don’t see you in the morning, I thank you now for your hospitality.”

Geoffrey Southwood watched his guest depart, and felt sorry for him. Then, shaking himself, he went to prepare for bed. When he joined his wife, Skye was brushing her lovely dark hair. “You were hard on him, my love.”

“I will not be vulnerable to Niall Burke ever again,” she said grimly. Then, switching moods, she wound her arms about him and he laughed softly.

“Witch, are you flirting with me?”

“Yes! Kiss me, Geoffrey!”

He pretended to consider her demand. “I must think on this, madam,” he said, moving away from her.

“Beast!” she hissed, launching herself at his back. He turned in time to catch and crush her against his chest. Pinioned, she was helpless. “And now, madam,” he said softly as he nibbled her lips.

“Love me, Geoffrey! Please love me!”

“With pleasure, my darling,” and his mouth closed over hers.

She gave herself to him unreservedly, once again surprising him by the intensity of her passion. Her lips were petal-soft beneath his, parting to allow his tongue entry. Never freeing her lips, he lifted her up and carried her to their bed. He laid her gently amid the pillows, then drew off his silken nightshirt. Her sapphire eyes devoured him, his lime-green eyes responded in kind. She quickly drew her own sheer nightgown off, flinging it to the floor, and then held out her arms to him. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her face in his strong hands, looking deep into her magnificent eyes. “No, Skye, don’t make love to me in order to wipe out memories of Niall Burke. I am not afraid of those memories, and neither should you be. You cared deeply for the man once, and I know that those feelings can never be erased completely, nor should they be. I know he hurt you, but he was in pain himself. Forgive him, my darling, for his sake but for mine as well, so that when we love I know it is because of the feelings you have for me, not the deep resentment you still harbor for Niall Burke.”

The tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her face. “Damn you, Southwood, I don’t deserve you! Hell, yes! I’ll forgive the bastard, for he’s to be pitied. I came to terms with the portion fate allotted me, but Niall did not, and hated me while railing at fate. As if I were responsible for what happened to us! And yes, I hated him for inflicting such hurt on me. He made me feel guilty for being happy with you when he had such misery with Constanza. Understand one thing though, I have never made love with you in order to wipe out memories of Niall Burke!”

She looked adorably indignant, and he chuckled, “I am relieved to hear that, madam.” He reached out and slowly fondled an impudent little breast, a lazy smile turning up the corners of his mouth and lighting his eyes. An elegant finger teased a pink nipple to rapt attention, then trailed leisurely between her breasts and downward to the place between her legs. The heel of his palm pressed firmly, then rubbed. Her breathing was more pronounced now, and her eyes glittered through half-lowered lids. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you were perfectly fashioned for loving,” and his head dipped down to taste the soft flesh of her breasts. As often as he had done this, it still wrung a passionate cry from her throat that set his heart to beating wildly. He moaned.

His hands moved downward, imprisoning her slender waist for a moment, then slid lower to cup her buttocks. His own long body moved over hers, and Skye reached out to cup and fondle his manroot. Her soft hands played with him skillfully, teasingly rubbing the wet opening of the sensitive organ. “You could rouse a marble statue, witch!”

“Love me, Geoffrey,” she whispered urgently, and spread her legs to receive him.

Slowly, with sweetly practiced skill, he entered her while watching her beautiful eyes mirror what she felt. He drew back and her eyes cried distress. He plunged deep and the pleasure that leaped into that blue gaze added to his own joy. When she finally begged him for sweet release, and her dark feathery lashes lay quivering against her pale cheeks, he felt her spasms break one after another like breakers crashing on the beach. Assured of her happiness, Geoffrey Southwood found his own heaven, reveling in the lovely body that moved so skillfully beneath his, reveling in the sharp nails that dug into his back, in her cry of surrender as his aching manhood burst and flooded her with his burning tribute. She was his, his alone.

The Earl and Countess of Lynmouth left Devon briefly after the New Year in order to host the Earl’s famous Twelfth Night gala in London. Invitations were at a premium again this year, and London’s best dressmakers and tailors were overbooked, overworked and overwrought in everyone’s mad scramble for the perfect costume. The Countess of Lynmouth’s well-filled purse assured her prior knowledge of all of her guests’ themes. In order that she not offend any by a similar garb, a discreet bribe here and there had been necessary.

To her amusement, several of the women were copying her idea of the year before, when she had come gowned in black velvet as “Night.” Some of them had been clever enough to reverse that role, so there would be at least half a dozen “Days” and four “Afternoons” as well. There were to be the requisite number of “Springs,” “Summers,” “Winters,” and “Autumns.” The Queen was coming garbed as “The Sun,” which was the worst-kept secret in all of London. The three ladies who had had the same idea had been taken by fits of hysteria when they had to change their gowns. “The Moon” and “Harvest” were also popular themes, but no one except Skye had thought of coming as a jewel. She was to be costumed as “Ruby.” As Daisy and her mother had made the dress in Devon, this was the best-kept secret in all of London. Geoffrey would be dressed as “Emerald” in dark green.

The night of the masque Skye stood before her pier glass more than pleased with what she saw. The deep-red gown was magnificent but not gaudy. The underskirt was silk sewn all over in a swirling ornate design with tiny rubies and gold thread that glittered with every movement of light. The overskirt was heavy velvet, the slashings in the velvet sleeves showing the matching silk of the underskirt and repeating the design of tiny rubies. The neckline was daringly low, causing the Earl to comment, “I do not know if I approve of your generosity in showing to the Court the sweet treasures that are mine alone to enjoy.” Skye had laughed and replied, “But mink of the envy it will cause, my lord.” He had laughed, “What a naughty vixen you are,” and suddenly placed about her neck a beautiful necklace of large rubies. “My Twelfth Night’s gift to you, sweetheart.” As she gasped, he bent and fastened matching drop earrings into her ears.

“Oh, Geoffrey!” Her hand touched the necklace reverently. “They are extraordinary.” Turning, she kissed him sweetly. The heady perfume of her body assailed him, and he felt a stab of desire. “For mercy’s sake, my love, thank me later! At this moment I am seriously considering the disarrangement of both your gown and your hair.”

She giggled happily, flushed with pleasure and excitement. “Oh, I love you!”

He forced his passion away and muttered, “I’d truly rather be home with you in Devon than here now, preparing to allow half of London to eat and drink me out of house and home as well as ogle my wife’s breasts.”

Skye laughed, delighted, then sat and allowed Daisy to put the finishing touches to her hair. The ladies of the English Court were currently frizzing their hair, but Skye would have none of that. Her own glorious tresses had been coaxed into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The chignon was decorated with red silk flowers. Her hair was parted in the center and two small curls, lately named lovelocks, dangled on either side of her face.