Skye O'Malley (47 page)

“Geoffrey!”

His mouth savaged hers, blazing a burning trail down her neck and across her breasts. “Do you compare me to Khalid el Bey, Skye?” he asked fiercely.

She understood instantly. He had never really been secure in a woman’s love. Her heart went out to him. “Oh Geoffrey,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around him. “There is
no
comparison. Khalid was Khalid and you are you. I loved him for what he was as I love you for what you are.” She raised his head and kissed his mouth sweetly. “I love you, my lord Southwood, but sometimes you play the fool.”

And he did feel very foolish.

“Is this how you would spend our wedding night, my lord?” she asked teasingly. “Now that we have discussed my first husband, shall we speak of the many ladies who have graced your bed, sir?”

“Madam,” he growled, trying to gather the remaining shreds of his dignity, and then he heard her muffled giggles. “Oh, witch,” he laughed, “would anyone believe such a conversation between two lovers who are newly married?” Then he covered her face with kisses, and she sighed happily, which only made him laugh again.

“I shall not be able to hide my condition much longer, Geoffrey,” she said thoughtfully, “and the Queen has asked that I join her ladies.”

“When is the babe due, my love?”

“In early autumn, after the harvest.”

“Do you feel all right?” he asked anxiously.

“Sometimes in the evenings I feel queasy,” she admitted. “It’s the smell of roasting meat that does it to me, though tonight, thank God, I was not so distressed.”

“I want you in Devon as soon as possible,” he said. “We will hide your condition a month and then you must go.”

“It would be better if I went in two or three,” she said. “To admit my pregnancy in less than two months’ time would be to bring the Queen’s anger down upon us. She is a very moral lady, Geoffrey. Besides, it will be safer for me to travel later than now. We can avoid following the Court for a month or so, for Her Majesty will not deny us a honeymoon. Then, when we do return to the Queen’s service, I shall feign sickness. Everyone will be praising your virility long before we make our joyful announcement. Then, if you wish to escort me to Devon, it will be permitted and we will offend no one.”

“I begin to see,” said the Earl of Lynmouth, “why Khalid el Bey trusted your judgment. To find such a clever mind lodged in such a beautiful body is astounding.”

“I trust you mean to flatter me, my lord,” she said drily.

“Yes, witch. I mean to flatter you!” And tumbling her back amid the plump feather pillows of their bed, he kissed and tickled her until her happy laughter could be heard as far away as the ballroom.

CHAPTER 18

N
IALL
B
URKE SLOUCHED DEEP IN A LARGE CHAIR IN THE
study of his London house, staring out as the gray dawn rose over the dark and rainy river. A fire crackled merrily in the large fireplace, but the big Irishman scowled blackly, ignoring its warmth. He clutched in his clenched fist a large goblet from which the odor of spiced red wine rose. Around the house the sou’wester that had dampened Lord Southwood’s wedding was roaring itself out.

A blast rattled the windows, and Burke glowered again. The wedding of Mistress Goya del Fuentes and the Earl of Lynmouth had been hell for Niall. He and Constanza stood with the rest of the Court watching as the most beautiful bride he’d ever seen was married to a very handsome groom. It had been torture. For, in his mind, he saw again the candlelit chapel of the O’Malley tower house, and a hollow-eyed, frightened young bride whose face was whiter than her gown. He remembered how he had flung open the chapel doors only a moment too late, how she had fainted upon seeing him, how he had outrageously demanded the
droit du seigneur
. Most of all, he remembered how sweetly she had yielded.

“Skye!” he whispered softly, saying her name aloud for the first time in many months. “Oh, Skye, how I love you!” He was so painfully confused, and the new Countess of Lynmouth was responsible. She was
his
Skye’s identical twin. He ached with longing for her, yet he was ashamed. Upstairs slept his sweet and faithful young wife, alone in their bed while he sulked downstairs, lusting in his heart for another woman, a dead woman, and another man’s wife.

Damn the Countess of Lynmouth, he thought bitterly, reaching for the decanter. What he should be thinking of was an heir, not a dead woman. He had been married to Constanza for almost two
years now, and there had been no sign of a child. Had he not scattered his share of bastards about, he might be worried about himself, but obviously the fault lay with Constanza. He had wanted to return home to Ireland with both a wife and a child. The MacWilliam was growing old, and the reassurance of another heir would cheer the elderly man greatly.

They had lingered on Mallorca for several months after their marriage, then begun a leisurely wedding journey through Mediterranean Spain, to Provence in France, and up to Paris. They had stayed the winter in Paris—a happy, gay time in which he had fully initiated her into the sensual world of lovemaking and she had proved an eager pupil. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps she wasn’t too eager. Had he not been certain of her virginity when they had first made love, he would have had his doubts about Constanza’s character, for her enthusiasm was, he thought, unseemly. Then he cursed himself for a fool. How many men mounted cringing, cold women who lay like stone beneath them “doing their duty” while they said the rosaries to themselves, hating what was being done to them? Constanza enjoyed their lovemaking. He ought to be glad.

He would go to her now. He would slip into her bedchamber and she would be warm and fragrant with sleep. He would kiss her awake, then take her slowly, savoring her passion. She would whimper with pleasure and claw at his back. He made to rise but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he fell back. The room seemed overwarm. He sipped again at his wine, and suddenly he was so tired. His eyes closed, the heavy goblet fell from his grasp to the rug, and a small snore issued from his open mouth. Niall Burke slept a deep drunken sleep.

A few minutes later the library door opened softly and very slowly. Constanza Burke and Ana looked into the room. A look of annoyance crossed young Lady Burke’s face and her pansy-purple eyes narrowed in anger. “He is drunk again,” she snapped. “He has been drinking all night. In the name of all that is holy, Ana, what manner of man is he?”

“He is unhappy,
niña
. Perhaps it is the lack of a child that makes him so.”

“Can he sire one on me in this condition?” she snapped. Then her voice softened. “Ana, fetch my cloak.”

“Niña!
No, no! Not again!”

“Ana, I burn! I must or I shall die.”

“I will soothe it,
niña
.”

“It is not enough, Ana! I must have a man! I must! If you won’t
fetch my cloak I shall go without it and my white nightgown will be a beacon to the entire household.”

With a sob Ana went for the dark, enveloping cape. Constanza walked across the room and stood looking down at her husband. Why had he drunk himself into a stupor? This had begun only recently. When they first came to London all had been well, but in the last few months he had changed, quite suddenly, and for no apparent reason. Now he often drank himself into a stupor. Perhaps if he hadn’t changed, she herself wouldn’t have changed. But Constanza knew this wasn’t so.

It had all begun so insidiously. One night, in an excess of passion, he had taken her four times. But when finally he lay contented and happy, she lay awake and yearning. It was not that he had not satisfied her. He had. Each time had been better than the last. But suddenly it was not enough. And it never was enough anymore. She had grown edgy with her constant longings.

Then, one day, their head groom had been helping her to mount her mare and his hand slid up her leg farther than it should have. She said nothing and the hand moved higher yet until it was stroking the soft, wet place between her thighs, bringing her to a swift, delightful climax. The hand was slowly withdrawn and, without a word spoken between them, Constanza rode out from the stables with the head groom, his face impassive, riding at her side.

When they returned an hour later he lifted her down from her horse and carried her into the darkened stable loft. Constanza had been driven half mad by the friction of her saddle and the motion of her horse against her already inflamed body. She offered no objections when the head groom pushed her skirts up to her waist. He stared down at her for a moment.

“So it’s true, then,” he whispered wonderingly.

“What?”

“Ladies pluck their cunny hair,” he answered. Then he dropped on top of her. What Harry lacked in skill he made up for with vigor, pumping against her until he had fulfilled her twice.

Afterward she felt guilty and ashamed, but as her needs far outweighed her guilt the interludes with Harry became a regular part of her life. At Court she was ogled by several young bucks, but instinct told her to be wary.

Sometime later, she had lost a little of that wariness and agreed to an assignation with Lord Basingstoke, an older gentleman who seemed pleased to believe he had seduced a bride. But even having two lovers was not enough for Constanza any longer. Her lust was
a sickness she could not rid herself of, and soon she did not even wonder at herself anymore. She was careful, however, that no one knew her terrible secret. She was not a wicked woman, and she loved her husband. But she would not, could not, stop.

Constanza did not hear Ana return. She looked up only when the heavy velvet cloak was dropped over her shoulders.

“M’lord?” asked Ana.

“Leave him,” she answered quietly. “He is sleeping soundly, and in any case I will not be long.”

“
Niña
, please. I beg of you.”

“Ana! I cannot help myself.” And so saying, Constanza Burke swept from the library and out of her house through a little-used side door. In the half-light of the early morning she made her way to the stables and the room in the loft where Harry slept. With a proprietary air she opened the door and, looking in, saw a naked Harry sleeping with an equally naked Polly, one of the kitchen maids. For a few moments she watched them, fascinated, then Polly opened her eyes and stared at her mistress, horrified. Constanza smiled and put a warning finger to her lips. Shrugging off the cloak, she stripped her white silk nightgown from her lush body and climbed into bed on the other side of Harry.

Polly lay stiff and frozen next to the groom. Suddenly her mistress’s face was over hers, looking down at the frightened girl.

“Suck him,” came the soft command. “Together we can drive him mad. What a bull he’ll be then.”

Polly scrambled to obey her mistress, no longer afraid. And while she eagerly did her part Constanza’s little tongue darted into and around Harry’s ear. The sleeping man stirred. Polly worked feverishly while Constanza blew softly into the groom’s ear. Harry groaned as his loins were filled with a fierce burning, and he opened his eyes, amazed by the sight that greeted him. His mighty shaft grew until Polly could hold it no longer and fell back. The groom was quickly atop her, ramming fiercely. Constanza watched, her slim fingers playing with herself until suddenly she felt Harry’s eyes upon her and looked up to meet his lascivious grin.

He had not spent himself yet, though Polly lay gasping her pleasure beneath him. Rolling off the girl, he pulled Constanza beneath him and teasingly moved himself against her engorged and throbbing sex. Constanza whimpered and strained her body upward. But he denied her. Instead, and with a refinement that shattered her, he rubbed himself over her entire body until she was begging him to take her. With a wink at Polly, Harry jammed himself
forcefully into Constanza and moved swiftly back and forth until he finally wrung from her a series of cries.

Afterward, as the three of them lay side by side, Polly ventured shyly, “My friend Claro would never believe this—and her a popular madam with her own place. But if you wasn’t the mistress, I’d introduce you to Claro. She could sure use a girl like you.”

Harry laughed at the outrageous idea, but later, when she had returned to her own bed, Constanza thought the idea over. Perhaps it was the answer to her problem. When the yearning overcame her she could sneak off to the whore’s house and indulge herself. She would be masked, but that would add a certain piquancy to her performance. Suddenly the horror of what she was thinking swept over her and she scrambled from her bed to kneel at her prie-dieu.

“Holy Mother,” she fervently prayed, “let me not do this terrible thing. Wipe my mind clean of such thoughts. I beg thee!”

Then her eyes strayed to the exquisite leather-bound book that lay on the table by her bed. It had been a gift from her lover, Lord Basingstoke, and had been brought to England by a Portuguese sea captain who had obtained it in India. Constanza rose from her knees and, sitting back on the bed, opened the book. Inside were pages and pages with beautiful and colorful illustrations of men, women, and animals performing a wide range of sexual acts, from the most pristine to the most perverted. Mesmerized, she slowly turned the pages. Her breathing had quickened and, despite her recent activity, she felt her need growing again.

Ringing for her maid, she ordered her bath and asked that her riding clothes be laid out. By the time she approached the stables the fires of her desires were growing again. She stood quietly while Harry saw to the saddling of their mounts, but the impatient tapping of her riding crop against her boot told him that her passions were riding high once more. He sighed. Her fires seemed unquenchable, though God knew he tried. There had never been a woman he couldn’t satisfy but, by Heaven, the mistress was a rare one.

They rode sedately from the house along the river road to a secluded thicket where they tethered the horses. He took her on the mossy ground, his excitement heightened by the foul words she whispered breathily in his ear. As always, he was amazed by the capacity for pure lust in this madonna-faced woman. Later, as they rode on, she said in her soft, slightly accented voice, “I want to meet Polly’s friend, Claro.”