Skye O'Malley (24 page)

Suddenly she laughed happily and, propping herself up on an elbow, looked down into his golden eyes. “I love you, and am loved in return,” she said. “Whatever has been before in my life can matter little in the light of this love. If it were important, then surely I should have remembered it all by now. I know who I am. I am Skye, the beloved wife of Khalid el Bey, the great Whoremaster of Algiers.”

CHAPTER 11

N
IALL
B
URKE LAY WEAKLY BACK UPON THE SCENTED LINEN
pillows and, focusing his silvery eyes clearly for the first time in weeks, gazed out at the distant blue mountains. The landscape outside his window was a riot of lush vegetation. Pink and red hibiscus, cloyingly sweet gardenias, spicy roses, and crisp lavender were all growing in a wild mass that spread upward from the gardens to the flowering vines that clung to the villa wall. It was all so vibrant.

Now, totally immersed in the sights and smells, the shrieking of the darting parrots, Niall knew he would live. And fervently he wished he were dead.

The carved oak door of his room opened then, admitting a young girl whose big eyes lit up at the sight of him.

“Ah, Señor Niall. At last you are fully awake. I am Constanza Maria Alcudia Cuidadela. My papa is the governor of this island, and you are in his house.” She put a tray on the nearby table.

Feeling like a fool, Niall was forced to ask, “What island is this?”

The girl blushed in pretty pink confusion. “Oh, señor, forgive me! You are on the island of Mallorca.”

“How did I come to be here?”

“You were brought to us from the fleet in which you traveled by a Captain MacGuire. He explained you are a great lord.”

Niall forced back a small smile. “Is MacGuire still here, Señorita Constanza?”

“Si, Señor Niall. Although the rest of your fleet sailed weeks ago, he refused to leave you. He said his mistress would not forgive him if he did. Would you like to see him?”

Niall nodded and the girl pulled the embroidered bellpull by his bed. “Fetch the Irish captain at once, Ana,” she instructed the answering servant, then moved to straighten Niall’s pillows. She wore a rose fragrance, which caused a sharp pain to tear through Niall. Constanza poured something from the frosty majollica pitcher into a silver goblet.

“It is the juice of the oranges from our garden,” she said. “Drink it. It will give you strength.” She gracefully handed the goblet to him, then sat and drew a small embroidery frame from a hidden pocket in her gown and began to stitch.

He drank, and was pleasantly surprised by the cool, tart sweetness that slid down his parched throat. He studied the seated girl over the goblet. She was, he decided, about fifteen, and very lovely. She was quite petite, with a tiny waist and generous breasts. Her skin was a pale golden shade, her hair a darker gold, and her eyes were the color of purple pansies.

He let his eyes wander about the room. It was spacious and pleasant, with white walls and a red tile floor. On one wall was a large dark wood armoire with intricately carved doors, and a long walnut table stood before the French doors opposite his silk-draped bed. There were two chairs by the table and an embroidered chaise longue by the bed.

“Is the juice good, Señor Niall? May I pour you more?”

“Thank you,” he answered politely. Dammit to hell, where was MacGuire? As if in answer to his silent summons, the door flew open to admit the captain and Inis. With a joyous bark, the dog leaped onto the bed and lay down beside Niall, his tail thumping happily.

“So, lad, you’ve decided to remain among the living! Praise be to God!”

“Skye? Where is she?”

MacGuire looked most uncomfortable. Sighing, he admitted, “We don’t know where the O’Malley is, my lord. When the infidels shot you down our first concern was to get you safely aboard. We knew they couldn’t outrun us. But no sooner had we gotten you
back to the ship than a damned rain squall hit, and we lost the bastards in a fog bank. We were nearer Mallorca, and so we brought you here. The rest went on to Algiers, but alas, sir, no trace has been found yet of the O’Malley.”

For a moment, all was silence. Then Niall said, fiercely and simply, “I’ll find her! I’ll find her!” And he swung his legs over the edge of the bed trying to rise. Inis whined.

Constanza Alcudia Cuidadela rose swiftly and sped to his side. “No, No! Señor Niall. You will reopen your wound. It is still not totally healed.” She slipped an arm about his back and gently forced him back to the bed. “Fetch my papa immediately,” she hissed angrily at the stricken captain. “Ana, help me get the señor back into bed.” She fussed about him like a little mother hen, puffing the pillows and smoothing the coverlet, and despite his anxiety he was amused by this little creature whose concern for him was so touching. “For shame, señor!” she scolded. “Ana and I have worked so hard to make you well! Why do you allow your captain to agitate you? If you cannot remain calm then I will not let him in to see you again.”

He realized then that, although he was speaking Spanish with her, he had spoken Gaelic with MacGuire. She hadn’t understood. He felt suddenly weak, but wanted her to understand. “My betrothed wife was kidnapped when I was injured,” he said. “MacGuire tells me she has not yet been found.” It was several moments before she spoke.

“You love her very much, Señor Niall?”

“Yes, Señorita Constanza,” he replied gently. “I love her very much.”

“Then I shall make a novena to the Holy Virgin that she is found soon,” the girl said gravely, and Niall thought again how sweet the child was.

MacGuire quickly returned bringing an older gentleman with him. The man was of medium height with a short, dark, tailored beard, dark hair, and the coldest black eyes Niall had ever seen. He was dressed richly but soberly, his short velvet cape edged in a wide band of deep brown fur.

“Lord Burke,” the voice was as cold as the eyes. “I am the Conde Francisco Cuidadela, and I am happy to see you conscious at last. Captain MacGuire tells me, however, that you are agitated about your betrothed. It is best that you hear the truth now.”

“Papa!” the girl’s voice was pleading. “Señor Niall is not yet strong enough.”

“Silence, Constanza! How dare you presume to advise me? You
will come to me after vespers for punishment, and then you are to spend the night in the chapel meditating on filial respect and obedience.”

The girl hung her head, beaten. “Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

“Your betrothed wife is lost to you forever, Lord Burke, and the sooner you are able to accept this the better off you will be. Should she be found you could not possibly want her back. If she is alive, she has by now been defiled by the infidel, and no decent Catholic could live with that.”

“No!”

“Be reasonable, Lord Burke. Captain MacGuire tells me the lady was a widow. Without the protection of virginity—for purity brings a very high price among the infidels—she was probably raped by at least the captain and officers of the ship that kidnapped her. If she survived that and was beautiful, then rest assured that she was sold into slavery. If she is still alive, she now graces some pasha’s bed. It is not possible that you could want a woman like that back, even if she could be found. Under these circumstances, the holy Church would not hold you to your betrothal. The lady is as lost to you as if she were dead, and in all likelihood she
is
dead.”

“Get out!”

The Conde bowed from the waist. “Your grief is understandable, Lord Burke. I shall leave you to it. You will soon see the wisdom of my words. Come, Constanza!” And he swept from the room, his daughter meekly behind him.

Niall Burke watched the door close behind the Conde and his daughter. For a moment the silence hung heavy in the room, then he said grimly, “All right MacGuire, talk! I’m no child to be wheedled, and if I’ve lived this long, you can bloody well be sure I’m going to survive.
Where
is the O’Malley fleet, and what’s this nonsense about Skye being
lost
forever, and how the
hell
long have I been here anyway? Speak up, man, or I’ll tear the tongue from your head!”

“You’ve been ill six weeks, my lord.”

“Jesu!” swore Niall.

“The fleet went directly to Algiers and we were able to obtain an immediate audience with the Dey. He was most sympathetic and sent to every slave merchant in the city, offering a king’s ransom for the O’Malley’s return, or at least information leading to her return. It was like hollering down a rabbit hole, my lord—not even an echo. The Dey came to the same conclusion the Conde has. She
never reached Algiers alive. What other answer is there?” Here his voice broke, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

In truth, MacGuire was more distressed by something he dared not tell the seriously ill Lord Burke. It seemed that there was one other possibility about the O’Malley’s fate. The Dey had told him that Skye might have reached Algiers alive and then been sold privately. Private sale of captives was strictly illegal because it cheated several people, including the Dey himself, of their shares in the purchase price. But private sales were managed, especially sales of beautiful women. MacGuire reasoned that, if this had happened to Skye, then the Dey would not be able to trace her.

“I don’t want to believe it, my lord, but if Mistress Skye is alive then where is she?”

Niall Burke was stunned. Skye dead? No! Not Skye. Not his vibrant Skye with her Kerry-blue eyes and her proud spirit. No! His shoulders began to shake as the dry sobs took hold and racked him mercilessly. Stumbling from the bed, he lurched across the room, through the French doors and out onto the terrace. All around him everything throbbed with life and
they
said his Skye was dead! Clutching the cool marble balustrade, he howled his frustration and anger at the unfairness of it all, howled and shouted until his voice was so hoarse that he made no sounds at all.

He felt an arm about him, heard a soft voice making soothing sounds he could not comprehend, allowed himself to be led back inside where he barely reached the bed before he collapsed, unconscious. Constanza Cuidadela shook her head as she drew the covers over him. She felt his forehead.

“The fever is back, Captain MacGuire. You must sit with him tonight for my father will not excuse me from my punishment. I will tell you what to do.”

MacGuire nodded. “He’s not an easy man, your father.”

The girl did not reply. She went quietly about her business, caring for the unconscious Niall. Smoothing the pillows first, she next tucked the sheets about her patient and, finally, placed the frosted pitcher on the bedside table.

“You can do very little, Captain, except to keep him as quiet and as comfortable as possible. Ana will bring a basin of scented water shortly, and she’ll come again during the night.” The vespers bells began to toll, and Constanza said, “I must go. When the fever breaks, change his nightshirt and the sheets. Ana will help.” And then she was gone.

MacGuire tended Niall throughout the night. Strangely, Niall was not restless, but lay ominously quiet as the burning fever consumed his big body. Diligently the O’Malley captain cared for his charge, bathing his forehead regularly with the cool, scented water, gently forcing the sweet juice down his throat. During the night, the servant woman, Ana, appeared regularly, bringing fresh water and juice for the sick man. Once she brought a tray for MacGuire with a small cold chicken, bread, fruit, and a carafe of sweet golden wine.

As she silently placed his tray on the long walnut table, MacGuire asked, “How is the lass?”

Ana’s black eyes blazed. “She prays in the chapel for your master, señor,” she said tersely. Then she left.

MacGuire ate hungrily, drank half the carafe, and returned to Niall’s bedside. Toward dawn he dozed in his chair only to be startled awake by a great cry of anguish. Lord Burke sat straight up in the bed, his eyes tightly shut, the tears pouring down his face. He sobbed bitterly, “Skye! Skye! Don’t leave me, beloved! Come back! Come back!”

MacGuire was immobilized for a moment by the terrible anguish. Then he reached out and shook the weeping man gently. “My lord! My lord! It’s only a bad dream.”

Gradually Niall quieted, and finally he lay back. His forehead was cool to the touch. Relieved, MacGuire struggled to change his sleeping friend’s damp nightshirt.

After the first mass of the new day, Constanza appeared to check on her patient. Ana was with her. Constanza praised the worn captain. “You have done well, Captain MacGuire. Go and rest. I will tend to Señor Niall now.”

“But you had no rest either, lass,” protested MacGuire. “You must sleep. He’s out of danger now. A servant can keep watch.” He put a fatherly arm about her to lead her toward the door, and was shocked when she winced. A thin red line began to show through the sleeve of her gown, and the captain’s eyes widened.

“Aye!” snapped Ana. “The Conde beat my sweet Constanza last night.”

“Ana!” The girl was flushed with shame. “He is my father, and it is a father’s duty to chastise an erring child. I challenged his authority. I was wrong.”

“She is a saint, my
niña
. The Conde enjoys hurting her!”

“Ana! Please! If you are overheard he will send you away, and you are all I have.”

The serving woman compressed her lips tightly, sighed, and nodded. MacGuire spoke again. “Has the Conde gone to his duties as the island’s governor?” The women nodded. “Then, Señorita Constanza, I shall strike a bargain with you. I shall keep watch over Lord Burke until the afternoon siesta while you sleep upon the chaise longue. When afternoon comes, I shall go to my own rooms.”

Ana smiled broadly. The captain was
muy simpatico
to her Constanza. Therefore, to Ana, he was a good man, a man to be trusted. A few minutes later she left the young girl sleeping comfortably, MacGuire guarding both Constanza and Niall.

In the late afternoon when the long mauve shadows were beginning to form and the midday heat to abate, Niall Burke opened his silvery eyes again. He instantly remembered where he was and the circumstances that had brought him here. A great burst of sadness washed through him, and he sighed deeply.