Skye O'Malley (48 page)

“Woman, you’re mad!” he exclaimed. “I’m amazed that your
husband hasn’t found out about you cuckolding him with me
and
Lord Basingstoke. Are you looking to get caught?”

“Let me worry about Niall. I want to meet the whore. If you won’t arrange it with Polly then I must do so.”

“If having a hundred cocks up your hot little cunt will help you, Connie, then I’ll speak to Poll. ’Tis a sickness with you, I know that. There was a girl in my village in Hereford like you. She just couldn’t get enough.”

“What happened to her, Harry?”

“She died of the pox,” he answered matter-of-factly. “What would you expect?”

Several days later, with Niall Burke off hunting with friends for a week in Hampshire, Constanza Burke and Harry rode into London. She fully expected to be led into a dank slum, so she was pleasantly surprised to find herself before a small well-kept house on the London Bridge itself.

The house was whitewashed and half-timbered, and each of the three stories extended out over the other, making it look a bit like a cake. One side of the house faced the street—the bridge actually was a street—while another side looked down onto the river traffic. This was a source of continuing delight to the bargemen, who enjoyed ogling and joking with the scantily clad women who sat fanning themselves in their windows on hot summer afternoons.

“I’ll wait for you,” Harry said, helping her dismount. She drew her hood up and knocked at the door. A little maidservant opened it almost immediately and Constanza quickly entered and followed the girl down a short hallway to a pleasant sunny room with a bay window overlooking the river.

An attractive blonde with sky-blue eyes awaited her, and when the servant girl had left, the woman spoke in a husky voice. “Good afternoon, my lady. I am Claro. Polly said you wished to see me. Now you do, so how may I serve you?”

Constanza felt suddenly shy and, turning away, mumbled, “I have made a mistake in coming here.”

Claro laughed breathily. “No, my dear. Poll has told me
all
about you. You have an itch that needs constant scratching, and you would join me on occasion. Please don’t be embarrassed. I should be delighted to have you with me. You’ll stay masked whenever here, and no one will ever know your real identity. Is it a bargain, my dear?”

“You don’t even know fully what I look like,” said Constanza. “How can you be sure I’ll be a success?”

“My dear,” was the devastating reply, “as long as you will give the gentlemen a good jogging, it matters not if you’re as ugly as sin itself. Remember that no one will ever see your face. I’ve half a dozen pretty lasses for those who like beauty with their play.”

“What about the money?” asked Constanza.

“We’ll split your earnings fifty-fifty,” came the reply.

“No!
I want none of it! Oh, God! Why did I come here?”

Claro laughed, then put a friendly arm about Constanza. “Don’t be frightened, lovey. Being a whore takes getting used to, but you’ll do beautifully.” She sat Constanza down, gave her a small glass of a restorative cordial, then sat opposite her. “D’you think I was born a lightskirt then? My father was a nobleman with lands, but I ran off with my cousin and when he’d filled my belly, he left me. I couldn’t go home. What else could I do?”

“You had a baby?” Constanza’s purple eyes were wide with surprise.

“No,” laughed Claro, “I wasn’t so innocent that I didn’t know how to get rid of the brat.”

Constanza felt sick, and swallowed hard. Oblivious, Claro continued. “Your using a mask will certainly be enticing, but I wish you also had a specialty that would set you apart. A mask is not enough.”

Constanza stared at her hostess, her fear suddenly gone. Claro was, she realized with surprise, simply a business woman. The cordial was beginning to work, and now Constanza had a wicked idea. “I have a book,” she said.

“A book?”

“A book from the East, full of beautiful pictures of men and women, and some with animals. What if I offered each man who comes to me the opportunity to chose a page and duplicate that page?”

Claro’s baby-blue eyes widened. “God’s toenail! You’ve a quick mind for this, my dear. It’s perfect! Now, when will you come to us?”

“Tonight,” answered Constanza. “My lord is away for several days, and the truth is that I burn.”

“Do not bother returning home now, my dear. Send your groom back for your book while you rest here,” purred Claro. She rang a small silver bell and said to the little servant girl, “Take Madam to the Rose Room.”

Wordlessly Constanza followed the maid out the door. As the door closed on the two, Claro spun about, hugging herself with glee. “Oh, Dom!” she said softly to the air above her. “Oh, my darling
brother, at last I have a means of vengeance on Niall Burke for you! That milk-faced girl is his wife. His wife! And I’ll make the fine Lord Burke’s wife the most infamous whore in London! That, added to the death of your late bitch wife Skye, should destroy him for good!” And Claire O’Flaherty laughed wildly.

So it began. Soon gentlemen of the Court were circulating stories of the “Book Lady” who occasionally entertained at the house of the nobility’s favorite whore, Claro. The Book Lady performed the most unspeakable and delicious acts of perversions. The Book Lady’s lust was inexhaustible. That she was a lady was evident, but who she was was a favorite guessing game of the men who frequented Claro’s house, and Elizabeth Tudor’s Court.

And Constanza Burke, living her secret life, had never been happier. She had her husband, and Lord Basingstoke, and Harry the groom, and a host of noble lovers. Who would ever suspect that the innocent-looking Lady Burke of Elizabeth’s Court was the wicked Book Lady?

Luck rode with her, for Niall Burke was lost in his personal world of sad memories and was hardly aware of his wife any longer. Had the Countess of Lynmouth not looked so much like his Skye, he would have gone on with his life. But now, seeing her frequently, his wounds bled again and again. What a fine joke fate had played on him, and he laughed bitterly and drank deeply of his wine.

One evening his wife’s personal servant, Ana, entered his library and curtseyed before him. “My lord, I must speak with you.” Ana was in a most difficult position. She could not allow her beloved child to go on as she was, yet to expose her sins to her husband would be worse. Ana believed that if she could force Lord Burke from his depression, perhaps he would again become a loving husband. Constanza would then cease her wicked adventures before it was too late.

“Well, Ana, what is it?”

“My lord, my
niña
is not happy, and it is because you are not happy.” His black look made her falter, but summoning her courage, she continued. “You’ve been neglecting Constanza, my lord, and you know that I speak the truth. Why can it not be as it once was between you? Surely you don’t love her any less.”

He sighed. The old woman was a busybody, but she spoke honestly and he knew it. “We Irish are subject to black moods, Ana, and Constanza must get used to that. She’s a good little lass.”

“Why do you not go home to Ireland, my lord?”

“I will not return until I can return with my wife
and
my son.”

“There is little chance of that if you see my mistress so infrequently,” snapped Ana tartly.

“Peace, woman!” shouted Niall Burke. “For the moment the mood is upon me, and I must bear it until it passes. Your mistress has had two years to produce an heir, and I’ve seen no sign of a son or daughter. She has not complained to me of neglect, and seems well enough entertained these days. Christ, she’s in the house less than I am!”

“And don’t you wonder where she goes?”

Niall Burke’s silver eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, woman?” he asked ominously.

A wave of fear rushed on Ana, almost suffocating her. “Nothing, my lord, nothing!” she gasped and quickly backed out of the room. Oh God! She had almost given it away. Leaning against the wall, she wept silently, the hot, salty tears stinging her eyes and swelling them. Ana was not young anymore. Going through this awful fear again was surely a curse.

She remembered back eighteen years ago to when she and Constanza’s beautiful mother had been carried off by Moorish pirates. When they had finally been returned, she had sworn an oath that her mistress’s virtue was untouched. Under the circumstances, she hoped God would forgive her the lie. The lady Maria had already been pregnant with her husband’s child when they were abducted, and to have told the truth would have left open to question the validity of the child’s heritage. In the end, the Conde questioned it anyway. Still, to protect the girl she had raised, Ana had lied. Since all the others who had been caught in the raid had disappeared into the slave markets of the East, no one questioned her story.

But Ana would always remember it vividly. The pirates had struck after sunset, using the darkness to creep up upon the Conde’s summer villa located in a remote part of the island. The entire village had been lined up for inspection. The children, the young girls, the youths, women of childbearing age, and healthy, strong-looking men were herded onto the pirate vessel. The remaining unfortunates were quickly slaughtered. At the villa the procedure was similar but the young Condesa and her duenna were treated gently, and locked aboard the ship in a small cabin furnished with only a Turkish couch, a low table, and some floor pillows. The ship had been underway for several hours before anyone bothered with them. Then the door burst open and the ship’s captain swaggered in. The three men at his back leaped forward and tore the clothes off the
shrieking young Condesa. Ana attempted to shield her mistress from the lustful stares of the four men, but the captain dealt her a fierce blow that sent her reeling to the floor. Stunned, she could only watch in horror as the handsome Moor scrutinized her naked mistress. He walked about her slowly, squeezed a buttock, hefted a pear-shaped breast as if testing its weight, felt the soft texture of the silvery blond hair. He made a comment to his three companions in their guttural language and they laughed. The Moorish captain bent and dragged Ana up by her hair. “Is your mistress a virgin?” he asked her in flawless Spanish.

“No,” gasped Ana. “She is the wife of a wealthy and powerful lord, the royal governor of these islands. He will pay a fortune for her safe return.”

The men laughed uproariously. The Moorish captain said, “Some fat pasha will pay a hell of a lot more to have your mistress in his harem than her stiff-necked husband will pay for her return. And since she’s no virgin we may enjoy her first.”

The two women’s eyes widened and Ana screamed, “No! I beg of you, captain, take me—but leave my mistress untouched!”

“Why, wench,” laughed the Moor, “did you think we wouldn’t have you too? Hey, Ali, this one’s eager for a little loving! Do your duty well by her!”

What had followed was a nightmare Ana could never quite forget. That she was raped several times was of no importance, to Ana’s mind, for she was a peasant and such things, though distasteful, happened to peasants with great regularity. Her position on the floor, however, gave her a clear view of the lady Maria, who had been thrown on the couch above.

At first the Condesa had struggled and screamed as the handsome Moorish captain rammed himself in and out of her. But her cries soon became cries of passion rather than shame as the captain, inflamed by her blond beauty, prolonged his performance. At last he could no longer contain himself, and poured himself into her. His place was quickly taken by one of his men, and then another, and finally the last.

Ana listened with horror as Maria exhorted each man to greater efforts, begging for more when one was spent and another took his place. The captain and his three officers quickly left Ana in peace so that they might spend the night in a long debauch with the young Condesa. Ana could not believe either her eyes or her ears. What had happened to her child to turn her from a sweet girl to this … this terrible woman?

When at last the four men stumbled wearily from the little cabin, Ana crept over to where Maria lay. The Condesa’s body was wet with sweat and semen, the hollows beneath her purple eyes dark with exhaustion. She beamed her sweet smile at Ana. “Ah, sweet body of Christ, my dear Ana, I have not been so well fucked since we left Castile.”

“
Niña
, you are mad! You were a virgin on your wedding night! I myself saw the blood on your sheets.”

Maria laughed her tinkling laughter. “Chicken’s blood,” she said. “The Conde would not have known a virgin if he’d had one. On our wedding night he was hot to possess me, and I pretended to be shyly reluctant. It took him two hours to get my nightgown off.” She laughed again. “And when I finally let him take me I shrieked and struggled. When I pretended to shove him away, I broke the small bladder of chicken’s blood I had secreted for the occasion, then I pretended to faint. There, however, I overdid it. The Conde, alas, is not a particularly vigorous lover, and since our wedding night he handles me with such delicacy that it is like being fucked with a feather. I have been wild with desire for months now, but I dare not take a lover. There are no secrets on Mallorca.”

“My dearest,” begged Ana, “what is it you tell me? That you were not pure when you married the Conde? It is not so! I, myself, watched over you! When could you have had time to deceive me? When? You studied, made your devotion regularly, gardened, and rode. All decent pursuits!”

“Ana, Ana, what an innocent you are,” said Maria. “My guardians left us alone in that jewel of a house. Though our bills were paid they never appeared from one year to the next. I was easy prey for those who liked to deflower innocents.”

“Who,
niña?
Who?”

“Our good priest for one, my Ana. I was six when he first took me on his lap and slipped his hand up my gown to touch my sex. I was eleven when he finally took my virginity in the confessional. You sleep soundly, my old duenna. After that I chose my own lovers from among the gardeners, the grooms, my tutor, and the gypsies who camped on our lands several times every year. It was their old queen who gave me the chicken’s blood in the bladder. I need loving, Ana. I must have it! I almost lost my mind these past months, but God, what lovers the Moors are!”