Skye O'Malley (51 page)

Recovered, she leaned over him and demanded, “Where is my surprise?”

Muttering about greedy women, he reached over to the bedside table and dangled the gift before her.

Skye gasped. “Oh, Geoffrey, it’s magnificent!” She sat cross-legged before him and slipped it over her neck. It dangled provocatively between her small impudent breasts as he had known it would. “And you went out especially tonight to get it for me. Thank you, my darling!”

And looking at her sitting there, the delight of a child on her face, he vowed again that no one would ever take her from him. She might be the head of a large Irish family, but they had managed these last few years and they’d have to continue to manage without her. She was his wife! His!

“Geoffrey, you look so fierce. Have I displeased you somehow?”

“Nay, sweet,” he reassured her smilingly. “I was just thinking how very much I love you.”

She crept into his arms and put her dark head against his shoulder. “And I love you, my darling. Oh, Geoffrey, I am such a terrible woman! I cannot help but think how lucky we are that Mary died.”

“D’you think I would have let you go? Never! From the moment I first saw you in Dartmoor I meant you to be mine. I will never let you go, Skye! You belong to me!” And then his mouth was taking fierce, harsh possession of hers, and she was meeting his passion with her own, matching him kiss for kiss, caress for caress, until they were again joined in the blazing union so familiar by now, yet never the same. It left them both weak and breathing hard.

Afterward he gently scolded her. “We cannot go on like this, my angel. We must be careful of the baby.”

“I know,” she answered softly, “but Heaven help me, Geoffrey. I love you so, and I love it when you make love to me.”

He smiled in the dimness of the room and, pulling her close, sighed, “Go to sleep, my naughty little wife. Too soon we must return to Court to serve the Queen. Then you’ll have to curb your appetite, for the Queen allows her servants very little time to themselves.”

She nestled next to him. “I’ll find time, Southwood. Never fear!”

CHAPTER 19

“H
URRY, MILADY,” SCOLDED
D
AISY
. “Y
OU KNOW HOW THE
Queen dislikes it when her ladies are late to vespers.”

“None of the Queen’s other ladies are about to give birth,” grumbled Skye. “Let any of the others become pregnant and they’re sent home to the country immediately. But not I! Oh no! The Queen must have her ‘dearest Skye’ near her. I wonder if she will allow me the time to birth my son?”

“Remember, milady,” cautioned Daisy, “that you’re not supposed to give birth for another two months. Keep it in your mind, ma’am.”

Skye laughed ruefully. “Thank God it’s not really that long! If I don’t have this child soon I think I shall burst.” She smoothed her gown over her protruding belly. “There! I am finally presentable. Give me my pomander, girl.” Catching it up, Skye hurried from her apartment and through the maze of palace corridors to the chapel. She could hear the sweet, fluting voices of the choirboys singing: “Therefore we before Him bending, this great sacrament revere.” Avoiding Geoffrey’s little frown, she slipped into the pew beside him.

“I couldn’t wake up,” she whispered.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “You should be down in Devon,” he whispered back, and she nodded.

The service was brief. The Court then trooped gaily off to the dancing, which would be followed by supper. Elizabeth’s sharp dark eyes scrutinized her favorite lady as they all moved through the halls, and she thought,
So Southwood tasted of forbidden fruit before his last wife died. I wonder what they would have done if she hadn’t died?
Then the memory of Robert Dudley’s dead wife, Amy, assailed her. Elizabeth tried to push it away. But this time, as had happened before, she could not banish the thoughts. Amy Dudley haunted Elizabeth Tudor. The Queen was a person of strong and certain morals, and she knew that she had coveted another woman’s husband. Now that other woman was dead, dead under distinctly mysterious circumstances, and the Queen wondered what the truth of the matter really was. It was not the first time she had wondered.

She did not believe, as many others did, that Robert Dudley had had his wife murdered by a hired killer. Elizabeth knew Dudley
too well. His lust to be King of England was great and consuming. All he had had to do was wait, just a little time, until Amy died a natural death. She had been mortally ill. No purpose would have been served by killing her and, thus, casting suspicion upon himself. No, Robert had not ordered Amy’s death.

But there were two other possibilities. One was that her dear Cecil or someone else who did not want to see Dudley become her husband and their King had arranged Amy’s death, well aware of the furor a suspicious death would cause. The other possibility was that poor little Amy, in revenge against Elizabeth for stealing her husband’s love or else in despair over her doctor’s grim verdict, had thrown herself down the staircase, knowing that this unhallowed death would destroy Robert and Elizabeth’s chances of marriage.

Could someone love a man as deeply as Amy Dudley had loved Robert, and one day come to hate him with equal passion? Elizabeth wondered whether this could be. Oh! If only Amy had died a natural death! Sometimes Elizabeth felt actually responsible. It wasn’t fair! Angrily, she managed to put the subject from her mind and looked again at the Countess of Lynmouth.

I really should let Skye go home to Devon
, she mused,
but there are so few women who amuse me. Perhaps in a week or so
, she considered.

The Queen also noted how radiant the Countess of Lynmouth was. Her gown was of mulberry-colored silk, cut low to reveal her very full breasts. There was an attempt at modesty in the soft creamy lace tucked into the bodice. The same lace overflowed the sleeves. Skye’s dark hair was styled severely, drawn into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck, and tucked into a net of very thin gold wires. The long double rope of pearls she wore about her throat were a source of envy to every woman in the room, including Elizabeth.

Skye did not join in the dancing, remaining instead on her footstool by the Queen’s chair. She watched the others dance, and was content. The Queen loved dancing and scarcely sat at all during the entire evening. When he was not partnering Her Majesty, Lord Dudley stood by her throne. At one point his hand dropped to Skye’s bare shoulder. She froze. Dudley laughed softly.

“I’ve heard Southwood brag of the fineness of your skin.” His long, elegant fingers moved slowly downward to the swell of her breasts. He stroked her lightly, casually. “He does not lie,” drawled Dudley insolently. Slowly, he drew his hand away.

“You play a dangerous game, my lord,” said Skye in a low, furious voice. Skye studied the Queen’s favorite without bothering to
conceal her scorn. He was a handsome enough man, if one were drawn to his type, she considered. He was tall and elegantly slender, and always dressed himself with foppish care. His long, aristocratic face and slender hands enhanced his … well, elegance. She had to admit it. He was not an easy man to overlook, even among the well-dressed courtiers. But Dudley did have one flaw, as though nature, having designed him so well, could not bear to endow a mere mortal with everything. His dark red hair, his mustache, and his very short, carefully clipped beard were all very sparse.

His dark eyes were slightly hooded and he never managed to look one directly in the eye. By contrast, however, his words were brutally straightforward.

“I enjoy the game I play, my dear, and I shall win it,” he said sharply. His eyes now held a mocking expression. “You’d like to slap my face, wouldn’t you, Lady Southwood? But you can hardly slap your King, can you?”

“You’re not the King yet, Lord Dudley!” Skye was shocked by the man’s boldness.

“But I will be, my dear, never fear. Bess must wed and produce heirs for England. The council would far prefer a good, solid Englishman to some mincing foreigner. Would you like to be the King’s mistress, m’dear?”

“You’re insufferable,” Skye raged, struggling to her feet. “And, my lord, you are insulting!” Finally standing and balancing herself, she walked slowly away with as much dignity as she could muster. Finding an empty chair in the card room, she sat down and joined the game. She was very angry, and played with a fierce concentration.

She had never liked Robert Dudley, finding him overly ambitious, and arrogant to boot. Given free access to the Queen’s apartments, he came and went at will, particularly when the women were likely to be in states of undress. His eye was bold, and when the young, love-besotted Queen was not looking, his hands were even bolder. Skye was shocked that he would so lewdly approach a woman in her condition. She prayed that Elizabeth would not choose him for a husband. She smiled. The young Queen was sharper and a great deal wiser than those around her gave her credit for. If only love would not cloud her judgment.

The pile of gold coins before her grew higher, and then de Grenville was leaning over her asking, “May I escort you in to supper, Skye?” Her anger cooled, Skye gave him a bright smile and stuffed her winnings into the little silk pouch that hung from her
waist. She excused herself from the card table, to the relief of the other players.

“Aye, Dickon, I am famished!” she said. “Where is Southwood?”

“With the Queen. I’ve news of Robbie.”

“Oh, Dickon, tell me! Is he all right?”

“A small merchant fleet that’s just put in to London hailed him on the Indian Ocean side of Cape Horn. His entire fleet was intact—and so was Robbie. I’ve letters for you which I’ll bring around tomorrow.”

They had reached the dining room. Courtiers in full, colorful finery were milling about, chatting and helping themselves from the vast buffet. “I shall eat nothing but Colchester oysters,” announced Skye, piling her plate high.

“The outrageous vagaries of breeding women,” teased de Grenville.

“I don’t know how on earth you would know about that, Dickon,” Skye teased in return. “The moment your wife shows sign of being with child, you banish the poor woman to Devon.”

“For her own good, Skye. And of course, the child’s health as well,” he responded piously.

“Nonsense! It’s so you can wench in the best brothels in London without suffering a guilty conscience.” Skye laughed, speared an oyster, and swallowed it whole.

De Grenville reddened. “You’re too forward for a woman,” he muttered, “and far too beautiful for a lady about to give birth.”

“And if I weren’t pregnant would you be trying to make love to me, Dickon?”

“For God’s sake, Skye!” protested de Grenville.

“Just asking, Dickon. You see, I love Geoffrey. I would like to have you for a friend, as would my husband. It would distress me to have to be constantly fending you off. Beauty does not necessarily mean a loose moral character. Did you know that?”

“Any man attempting to toy with Geoffrey Southwood’s wife would be suicidal,” muttered de Grenville. “For my health’s sake, Skye, I think of you as I do my own dear sisters.”

Skye patted his arm in a kindly fashion. “I am very relieved to hear that, Dickon,” she twinkled up at him.

“Whore!” The outraged shout accompanied by a sharp crack brought instant silence to the room. Skye and de Grenville turned, startled, in the direction of the uproar. Everyone was staring toward a corner of the room where Lionel, Lord Basingstoke, stood towering
over a beautiful golden-haired woman who cowered on her knees, clutching her bruised cheek. The nobleman was in a high rage, his face as red as his velvet doublet. The veins on his neck bulged and his pale eyes glittered with fury. Raising his hand he struck the woman again and repeated, “Whore!”

Several gentlemen dashed forward and restrained the apoplectic man. “My God!” someone hissed. “That’s Lady Burke, the Irishman’s wife.” The woman was weeping softly.
Lord
, thought Skye,
she’s absolutely beautiful
. Then, almost before she realized what she was doing, Skye pushed through the crowd to the sobbing woman. Leaning down, Skye put a tender arm about her and helped her up. “There, my dear. By tomorrow there will be something else to gossip about, and this will be entirely forgotten,” Skye said gently. Constanza threw her a grateful look.

“Christ’s blood, Lady Southwood!” cried Lord Basingstoke, “Don’t touch her! She is foulness beyond measure! No decent woman should even speak her name.”

“Fie, my lord!” Skye’s voice rang out. “You abuse a lady, and you dare do it in the Queen’s presence!”

“That she dares to show herself to the Queen is an outrage in itself!” shouted Basingstoke. “The most evil of whores in the presence of the most innocent and virtuous of women!”

“You make a great deal of noise, my lord,” said Skye wearily. “I’ve yet to hear what causes your outrage.”

“And I should be interested too, sir.” Niall Burke pushed his way forward. Pulling one of his gloves from his doublet, he struck Lord Basingstoke across the cheek. “You are challenged, my lord. Where? And when?”

“No, Irishman. She’s not worth it. I’ll not have your death on my conscience, nor will I be killed for such as she! God Almighty, man! Can you really be so blind? Constanza has been my mistress for months. Yes, she’s been cuckolding you, but far worse, she’s been cuckolding me also. And not with just one man, but with
any man
who had the gold to buy her!” Basingstoke wrenched Constanza from Skye’s protective grasp. Holding her hand high, he declared in his booming voice, “Gentlemen! I give you the Book Lady! Madame Claro’s most famous attraction! The busiest cunt in Londontown!”

A collective gasp rose from the assembled court, the women shocked yet titillated, the gentlemen pressing forward for a closer view. Constanza’s violet eyes widened in horror at the knowing, leering looks. Trembling uncontrollably, she fainted.

“My lord Basingstoke!”
A path opened instantly through the jostling crowd, and the Queen moved regally forward. “My lord Basingstoke,” she repeated. “These are appalling charges. Where is your proof?”