Skye O'Malley (53 page)

“First, draw the drapes and bring in the lantern,” suggested Skye, and when he had accomplished these two simple tasks she said, “Help push my gown up.” That done, she inched her silken undergarments off, and he stared at the swollen, blue-veined belly that would soon be emptied of their child. Suddenly a flood of water spewed forth from her body, wetting the seat cushions. She arched as another pain began to push the child from her body.

“Geoffrey!” she gasped through gritted teeth. “I can feel the head. Look! Look!”

Fearfully he forced his eyes downward. “My God!” he whispered, awestruck, as the child began to emerge from her body. “What do I do, Skye?”

“Turn the child slowly as he comes forth, Geoffrey. Be very careful not to drop him for he’ll be slippery with the birthing blood. Ahhhh, Jesus! Mary!” Another pain racked her.

Quickly he rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt, his bejeweled doublet having been left behind at Greenwich. Skye groaned again, and her convulsion pushed the child’s shoulders forth. Leaning forward, Geoffrey wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead with his handkerchief. “You are magnificent, madam, and I love you,” he said admiringly. Then he gently turned the child, and saw the baby’s tight little face, wiping the blood from it with the same handkerchief that had wiped its mother’s face. The baby’s eyes opened, looked dispassionately at its father, a disturbing, strangely familiar look, and then slipped forth fully born into the Earl’s waiting hands with a howl of pure outrage. One swift look told the Earl what he wanted to know. “A
son
!” he exulted. “You’ve given me a son, Skye!”

“Of course I have,” she said weakly. “Did I not promise you one?”

“The cord? We’ve nothing to cut it with.”

“It’ll wait,” she said, and then fainted.

The Earl’s bargemen, hearing the newly born infant’s cry, and his lordship’s shout, grinned at each other and put their backs into their work. Shortly afterward they reached their dock at Lynmouth House and, to their surprise, found Daisy, Dame Cecily, and the midwife waiting for them.

“Lord Burke rode in with Daisy but a few minutes ago to tell us you were coming,” said Dame Cecily. “Is Skye all right? Is she in labor?”

“The child is born!” exulted Geoffrey, when he heard their voices. “I have a son!”

Entering the barge, the midwife finished the job by cutting the cord and wiping the newborn free of birthing blood. She wrapped him in a clean swaddling cloth, and handed him up to Daisy. Skye had regained consciousness, and she groaned as another, weaker pain cut through her.

“You’ve not yet borne the afterbirth, my lady. Let me help you.” The midwife pressed down hard on Skye’s belly, and with one quick pain the afterbirth slipped out onto a linen towel spread by the efficient midwife. Quickly the woman cleansed her patient free of all evidence of her recent travail, then signaled to the litterbearers. The Earl carefully lifted his wife from the barge, and tenderly placed her on pillows in the litter. Skye held out her arms. “Give me my son.”

Geoffrey took the baby from Daisy, and placed him in his mother’s arms. Alert, but quiet now, the child returned his mother’s scrutiny. His small round head was covered with soft, damp blond curls, his eyes were a deep sapphire blue, and his features were his father’s. Skye smiled happily. “Oh, Geoffrey, I have indeed given you a son! He’s you in miniature. I’ll wager his eyes turn green within the year.”

Mother and child were escorted to the house and tucked carefully into bed. The midwife handed Skye a goblet of wine into which she’d mixed herbs. “This will help you sleep, madam, and will also help rebuild the blood you’ve lost.” Skye obediently drank it down and Geoffrey, sitting down next to the bed, took his wife’s hand. Her beautiful blue eyes were heavy with weariness, but the warmth of his strong grasp communicated to her all the love that he felt for her. She sighed, contented. Geoffrey Southwood smiled tenderly at her. “Go to sleep, my love,” he said, and when her eyelids finally closed he left her sleeping under the watchful eyes of Daisy, their slumbering son in his cradle by his mother’s bed.

The Earl of Lynmouth walked next door to his own apartment. Wordlessly he stripped his bloodstained clothing off and climbed into the steaming tub his body servant had prepared. He scrubbed himself down and then, climbing out, dried himself off. His valet then wrapped him in a long, warm gown and, murmuring congratulations, left his master alone.

Geoffrey Southwood poured himself a goblet of pale golden wine and sat before the blazing fire. The child was safely born. He had a healthy, lusty son, an heir. But did he still have a loving wife? She had refused to discuss Niall Burke with him, which led Geoffrey to believe that she had once loved him. Now that her memory had returned, would she love Burke again? “When I am finished with this business of birthing our son I will tell you of Niall Burke,” she had said. “I am yours because I choose to be,” she had also said. Damn her proud and independent Irish spirit! Then he chuckled ruefully. It was this very independence that made her different from other women, that made her Skye.

Draining his goblet, Geoffrey climbed into his chilly, empty bed, then lay tossing restlessly. He dozed, then awoke with a start. This was the first night since their marriage that he’d been without her, for even in these last weeks of her pregnancy he’d slept with her, in her bedchamber, snoring contentedly against her warmth.
I must be getting old
, he thought with a touch of humor. These sheets were cold and musty with lack of use, and there were lumps in his fine mattress.

“God’s blood!” he said, suddenly leaping up. “I will not sleep here a minute longer!” And padding barefoot across the cold floor to the door that connected his room with hers, he stomped in. Poor Daisy was horrified, having never seen her master in his nightshirt.

Skye, sitting propped up with pillows behind her, the child at her breast, bit her lip with suppressed mirth. “My lord, have you come to see our wee Robin?” The baby made a murmur of distinct annoyance as his mother’s voice disturbed his concentration.

“I’m cold,” announced the Earl pettishly.

Skye’s eyes twinkled. “I have never seen the sense,” she said, “in a man sleeping apart from his wife simply because she has just borne a child.” With her free hand she flung the bedcovers back in invitation. “Climb in, Geoffrey. I am cold too without you.”

Scandalized, Daisy pursed her lips together, but the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth simply giggled like two naughty children, and snuggled close. Then Geoffrey turned his attention to the tiny golden-haired infant who rooted noisily at his mother’s breast, his tiny fingers kneading her.

“He’s working hard enough at it,” observed the Earl.

“My milk won’t be in for a day or two. All he’s getting now is a watery liquid,” said Skye.

“Is that natural?” He was instantly concerned. “Should we have a wet nurse for him?”

She laughed. “With all the children you had, you should know more, my love. My present condition is quite natural. I shall get a wet nurse for Robin in about a month, but during the time it takes me to recover from this birth I shall have the pleasure of giving my child suck.”

“So you already decided upon his name, have you? All by yourself?”

“I have,” she replied, unconcerned. “He is Robert Geoffrey James Henry Southwood. Robert for my dearest Robbie, Geoffrey for you, James for my uncle Seamus, and Henry in honor of both the late king, and Robin’s dead half-brother. His godparents will be the Queen and Lord Dudley. He will be vain enough to believe I have named the child for him in order to please the Queen. He should therefore prove an excellent godfather to Robin in an effort to impress the Queen.”

Geoffrey Southwood chuckled admiringly. “By God you’re a wickedly clever minx, my dear. The Queen and Lord Dudley! I don’t believe anyone has yet given them a godchild, not both of them together. What a stroke of genius! I most assuredly approve.” Warmed by her ripe body, he was beginning to feel expansive.

Noting it, Skye smiled. “Daisy, put Robin back to bed. Then you may watch over him the rest of the night please.”

“Aye, madam.” Daisy took the child. Her flush went unnoticed as her mistress drew the bed draperies, thus making a private little world for herself and the Earl.

Geoffrey Southwood’s eyes were bright with love and admiration. “I was so damned lonely for you,” he said.

“And I for you. If you’d not come into my bed I should have called for you.”

“Would you?” He was as pleased as a child, his green eyes lighting up.

“Aye, I would. Now go to sleep, my darling. ’Twas a brave thing you did delivering Robin. Thank you, my love.” She nestled next to him and, sighing happily, he put a protective arm about her. Within a few minutes he was sleeping soundly, his slow regular breathing a comforting sound.

Now it was Skye who lay awake. How strange it was that this elegant, assured man to whom she was married could suffer such terrible pangs of insecurity. How hard it must have been for him these last few weeks—knowing the truth of her identity, unable to tell her yet fearful she would learn of it. Fearful because of Niall Burke.

For the first time since her memory had returned those few
short, yet somehow long hours ago, she thought of him. There were touches of silver at his temples that had not been there four years ago. In the morning Geoffrey would want to know about Niall and what was she to tell him? Should she lie? She knew Niall still loved her. Now she understood those searching looks he had given her, the intense questioning. If she chose to lie she knew she could ask Niall for his help. He’d not like it, but he’d help if she asked him to.

She moved restlessly, and Geoffrey’s protective arm slipped loose. He sighed and turned on his other side, away from her. She couldn’t lie to Geoffrey. She couldn’t! The truth might be softened, but an outright lie could bring disaster. She had no wish to hurt Geoffrey. She loved him. But did she not also love Niall? Hadn’t her memory fled because he was the most important being in her life? Her mind had gone blank rather than accept Niall’s death.

Four years ago. Four long years. And in that time so much had happened. Khalid el Bey, her beloved second husband. Could she love him any less because her memory of Niall had returned? No. He would always have a place in her secret heart. And their daughter, Willow, with Khalid’s black lashes and golden lion eyes was the living proof of that love.

And Geoffrey. She loved him also as he loved her. Their love had grown into something wonderful. Could she walk away from him now?

And Niall. What of him? Long ago, and far away in what almost seemed another life, they had shared one ecstatic night of blinding passion. They had tried to build a life together based on that night, but fate continued to separate them. He had a wife now, a wife who obviously needed him desperately. As she had a husband.

But she loved him still. Yet she loved Geoffrey. It was madness! How could a woman love two men at the same time? “Damn!” she swore softly to herself.

“Tell me,” Geoffrey’s calm voice commanded.

Skye gave up all thought of lying and answered simply, “I was betrothed to him after my first husband died. I thought you were asleep.”

“How can I sleep with you tossing so, my darling? Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love him now that your memory has returned?”

“I love you,” she said.

He smiled in the darkness. “But do you love him?” Geoffrey persisted.

“No!” she said quickly.

He frowned slightly at the too-quick denial. Was she lying to protect his feelings or to hide something from him? “Did he ever know you?”

“Geoffrey!” Damn!

“Did he?”

Oh Lord, help her not to rouse his suspicions. “No,” she said with what she hoped was just the right tinge of righteous annoyance. “He never knew me.” She felt him relax, and said a quick prayer of thanks. Now, the tension gone, she was suddenly exhausted. “I am tired,” she yawned.

Once more he enfolded her in his protective clasp. “Go to sleep, my dearest wife,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

In the house to the right of them, however, the master and mistress were far from sleep. In the uproar that had followed the duel the Queen had instructed the Burkes be brought to her. “My lord,” she addressed herself to Niall, her dark eyes very large and angry. “I have already told your wife that she is no longer welcome at this Court. As for you—you deliberately disobeyed my orders and killed Lord Basingstoke. For that I could have you beheaded. Do you realize that?” In her dancing costume of pale green watered silk, ecru lace at the neck and sleeves, Elizabeth ought to have appeared young and mild. But this was Elizabeth at the angriest Niall had ever seen her, and the frivolous dancing gown was obscured by her flaming red-gold hair and snapping dark eyes. In this rage, Elizabeth flamed as hotly as her father, the infamous Henry the Eighth.

She continued. “We understand that you were sorely provoked, Lord Burke. Nonetheless you are also banished from Court,
and
from England for the period of one year. Your wife, however, is never to set foot in my realm again. We give you one month in which to prepare for your departure.”

“The woman called Claro?” Niall asked in an unwavering voice. “I beg Your Majesty’s permission to deal personally with her.”

“We do not wish to hear of it, my lord,” said the Queen slowly and with particular meaning, “lest we be forced to review our clemency to you.”

“That is understood, madam.”

“Farewell, then, my lord Burke,” said Elizabeth, extending him her hand. He kissed it. Elizabeth pointedly ignored the subdued Constanza, as she had ignored her throughout the interview.

Niall Burke slowly released the beautiful, bejeweled hand. “You
are ever gracious, Majesty.” Grasping his wife’s arm, he led her through a side door, down a maze of corridors, and out into the courtyard to their carriage. He pushed her up into the coach, and shouted to the liveried servant on the box, “Home!” Then he climbed in and sat opposite her. The vehicle lurched forward. Niall Burke sat back in his seat and looked at his wife. “Amazing,” he said after a long while. “Simply amazing! Despite the fact that you are obviously the biggest whore in Christendom, you look like an angel.”