Skye O'Malley (58 page)

The Earl bowed at the compliment and offered his hand to Elizabeth as the first dance began. Lord Dudley partnered Skye. She did not really like the Queen’s favorite, a fact of which he was quite well aware. Unfortunately, her very aloofness excited Robert Dudley. He was a man who loved danger, and the thought of seducing this beautiful woman beneath the very noses of both Elizabeth and the lady’s husband was deliciously tempting.

Robert Dudley’s view of himself was such that it simply didn’t occur to him that he, the most popular man at Court, could be sincerely rebuffed. He blandly assumed that Skye was being coy, though there was nothing of the coy maiden in Skye’s personality. If he had known her well, Dudley would have realized this. As he partnered her his eyes feasted on the pearly luminescence of her skin, then plunged deep into her décolletage. What sweet round little apples she hid beneath her bodice. The perusal was all done quickly, for though Elizabeth had thus far denied him total possession of her royal body, she was a very jealous woman.

Skye ignored the greedy eyes that made her feel almost unclean.
What she was unable to ignore were Dudley’s outright suggestive comments. “Why do you dislike me, my beauty? You would be wise to cultivate my favor.”

“I do not dislike you, my lord,” said Skye, looking at him evenly. But Dudley’s smirk of triumph faded when she continued, “But neither do I like you.”

“Then why the hell did you make me your son’s godfather?”

“You were my husband’s choice,” lied Skye. She was thinking, though I may antagonize you, my lord Boorishness, you’ll not take it out on my Geoffrey. “You see, my lord Dudley, I always obey my husband as a good wife should,” she finished demurely.

“God, how your very virtue inflames me,” muttered Dudley.

“I do not seek to inflame you, sir.”

“But nevertheless you do, madam.” He shot a quick glance toward Elizabeth, but she was well occupied. Catching Skye off guard, he led her from the dance figure and guided her into a private alcove within the ballroom. Before she had recovered her shock, Robert Dudley’s arms wrapped quickly about her. Skye was outraged, and she struggled fiercely against him. “Sir! Loose me at once, my lord!” she demanded.

His low laughter was almost a growl. “No, my pretty Skye, I shall not. Enough of this coyness now, madam. I long to taste your ripe lips, and,” he lowered his head to kiss the tops of her heaving breasts, “these far sweeter fruits.”

She tried to free her arms. Revolted, she pulled away from him, but he tightened an arm about her while his other hand grasped and held her head in a firm grip. Desperately she tried to turn away from the lips descending on hers, but she couldn’t, and Dudley’s mouth ravaged hers wetly, trying to force passion where there was none. She dared not scream, for the enamored Queen would believe her the aggressor. Robert Dudley, of course, knew this. His tongue pushed past her teeth, thrusting deeply with obvious meaning. Confident, his hands were boldly lifting her skirts now, and knowing she had but one chance before he coolly raped her, she swiftly lifted her knee to find his vulnerable groin. She was rewarded by instant release, and a look of acute pain on Lord Dudley’s surprised face.

Without a word Skye fled the alcove, her cheeks burning. She was fortunate that Dudley’s chosen rendezvous place had been secluded. Neither their entrance nor her embarrassed flight was observed. Snatching a goblet of iced wine from a passing footman, she forced herself to sip slowly while the beating of her heart dropped
back to normal. She stopped before a mirror, set her wine down, and smoothed her hair and her gown with shaking hands.

The filthy, arrogant bastard! How dare Dudley attack her? She had done everything to discourage him, but he could not be put off. She couldn’t appeal to the Queen, for Elizabeth was in love with him and would brook no criticism of her precious Robin.
I don’t ever want to return to Court
, Skye thought desperately.
We can probably beg off in the spring, and perhaps by next autumn we shall have been replaced in the Queen’s affections by others. Then we can remain in Devon and raise our children in peace
. She grew calmer with thoughts of Devon and, picking up her wine, discreetly joined her guests.

In the alcove she had so hastily vacated, Robert, Lord Dudley, was still doubled over, retching. Waves of pain continued to wash over him for a few minutes, but gradually he began to feel better. The little bitch, he thought, half-angry, half-intrigued. He rubbed his injured member ruefully, still unable to quite believe she had refused him. Women simply did not refuse Robert. She would regret this. One day he would have her.
And
, he vowed, she would beg him for his favors. Straightening his garments, he left the alcove.

Skye managed to avoid Dudley the rest of the evening, but Geoffrey, ever sensitive to her moods, saw that something was wrong. Discreetly he led her aside. “What is it, my love.”

“Dudley just tried to rape me,” she said angrily.

“What?”

“Lower your voice, Geoffrey!” She placed a warning hand on his arm to restrain him. “He has pressed his unwanted attentions on me before, but you know as well as I do that the Queen would not believe it if I told her. He counts on that.”

“He didn’t—”

“No. I jammed my knee into his groin. I’ll be surprised if he can dance again this evening.”

Geoffrey winced automatically, but could find in his heart no sympathy for Dudley. “How would you like to leave for Devon immediately after the masque, my darling?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” Her face lit with joy.

“We’ll pause just long enough to change into something warm and easy. We’ll be off with the dawn. I know of a marvelous inn along the road where we may spend tomorrow night.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Like the Ducks and Drake?”

“Better!” He smiled down at her. “Would you mind if we continued to stay down in Devon, forsaking the Court and London?”

“No! It would please me greatly to remain in Devon. I am afraid I am a country mouse at heart, my lord. I hope the news does not disappoint you.”

He enfolded her in a warm and loving embrace. “I find, my darling wife, that I have no wish to share you with anybody—except perhaps our children.”

“Only perhaps?” she teased.

“Skye, if the shocking truth be known, I don’t wish to share you with anyone, including the children! Now, let us go back to our guests before we’re missed.”

At the midnight supper de Grenville and the recently wed Lettice Knollys found the tiny crowns in their pieces of Twelfth Night cake and were crowned Lord of Misrule and his queen. For the rest of the evening de Grenville kept the party lively ordering naughty forfeits from the guests. Even poor Lettice could not escape her consort of the evening. Dickon ordered her first to be blindfolded, and then to kiss the six gentlemen whom he chose.

“One of them is your husband, Walter, my dear, and you must tell us which.”

Poor Lettice was in a terrible quandary, for Walter was not the most inspired of lovers. Blindfolded, her ears became sharper and she could hear amid the giggles a great deal of scuffling. Pursing her pretty cherry lips, she received her six kisses—one a peck, two hearty busses, two that were wet and sloppy, and one very passionate kiss that sent a hot thrill racing through her.

“Well, Lettice?” demanded de Grenville of the blindfolded woman.

Lettice pretended to consider the dilemma. She was quite sure that none of them had been Walter, but she was desirous of knowing the identity of the man whose kiss had thrilled her so. “The last gentleman was Walter,” she announced firmly. “I am quite sure.”

A great burst of raucous laughter greeted this statement, and when the blindfold was snatched off Lettice found herself facing Lord Dudley. “Ohhhh,” she cried, blushing in pretty confusion, “but I was so very sure! He kisses me just the way Walter does.”

“None of them was Walter, my dear,” chortled de Grenville.

“Really, Dickon!” Lettice stamped her foot in apparent outrage, and there was more good-natured laughter. Robert Dudley smiled to himself as he put an arm about the Queen. Lettice Knollys was an outright minx. When he’d kissed her she’d thrust her sharp little tongue into his mouth with a delightfully practiced skill. He eyed her from beneath carefully lowered eyelids, and saw to his amazement
that she was eying him, just as intently and just as discreetly. Well, well, thought Dudley, a possible playmate on those nights when Bess drives me to distraction and then sends me on my way unfulfilled.

The evening progressed, growing merrier and merrier. Finally the Queen and her intimates departed and were followed shortly thereafter by the other exhausted, exhilarated, and drunken guests. The last of them waved out the door, the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth joined hands and ran up the staircase to their apartments where their body servants awaited them.

“I’ve your night things all ready, m’lady,” smiled Daisy.

“No,” said Skye, “my lord and I are but stopping to change. We are off for Devon! Have the girls pack my nightgown and toilet articles now, and get me the deep-blue wool traveling dress and the matching velvet cloak with the sable lining and trim.”

“But m’lady,” protested Daisy, “we’ve not packed to leave.”

“You and the others may leave tomorrow or the day after. My lord and I prefer to travel quickly.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

In his bedchamber Geoffrey was issuing similar orders. “The large traveling coach,” he instructed his majordomo. “My lady will want to nap along the way. Send a rider ahead to the Queen’s Head Inn to say that we will be stopping there in late afternoon. I will want their best bedroom, a private dining room, and accommodations for the coach and the staff.”

“At once, m’lord!”

Within the hour a great traveling coach, the crest of the Southwood family emblazoned upon its side, lumbered down the Strand. A coachman and a footman sat upon the box. A groom rode behind the coach leading two horses. He was followed by six men at arms.
This
coach would not fall prey to highway thieves. Another six preceded the vehicle. It was four o’clock on a cold January morning, and sharp little blue stars dotted the clear dark skies above them.

Inside the coach the two occupants sat snuggled beneath an elegant red fox rug, hot bricks wrapped in flannel at their feet. Geoffrey Southwood’s arm was about his wife. His other hand fondled her breasts, his mouth lazily explored her lips, her throat, his teeth nibbled on her little earlobe. “Do you remember what we were doing just a year ago tonight,” he murmured.

She giggled happily. “Something very similar, if memory serves, my darling. But not in a jouncing coach.”

“I don’t believe we’ve ever made love in a coach,” he observed thoughtfully.

“Geoffrey!” Her voice was husky with shock.

He chuckled. “I cannot help it, pet, you’re the most damnably tempting piece, and I want to bury myself deep in you.”

She felt herself go weak with desire. He had the most wicked ability to rouse her with no more than a word. She tingled with hunger for him, and wondered if that was wrong. In a burst of outraged virtue she exclaimed, “My lord, this is not right.”

“Indeed it isn’t, my darling. I have made love in a coach, and it is wretchedly uncomfortable as well as awkward. We shall wait until we reach the Queen’s Head Inn. But then I promise, madam, to show you no mercy.” He ceased his teasing of her already aroused person, and Skye tingled with delicious anticipation of their stop at the Queen’s Head Inn.

The coach rumbled through the early-morning countryside. Winter was in strong evidence upon the quiet land, brown with fallow fields, and dotted by frozen puddles. The bare trees stood black against the lavender-and-gold dawn sky. Here and there smoke rose from a chimney. Once a barking dog dashed from a farmyard to run alongside the coach for a short while, snapping at its wheels, but it soon fell behind. Inside the rolling vehicle the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth slept fitfully, the motion of their carriage jerking them back to semi-consciousness every now and then.

The horses were changed after several hours, giving the Earl’s party time to relieve themselves and break their fast. The innkeeper, mightily impressed by the crested coach, its occupants, and the liveried entourage, offered Lord Southwood and his sleepy wife a private parlor. Almost immediately thereafter two servants arrived, their trays laden with clear hot soup, ham, spiced apples in honey, cheese, bread still steaming from the oven, and sweet butter. The innkeeper himself brought in two pitchers, a frosted one filled with brown October ale, the other with sweet apple cider.

The smells wafting from the trays wakened Skye fully, and under her husband’s tolerant and amused gaze she fell to the food with gusto. The soup took the chill from her bones, and put color back into her cheeks. She smacked her lips over a piece of hot buttered bread with thin salty slices of ham, and enjoyed it so much that she ate another, the second with an added embellishment of cheese.

Sighing contentment, she sat back, and Geoffrey chuckled. “Sometimes I find it hard to believe you’re old enough to be my wife.”

“I was hungry,” she said simply.

“I’m having the innkeeper pack us a basket, for, if you remember, our next stop offers no such amenities as this. It’s only a place to change the horses. Is there anything you fancy?”

“Hard-cooked eggs and winter pears,” she answered promptly, and when he looked at her strangely she laughed and said ruefully, “No, Geoffrey, I am not breeding again … yet.” She nuzzled his cheek, saying, “I love you so much, my lord husband. I want a houseful of your sons.”

What Niall Burke would have given to hear those words. On the island of Mallorca he felt as out of place as a chicken in a fox’s den. By good fortune, Doctor Hamid had a cousin on the island who was also a doctor. Though Spain had been swept clean of the Moslem Moors, here on its Mediterranean islands located halfway between Europe and North Africa, the tolerance was greater, due in part to centuries of intermingling and intermarriage.