Skye O'Malley (66 page)

“Nay, Niece, I am quite comfortable here with my book on the Life of Saint Paul, and the excellent Burgundy sent by our host. It is really quite superior.”

She bent and kissed his dark head. “Good night then, Uncle. Sleep well.”

“You also, Skye.”

She went ashore again, this time wrapped in the anonymity of a dark cloak. She arrived at Adam de Marisco’s chambers to find the table laid with a cold supper. Adam took her cloak, his hand lingering
a moment on her shoulders. When she tensed he said quietly, “I’ve never raped a woman, little girl. Let us go easily, and you’ll not regret your decision, I promise you.”

“I’m not so little, de Marisco,” she retorted. “I’m tall for a woman, and taller than many men.”

He turned her about and lifted her so that she was at eye level with him. “My name is Adam, little girl, and though you are tall for a woman, I top you by a good foot.” Setting her back down, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll eat later.” And before she realized what it was he intended, he had her gown unlaced and was pulling it off her. She gasped, clutching at her chemise, but he paid her no mind. Loosening her grip on the fragile silk, he stripped her naked. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her from the room into an adjoining bedchamber. One arm cradled her while the other hand pulled back the bedcovers. He gently tucked her into the biggest bed Skye had ever seen.

She lay quietly watching as he pulled his own garments off. Clothed, Adam de Marisco was impressive. Naked, he was magnificent. Perfectly proportioned, he had thighs like tree trunks, shapely, well-muscled arms, a lean torso, and a great broad chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair. His arms and legs were also liberally furred. He was, in fact, the hairiest man she’d ever seen. He watched her reaction to his nudity, a faintly amused smile upon his sensual lips. Quickly he climbed into bed with her.

Skye braced herself for his assault, and when nothing happened she turned slightly to look at him. He was gazing at her, and she blushed, caught in his careful scrutiny. He reached out and drew her close. The arm that held her was strong, the body against which she was pressed was warm and clean-smelling. She was held quietly this way for several silent minutes. Then Adam de Marisco kissed her and, to her immense surprise, the kiss was a firmly tender one. His mouth was fragrant.

“Lovemaking,” he said calmly, “is a great art, Skye O’Malley. I spent four years of my life at the French Court, for my late mother was a Frenchwoman. I have made a rather outrageous bargain with you and you’ve accepted my terms, for you are a rather outrageous woman. We are two healthy, attractive people, and I cannot enjoy making love to you if you are fearful of me. So, little girl, we will just lie here in each other’s arms until you are comfortable.”

The silence was deafening. For the first time in her life Skye
was at a complete loss. “De Marisco … Adam … I don’t know you. I’ve never made love to a man I didn’t know. To a stranger.”

“And how many men have you
known
, Skye O’Malley?”

“I’ve had three husbands,” she said in a small voice. There was no need to explain about Niall Burke.

“You’ve outlived them all?”

“Aye.”

“No lovers?”

“None, except Dudley, of course. But then that’s not my wish.”

“Did you love any of them, little girl?”

“The last two, both very, very much. Losing them was so painful that with both deaths I thought I would die. But of course I didn’t.”

“Do you have children?”

“Two sons by my first husband, a daughter by my second, and one living son by Geoffrey. And, of course, I am stepmother to Geoffrey’s three daughters. My younger son by Geoffrey died in the same epidemic that killed his father.”

Her soft voice caught and Adam pulled her back into his arms. “You’ve learned that love can cause pain as well as pleasure, haven’t you? Let me comfort you, little girl. Let me comfort you.”

His mouth was closing over hers again, and Skye felt no resistance in herself at all. His lips were warm and experienced, and she felt a delicious thrill run through her as she realized that he was wooing her, really seeking her favor. He covered her face with little kisses, then took her lips again, this time parting them masterfully, touching only the very tip of her tongue with his. The effect was devastating, and she shivered violently.

One hand traced gently over her jawline, her slim throat, a rounded shoulder, moving downward to cup a small breast already firm with desire. The warm mouth followed the fingers, kissing, tasting, biting playfully. She was turned, her long hair pushed aside, the back of her neck tenderly saluted, the long line of her back lovingly traced in fire. She gasped, then blushed pink as her buttocks were first kissed, then gently nipped.

His kisses branded each long leg at the rounded calves and slim ankles. He sucked on her toes, and Skye came close to fainting, so sensuous was that sensation. She was turned again to lie once more on her back while his lips began an upward sweep of loving. He inhaled the marvelous woman smell of her that was mixed with the scent of wild roses. His tongue reveled in the pure silk of her inner thighs, the moist coral flesh of her womanhood.

“Let me comfort you, little girl,” she heard him say again, and her own voice answered, sobbed, “Yes!”

He was unbelievably gentle, raising her just slightly, and slowly, so slowly filling her full of himself until she thought surely she would burst, so big was he. His great body covered her slim one as snow covers the land. She was pressed deeper and deeper down into the mattress as he drove deeper and deeper into her willing flesh. He became more vigorous and she reveled in his passion.

This was not Robert Dudley seeking to crush her spirit by degrading her body. This big man sought to give pleasure, a pleasure she had believed possible only with true love.

She could feel her climax rising fast, and she cried out, wanting him to know. “Oh, Adam! It is good!” Then she was lost in a storm of passion as great as any storm she had experienced at sea, and she heard him cry out triumphantly.

He rolled away and they lay side by side, panting, and then she said quietly, “Adam de Marisco, I hope you’ll comfort me again before this night is done!”

And he laughed, a wonderful warm rumble of mirth. “Fear not, Skye O’Malley! You’ll be well comforted!” And then he was kissing her again,
and it was good!

CHAPTER 23

I
T HAD BEEN AN UNUSUALLY LOVELY SUMMER
. I
N AUTUMN
, S
KYE
looked back on the last several months with deep satisfaction. Half a dozen treasure ships had been taken, robbing Elizabeth Tudor’s coffers of much-needed revenue. Only two had been her own ships. The others had been funded by wealthy courtiers, including Dudley, and Skye felt no guilt over robbing them. The monies from the ships other than her own found its way into church boxes … paid delinquent taxes for poor but hardworking farmers … and the sick, the old, and the hungry were astonished when they began receiving gifts of medicine, firewood, food, clothing, and small bags of coins.

With winter coming, however, the parade of ships would be slowing down. The sudden increase in piracy off the Devon coast had only just begun to attract royal attention. Now Skye would have her privateers lie low, and if the royal curiosity had been
piqued it would be forced to remain unsatisfied. She chuckled. It had all been so unbelievably easy. Suspecting nothing, the trading ships had been like fat white ducks that had waddled by mistake into a fox’s den.

Every attack had gone smoothly. Amazingly, there had been no loss of life in this venture, for each vessel taken was captured by not one, but two ships. Outnumbered, outmanned, and outgunned, the trading vessels did not care to fight. Their cargoes were transferred quickly and quietly by silent, well-trained seamen who, responding to whistles and hand signals, gave no hint of their nationality. The privateers disappeared with their booty as quickly as they appeared. The whole affair was eerily well done.

The small royal commission sent to investigate returned to London at a loss. No one had even the slightest idea of who was behind this genteel pillage. The pirates had to be English. How else did they know when ships were due, and the courses the ships would take? Since the piracy stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the royal commission concluded that the incidents had been isolated and coincidental. The Queen was so informed.

Skye had decided that she might avoid giving the Twelfth Night gala because she was in mourning. Accordingly, she sent Elizabeth Tudor her regrets, and went off to Lundy to confer with Adam de Marisco over the spring pirating schedule and the signals that would be used between the two castles.

The giant lord of Lundy had become her good friend and, after that Midsummer’s Eve, her occasional lover. She had awakened to find herself clasped in his arms, his smoky eyes studying her intently. She returned the stare, then added a blazing smile that made him sigh with relief.

“Then you’re not angry with me?” he said.

“No, of course not. Why should I be?”

He grinned ruefully. “Little girl, you’re not just some wench. In a half-drunken moment I demanded a rather outrageous price for my aid. You’re a great lady, Skye O’Malley, and you held to the bargain we made better than many men would hold to a bargain. Now, however, I have a problem. My instinct is to imprison you in this tower and make love to you for at least a month without stopping. But I can’t do that, can I?”

“No, Adam de Marisco, you can’t,” she said, “but I thank you for the compliment.”

“I’d marry you!”

“Oh, Adam, what a lovely man you are, but I’ll not marry
again. Besides, aren’t you wary of a woman who’s buried three husbands?” Her lovely eyes twinkled mischievously, but he looked so crestfallen, this great bear of a man, that she soothed him. “I’ll be back, Adam, I promise you.”

And in fact, she had come back, several times throughout the summer. In between their incredible sessions of lovemaking they had talked and become real friends. This was a whole new experience for Skye. Apart from the obnoxious Robert Dudley, her lovers had been men to whom she was married, excepting that one long-ago night with Niall. She was not a promiscuous woman, but the plain truth of the matter was that she needed to make love with someone she liked, especially now, for the Earl of Leicester had been to Lynmouth twice more to make demands upon her.

Robert Dudley delighted in degrading her, or “taming” her, as he called it. He derived intense pleasure from forcing her to total submission, but though he could force the body, her soul eluded him. This kept Dudley returning. After these nightmares of lust Skye invariably fled to Adam de Marisco. His honest adoration and vigorous sexual worship of her were like a clean sea wind after the passing of a garbage scow. Adam did not raise her to the exquisite soul-rending heights that Geoffrey had, but he gave her pleasure and was delighted that she cared enough to give him pleasure in return.

It had been a melancholy Christmas and New Year. Skye had kept to the Southwood family customs, decorating the Great Hall with pine and holly, burning a Yule log, offering the wassail bowl to the carolers and mummers, but it had not been the same without Geoffrey. Skye’s sons and twin stepdaughters remained in Ireland and she hadn’t seen them since the previous summer when she had made her secret visit home. Susan Southwood preferred to remain in Cornwall with the Trevenyans. Only Robin and Willow were at Lynmouth. Dame Cecily had contracted a bad chill and remained at Wren Court. Skye insisted that Robbie remain too, so that his sister would not be alone.

Several days into the New Year, Skye decided to go to Lundy. Sending to Wren Court for news, she learned that Dame Cecily was up and about again. They would be delighted to have the children and would return with them to Lynmouth in time for Twelfth Night, which they would all spend together. Skye intended asking Adam de Marisco to come back with her and join them in the celebration. His presence might soften the pain of the memories that continued to assail her.

Dressed in her doeskin doublet, boots, woolen hose, and a heavy wool cloak, she sailed the eleven miles to Lundy alone. Skye now kept a small boat moored at the foot of the cliffs on which Lynmouth Castle was located. In the first sleepless nights following Geoffrey’s death, she had wandered aimlessly about the castle and, during those nocturnal wanderings, had found a passage that wound down and down and down to emerge into a small, well-hidden cave just above sea level. She had emerged from the cave into the bright moonlit night to find herself on a comfortable-sized ledge, the sea lapping just a few inches below her feet. The moon was full and the tide high, which meant that the sea would never rise higher than this. The cave wouldn’t flood except possibly in an extremely severe storm. Looking closely along the rim of the ledge, she had finally found the flight of stone steps she sought, and the round, barnacle-encrusted heavy iron ring. Obviously some long-dead Southwood had had an interest in the sea.

She had come back later with Robbie, and they had thoroughly explored the cave, finding iron torchholders, rusted, but still serviceable, at intervals along the walls. Daisy’s fifteen-year-old brother, Wat, had been assigned to clean out the cave, to keep torches always burning, and to see that Skye’s boat was always in readiness.

She had never fully tested her knowledge of seamanship since her memory had returned, for there had been no need or desire. The first time she had again sailed in a small boat had been with Robbie on that inaugural trip to meet her own Irish ships, and once she sailed with MacGuire to St. Bride’s for a reunion with her favorite sister, Eibhlin. Eibhlin had grown plump but was as tart as ever. Returning to Innisfana, Skye had taken the tiller from MacGuire and discovered that her sailing skill was entirely intact.

Home again at Lynmouth, she had taken to sailing out occasionally into the Bristol Channel. The first time she was caught in a sudden summer’s afternoon squall she had felt not fear, but pure exhilaration sparking her. After that, all doubts about her skill disappeared.