Skye O'Malley (67 page)

Skye hesitated before sailing to Lundy on that cold January afternoon. The day was far too beautiful, a real weathermaker if her sailor’s instincts were correct. Still, it had been a depressing two weeks at Lynmouth Castle, and she longed to laugh and be frivolous.

“Little girl!” Adam greeted her, delighted. “You must be fey, my beautiful Irish witch! I’ve been thinking about you for days.” He
enveloped her in a bear hug that left her breathless. Picking her up in his arms, he carried her upstairs to his lair.

Laughing, she protested, “Adam! What will people think?” But she was glad. She felt safe and warm and happy in this man’s arms.

They undressed each other quickly and made delicious passionate love until, sated, they lay back amid the tumbled feather pillows, warm beneath an enormous fur coverlet. He reached for her hand, found it and held it tenderly in his grasp. “I wish to Heaven that you could love me, Skye O’Malley,” he said quietly.

“I do, Adam,” she protested. “You’re one of my best friends.” But she knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear and she felt suddenly sad, realizing that she could not go on using this gentle giant to ease her own sorrows when he felt so much more deeply for her than she did for him. “Adam de Marisco, I never meant to hurt you, but it seems to me that I have. I beg your forgiveness.”

“No, little girl. I started this. I have been well punished for my arrogance. However, I am going to send you home now. I can no longer just spend time with you in bed and not have all of you.”

She understood and, rising quickly, dressed. “I came today to ask you if you’d come to Lynmouth for Twelfth Night.”

He looked up from buttoning his shirt. “I’ll come. They say lovers can’t be friends, but we are.”

Outside the sky was darkening fast. A single clear star hung overhead, and in the west the last of the sunset was a cold lemon-yellow smudge on a stale-gray horizon.

“Snow coming,” he noted.

“I thought so too. Come with me now.”

“No, but I’ll come later tonight, for ’twill start to storm by early morning.” He helped her down into the boat. “The wind’s from the west, little girl. You’ll be home quickly.” Untying the boat, he threw the rope to Skye.

“I’ll have the cave entrance well lit, Adam. Until later!” She blew him a kiss and he pushed her craft away from the stone quay. The breeze caught quickly at her sails and she was off.

The fresh winds sent the little sailboat skidding swiftly across the tops of the waves and though it was dark when she reached her mooring, this was still, she was sure, the fastest passage she’d ever made from Lundy. She secured the boat tightly. Taking a torch from inside the cave, she lit the ledge beacons so Adam might find his way safely. Then she began climbing up into the castle. She thought she could hear sounds of revelry, which was indeed confusing. Arriving at the level of her apartment, she moved along the hidden interior
passage until she reached the door that would admit her to her rooms. Flipping the hidden lock, she stepped into her antechamber, pulled the door shut behind her, and drew the tapestry back into place. She could now hear definite sounds of merrymaking below in the Hall. Puzzled, she moved toward the door that led into the public hall, but the door opened suddenly and Daisy flew in, slamming it behind her.

“Oh! Mistress Skye! Thank God you’re back!”

“What is going on down there?” demanded Skye.

“Right after you left, milady, Lord Dudley and a group of his friends arrived. He was furious to learn you weren’t here, and then he just took over, ordering a feast, sending into the village for some girls.”

“What!?”

“Maids,” he said. “They had to be maids,” Daisy explained tearfully.

“Oh my God,” said Skye. “Are the girls all right, Daisy? I’ll send them home immediately. They’re probably frightened to death. The Earls of Lynmouth haven’t allowed that sort of abuse in years. Trust Dudley, the fiend, to revive such an appalling custom!”

“It’s too late, milady. The girls have already been ruined,” said Daisy.

“Are they all right, though?” asked Skye.

“All except little Anne Evans. She bled quite heavily.”

“Christ’s bones! Anne Evans is but twelve! Damn! Damn! Dudley will pay for this! I’ll raise such hell with the Queen now that she’ll be forced to punish him this time!” Skye slammed into her bedroom. “I shall have to pay a bounty to the families involved. Were any of the girls walking out yet?”

“Four, milady.”

“And something to the young men to marry them immediately. Damn!” She whirled on Daisy. “Don’t stand there gawking, girl! Get me a dress! I can hardly go below like this, can I? The lilac velvet should do. No farthingale, just three petticoats, I’m not at Court.” She tore off her sailing clothes.
Dudley!
her mind raged. The slimy snake that Elizabeth Tudor had dropped into her private garden. It was bad enough that he had power over Robin and that he could use her as his occasional whore, but to come into her home uninvited! And with his cronies, too! To rape innocent village girls entrusted to her care!

Thick-fingered, Daisy struggled with her mistress’s gown. Stumbling, she almost spilled the contents of a jewel case at Skye’s
feet. “Easy, my girl,” soothed Skye, plucking an amethyst necklace from the box and clasping it around her neck.

“They’re fearfully drunk,” whispered Daisy, terrified. “Maybe you shouldn’t go downstairs, my lady. Lord Dudley is the worst of all. It was he who hurt little Anne Evans.”

Skye put a gentle hand on Daisy’s cheek. “Listen to me, my girl,” she said. “I know it would be easier to bolt my door and go to bed. Dudley would not know I’d returned, and God knows I dread facing him. But I am the Countess of Lynmouth. Lord Dudley has, in my absence, abused my hospitality and injured my charges. It is my duty to set things right. I should betray the trust Geoffrey left me were I to do otherwise, Daisy. D’you understand?”

Daisy bowed her head, ashamed, then said, “I’ll warn the guard you’re back. If there’s any trouble, they’ll come.”

“Good girl!” Skye hurried from the room and downstairs. The noise from her uninvited guests grew louder with every step she took, but even so, the sight that met her eyes when she entered the Hall brought her close to fainting. Dudley and his friends sprawled around the high board in shirt-sleeves and hose. At either end of the table were the remains of what had obviously been a very generous feast. Most of the unfortunate village girls were naked or almost so, and imprisoned in the laps of their drunken captors. But what brought Skye close to hysterics was the sight of poor little Anne Evans, naked, on all fours in the center of the long table. One of the big castle mastiffs had been brought to a state of sexual excitement, and was just now being positioned in such a way that the child would soon be ravished by the dog.

“Sweet Jesus.” Skye heard a voice behind her exclaim, and she turned to find the captain of the castle guard and his men all ranged at her back.

“Get the girls and that beast,” she said. “Take the maids to the housekeeper. Have her attend to their injuries and put them to bed.”

“And the dog, milady?”

“It’s not his fault. Send him to the kennels, Harry.”

The men-at-arms and their captain jogged into the hall and, taking the half-drunken courtiers by surprise, began removing the weeping, frightened girls. The mastiff was yanked off the table and Anne Evans, her eyes blank, was borne from the room.

Robert Dudley lurched to his feet shouting, “How dare you! I’m here in the Queen’s name as governor to the lord of this castle. How dare you?!”

“I dare, Dudley!
My
men obey only me. I wonder what Bess Tudor would think of this performance, my lord? Rape! The perversion of innocents! D’you think I’ll be silent this time? I’ll shout this outrage to the skies! How dare you come into my house and abuse my people? Shelter and food I gladly offer you, but nothing more. You are not lord here, Dudley!”

Robert Dudley’s eyes narrowed. There she stood, so damned proud, the Irish bitch. Why couldn’t he break her the way he’d done with so many others? Including his late milksop wife, Amy. He remembered the last time he’d seen Amy alive. She’d told him she had a canker in her breast, and would die soon. When? he’d asked, not at all affected by the hurt in her eyes. A year, maybe two, she answered him, weeping. That’s not soon enough, he had told her brutally. I could be King were it not for you. I don’t care how you do it, but be dead soon! Your life is over, anyway.

Dudley hadn’t known whether she actually had the courage to kill herself, but she had. And she’d done it in such a way as to cause an appalling scandal. She had done it deliberately, using her last chance to destroy his dreams of being King. Elizabeth, once hot to wed him, had backed off. And he’d never quite regained with her that high favor, despite the fact that he was her obvious favorite. Yes, his wife had planned her death brilliantly. Who would have predicted such a thing of the weak Amy.

To his infinite frustration, he could not bring Bess Tudor to heel, but he damn well would bring this haughty Irish beauty to her knees. She was going to learn tonight who the master was. Gulping some of her excellent Burgundy, he lurched to his feet.

“Where the hell were you?” he demanded. “And where is my ward?”

Furiously she strode into the hall and up to the board, her scornful glance taking in his rumpled appearance, ignoring the leers of the other men. “Your ward is visiting with his sister at Wren Court. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“And where were you?” he pressed.

“Go to Hell, Dudley! I’m not your business.”

There was drunken laughter at this, and the Earl of Leicester flushed a dull red. She stood there defying him, and he felt his anger double. “Bitch!” he snarled, leaping at her. His fingers dug into her soft upper arm and she felt bruises begin to form.

“Where were you?” He shook her.

Skye attempted to pull free. “Dudley! You’re drunk! Disgustingly drunk!”

“She’s a fractious filly, Leicester,” came a mocking voice. “You can’t seem to control
any
of your woman, can you?”

“I am not his woman!” shouted Skye. “I am Geoffrey Southwood’s widow, and I ask that you all remember that!”

“You’re my whore, madam, because if you are not, then I’ll remove your son from your custody! Remember that well!”

“Never, Dudley! Never! Never! Never!”

Angrily Dudley pushed her until she sprawled backward upon the same spot where little Anne Evans had so lately been abused. “That’s it, Dudley,” sounded the same mocking voice. “Show the wench who’s master here. We’ll all help you! Right, men?”

She was being dragged onto the table, her skirts brutally lifted, her arms and legs yanked apart. Nightmare faces with bulging, bloodshot eyes, laughing mouths, tongues that licked quickly at dry lips, loomed over her. She was almost suffocated by the sour smell of wine. At least a dozen men leered at her, men who a year ago had eagerly sought the honor of an invitation to the Southwood’s Twelfth Night masque, who had once paid her elegant compliments. Now these same men leaned over her like a pack of savage dogs.

She began to scream, screaming ceaselessly though she doubted anyone could hear her. Dudley’s body flattened hers, and she felt him seek entry into her body. Skye struggled wildly, twisting this way and that. One foot wrenched free and she kicked out viciously, the sole of her foot finding a target. She managed to slip from underneath Dudley, but he was less drunk now and mounted her again. Before she could twist aside he thrust himself into her. Skye screamed.

Then suddenly a huge roar of outrage echoed in the Hall. The painful grip on her arms and legs was loosened. Dudley was lifted off her in the middle of his rutting and thrown clear across the room, causing the others to scatter. Adam de Marisco helped her up. “Do you want me to kill the bastard, little girl?”

“Yes!” she sobbed, then, “Oh, God, no! It’s Dudley, the Queen’s pet, Adam. You must not! Just put them out! All of them! Now!”

The castle’s men-at-arms had returned and, under de Marisco’s direction, put the Earl of Leicester and his cronies out into the cold night. Then the lord of Lundy returned to the Hall where he wrapped a cloak about the shivering woman and held a cup of wine to her lips. “Drink it, little girl, it will warm you.”

She gulped from the goblet gratefully. Finished, she said, “Thank God you came, Adam. Oh God, I wish I could kill him!”

“Who will come the next time, Skye O’Malley?”

“What?”

“I said who will come the next time? You were lucky tonight. Who will rescue you the next time? You need a husband, my dear. You’re far too beautiful to be alone, and you simply cannot protect yourself. Now listen to me—if you can’t protect yourself, how can you protect your children?”

“I’ve kept them safe so far!” she retorted hotly.

“By sending them away from you, Skye. Alone and unprotected is no way for a woman to live.”

“Then marry me, Adam!”

He shook his head. “No, little girl, it would never do for the widowed Countess of Lynmouth to wed a simple island lord. I know now I’ve neither the great name nor the power you need.”

“But you love me.”

“Oh, Skye O’Malley, I do love you, but I’ve my pride, too. You’ll never love me, and I’m old-fashioned enough to want a woman who will truly love me. Think, little girl. There must be someone who has the name and the power, and with whom you might live in peace, possibly even in love.”

She shook her head. But he refused to give up and when Robbie and Dame Cecily arrived the following day, they immediately agreed with Adam de Marisco, and added their voices to his. Robbie was horrified that Robert Dudley would make so free with Lynmouth Castle.

“I’m writing your uncle,” he said. “He’s bound to come up with a good match for you.”

“No!” she was becoming agitated, and paced the Hall frantically. “I cannot go through the pain of loving and losing someone again, Robbie. I cannot!”

The giant Adam de Marisco looked on in amazement as Captain Sir Robert Small, just a shade over five feet tall, shouted at his beloved friend in a voice that would have split stone. “At what cost, Skye? The Queen bides her time. It amuses her to please Dudley, knowing you’re no threat to her. But what if Elizabeth decides to wed you to Dudley? Or bestow you and your fortune upon some other man she wishes to honor? She can do it, Skye. And if she does, there’ll be no premarriage agreement as there was with Southwood. You’ll lose everything you have and find yourself dependent upon your husband for pin money.” He could see the effect his words were having on her. She looked totally panicked, and he felt sorry for her. But she had to see the danger she was in. “Have
your uncle make you a match. You don’t have to marry just anyone. There’ll be several men to chose from, and the choice is yours. It won’t be like when your father forced Dom on you.