Skye O'Malley (7 page)

Niall’s silver eyes flashed. “She is fit to be a queen, O’Malley!”

“Ah, laddie, you’ll get no argument from me on that account! But my daughter is Dom O’Flaherty’s wife till death parts them. You’ve exercised the
droit du seigneur
on the bride. There is nothing else here for you. Go home. Leave me to mend the broken fences, and my child’s broken heart.”

“I will not leave without Skye, O’Malley! She comes with me!”

The master of the castle barely nodded to his men. Niall Burke was tapped lightly on his head, rendering him unconscious. “Carry him to the boat, and tell Captain MacGuire to take him home. MacGuire’s to put this letter directly into the MacWilliam’s hand, and await a reply,” O’Malley said tersely.

O’Malley sat watching a moment as his most honored guest was slung over the shoulder of one of his men and removed from the hall. Then, without a backward glance, O’Malley returned to his daughter’s bedchamber. He shook her awake gently. “Skye, lass! Wake up now.”

Slowly her blue eyes opened, then widened in surprise. “Da?” Her gaze quickly swept the room, and her voice became a frightened whisper. “Niall?”

“Gone, Skye. Niall Burke has gone home.”

“No! He promised we would never be parted! He promised!”

“Men frequently make promises in the heat of passion that they have no intention of keeping,” said the O’Malley brutally. “Get up and get dressed, daughter. You’ll go with Eibhlin to her convent on Innishturk until Dom’s temper cools, and we’re sure you don’t carry Burke’s bastard. I’ll send someone to help you dress.”

“You’re lying to me, Da! What have you done with Niall?”

“I’m not lying, Skye. Burke has gone home.”

“Where’s Molly?”

“She’s sick this morning,” O’Malley said as he left the room.

Skye sat numbed. He had
promised
they would not be parted! He had meant it! She knew he had meant it! Where was he? Had they killed him? Oh, God, no! She began to tremble. No. Of course they hadn’t killed him. Her father would not kill his overlord’s heir.

Perhaps, said an evil voice in her head, perhaps he is telling you the truth. After all, your experience with men is not great. Perhaps the great lord’s heir has amused himself with you, and has now gone back to his own. Her heart began to hammer fiercely, and for a moment she thought she would faint. Then, from deep inside, Skye called on the reservoir of strength she had built up over the years. If she listened to doubt she would go mad. She must trust to her intuition. Skye O’Malley would not give in to panic.

Climbing from the bed, she walked naked across the chamber and drew her clothing from a leather-bound trunk. She began to dress, first pulling on her underclothes, then a skirtlike object. This garment was a design of Skye’s own fashioning. O’Malley had objected to his daughter wearing men’s clothing, but Skye had felt hampered aboard ship by long skirts. So she had made her skirts into wide pants that came below the knee. Beneath, she wore hose and knee-length leather boots. She had cut her chemises off at the waist, hemmed them, and worn them beneath her silk shirts.

Washed and dressed, her long black hair braided and affixed atop her head, she gathered up a dark plaid cloak and left the room. She found a man-at-arms waiting, and directed him to fetch the small trunk in her room and see it safely stowed in the waiting boat.

Regally, she descended the stairs. Below, in the castle’s main hall, her father, her sister Eibhlin, and Dom awaited her. Dom looked terrible. His eyes were badly bloodshot and puffy, and his face was marked with several scratches and bruises. She steeled herself for the confrontation. “Good morning, Dom.” He eyed her angrily, nodded, but said nothing. She shrugged, then turned to her father. “I am ready to go, Da, but before I do I want to know the truth. Niall would not have left me unless forced.”

Dom O’Flaherty’s light-blue eyes widened, then narrowed. He turned to his father-in-law. “What the hell treachery is this, O’Malley? It’s bad enough that Burke demanded the
droit du seigneur
of my bride before the entire district. Now it appears she was in collusion with him!” He whirled on Skye. “You little bitch! How long has it been going on? How long have you been whoring with Burke? I ought to beat you black and blue!”

Skye eyed her husband coldly. Her voice was calm and level. “I met Niall but a few days ago, Dom. Yes, we are in love. I do not understand how it happened, but it did. I do not particularly like you, Dom, but I would not have hurt or embarrassed you deliberately. Niall Burke wants to marry me. Give me an annulment. You don’t love me. Niall will arrange for you to have a new and noble bride, and a fat financial settlement to soothe your wounded pride.”

Dom looked as if she had lost her mind. “Have you given me a half-wit to wife, O’Malley?” He turned on Skye. “Listen, you little fool! The MacWilliam isn’t about to let his heir marry with the likes of you. Niall Burke is a rake. He wanted only to fuck with you, which I’ve no doubt he did quite well if his reputation is warranted. It’s over! Now you’ll go with Eibhlin to Innishturk until I’m sure Burke’s seed did not take root. When you come home to me, Skye, you’ll be a proper wife—like me or no—and you’ll go no more awhoring. Get out of my sight now, woman!”

“Da!”

“Obey your husband, Skye. He is your master now.”

“Never!”

Dom O’Flaherty leaped the distance between them and, grasping Skye by the arm, slapped her brutally several times. Shocked, for her father had never hit her, she could only try and protect herself from his blows. “Whore! I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” He shook her hard. Furious and fearful both, Skye pulled away angrily.

“Whoreson!” she hissed. “Hit me again and I’ll stick a knife into your black heart!”

“Enough!” roared O’Malley, stepping between the two. “Enough, Dom!” His voice was sharp. “Eibhlin, take your sister to the boat, and
go
.”

Skye’s eyes were almost black in anger. “I’ll not forgive you for this, Da,” she said quietly. Shooting him a look of pure hatred, she left the hall with her sister.

Outside, the day was chill and gray. The wind whipped the women’s cloaks about them as they hurried across the drawbridge and through the rose garden. For a moment Skye stopped. Her eyes softened and swam with tears. Plucking a red rose, she inhaled its fragrance, sighed, and continued on her way, carefully picking her way down the path that led from the cliff top to the damp beach below. A sailboat and two of her father’s men waited on the beach. She could see her trunk already in the boat. One of the men helped Eibhlin into the little craft. Skye brushed aid aside, clambering up
into the craft and seating herself in the stern. She took a firm grip on the tiller. While one sailor pushed the boat from the damp sand, the other hoisted the sail.

The sailor Connor grinned, nodded, and sat back when Skye took the tiller. They’d be at Innishturk Island in a jig time, for no one could sail a boat like Mistress Skye. The other sailor, newer to O’Malley’s service, sat silently.

Skye tacked the boat smartly across the castle’s sheltered cove and nosed it into the open sea. The day was turning fair, and there was a good breeze. The small boat skimmed across the deep blue waves. Innishturk, but a few nautical miles away, was easily visible. Skye carefully set her course to bring the craft in on the piece of coast closest to Eibhlin’s convent.

Eibhlin wanted desperately to talk to her, but Skye suddenly looked older, and very forbidding. The young nun was suddenly sad. What could she possibly say to cheer her sister? What did you say to a woman forcibly married to one man when she deeply loved another? Once again, Eibhlin felt the frustration of being a woman in a man’s world. Again she asked herself why it was so.

Then Eibhlin saw a terrible bruise beginning to form on Skye’s left cheekbone. Silently the nun dipped her handkerchief in the icy cold sea and, squeezing it out, wordlessly handed it to her sister. A brief smile was her thanks, as Skye took the wet cloth and held it to her injured face.

Innishturk came closer, then closer, and soon the little boat was scudding up onto the beach. Eibhlin was lifted out. In her element now, she commanded, “Bring Mistress Skye’s trunk, Connor. Padraic, you stay with the boat.”

“Yes, Sister.” “Aye, Sister.”

Skye swung herself over the side of the boat and dropped lightly to the sand. She knew the way quite well, for she had often come with her father to see Eibhlin. Silently she trudged up the path from the beach. At the cliff top she undid a small wicket gate, and held it open for her sister and the panting Connor. The gate swung shut, and they were on the convent grounds.

Ahead of them stood St. Bride’s of the Cliffs, built over one hundred years before. The convent was built around a quadrangle, the four towers of its corners rising stark against the sky. The dark gray stones of the main building were weathered by the wind and the sea. There were several outbuildings for the convent livestock, a bakehouse and a washhouse. At the convent portal—a double oaken door bounded in brass—they stopped.

“Connor will have to wait here,” said Eibhlin. “I’ll send someone to bring your trunk.”

“I’ll wait with him,” said Skye quietly. “If I am to be cloistered for a month I’d just as soon postpone my captivity.”

Eibhlin did not argue. She pulled on the bell. When it was answered by the portress, she entered hurriedly.

Alone with Skye, Connor observed, “Strange place for a honeymoon if you ask me.”

“I didn’t!” snapped Skye, “but it’s as good a place as any when you’re wed to the wrong man. Repeat that, you old gossip, and I’m sure to be beaten for it.”

“The O’Malley never laid a hand on you in your life, lass!”

“No, he didn’t, but the little bastard he’s married me to did. The bruise on my cheek is a mark of his affection.”

Connor saw nothing wrong with a man occasionally giving his woman a clout to keep her in line, but he was truly shocked that a bridegroom would beat his bride of one day. Mistress Skye was not just any lass. She was special. Besides, he was related to her maid, Molly, who’d barely survived her night with O’Flaherty. Better to warn the young mistress.

“I’d best say this straight out, lass, so’s you’ll be on your guard. O’Flaherty took Molly to his bed last night. Fair killed her too. Made her do all kinds of things no decent man would ask of a woman. Then he beat her half to death and kicked her out. When you’ve got to go back to him, be careful.”

Skye’s face betrayed no emotion. “Will Molly be all right?”

“Her bruises will heal.”

“Tell her if she chooses not to serve me anymore I’ll understand. If that is her decision she may remain at the castle to serve my stepmother. Tell the lady Anne that I will need a stout serving woman of middle years and plain countenance. If I am forced to return to him, I would not expose another young girl to O’Flaherty.”

The convent portal creaked open again and Eibhlin came forward, escorted by two stout nuns. Skye bid Connor farewell, then followed her sister through the door. Her trunk would be brought in by the other nuns.

The two sisters walked silently through the long hallway until they came to a heavy oak door. Eibhlin rapped on the door. A voice bid them enter, and they obeyed.

Seated in a chair was one of the most beautiful women Skye had ever seen. Her oval face was serene beneath the white wimple, with its starched and pleated white wings. Her black habit was relieved
of its severity by a stiff white rectangle of a bib upon which rested an ebony crucifix banded in silver, a silver lily on its face. Kneeling, Eibhlin caught the aristocratic hand and kissed the silver-and-onyx ring of office.

“Rise, my daughter,” came a cool, cultivated voice.

“Reverend Mother, may I present my sister, Skye. Skye, this is the Reverend Mother Ethna.”

“Thank you, Sister Eibhlin. You may return to your duties now. Mistress Monahan from our village went into labor this morning, and you have our permission to attend her.”

Eibhlin bowed herself out, and the Reverend Mother Ethna waved Skye to a chair. “Welcome to St. Bride’s of the Cliffs, Lady O’Flaherty. Your father has already apprised us of the reason for your visit. We will endeavor to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“Thank you,” Skye said tonelessly.

Quiet brown eyes surveyed Skye, and the nun appeared to be debating with herself. Then she said, “I was Ethna O’Neill before I took the veil. It was my niece to whom Lord Burke was betrothed. She never knew him, but I did. He has a most winning way about him.” A small smile played about the corners of her mouth.

“We met but a short time ago,” said Skye, softening somewhat. “I don’t know what happened to us, but we are in love. Da simply would not listen. Niall wants to have my marriage annulled so we may wed.”

The nun shook her head. “Perhaps he can arrange it, or at least get the proceedings started while you’re here.”

“You’re the first person who’s not told me that the MacWilliam won’t let his heir marry with an O’Malley of Innisfana.”

The Reverend Mother laughed. “Ah, these men and their pride! Take heart, my daughter. The MacWilliam is a stern man, but he loves his son. But tell me, child, have you no feeling for your young husband?”

“I do not love Dom, nor did I ever wish to wed with him. I begged my father not to force me to it, even before I met Niall Burke. In fact, I did not wish to wed at all until I met Niall. I do not believe a woman should have to spend her life with someone she dislikes.”

“So,” chuckled the nun, “you’re a revolutionary like your sister, Lady O’Flaherty.”

“No. And please, I beg of you, Reverend Mother, do not call
me Lady O’Flaherty. I shall never acknowledge Dom’s name as mine. I am Skye O’Malley!”

“Very well, Skye O’Malley, we shall try to make your stay with us as pleasant as possible.” The nun picked up a bell and rang it sharply. It was instantly answered by a little novice. “Sister Feldelm, this is Skye O’Malley, Sister Eibhlin’s sister. She is sheltering with us for several weeks. The West Tower guest suite has been prepared for her. Will you please escort her there?”