Skye O'Malley

supposed to enjoy their husband’s attentions so much.”

“I shall say my prayers then,” she teased, wriggling provocatively beneath him.

“You must say them to Venus, the goddess of love,” he growled. He redoubled his efforts and soon she was crying out. Satisfied that he had mastered her, he took his own release. Niall Burke might play the old family friend all he wished, but Geoffrey Southwood knew a man in love when he saw one. Skye, however, was his alone, and he would never let her go.

Recovered, she leaned over him and demanded, “Where is my surprise?”

Muttering about greedy women, he reached over to the bedside table and dangled the gift before her.

Skye gasped. “Oh, Geoffrey, it’s magnificent!” She sat cross legged before him and slipped it over her neck. It dangled provocatively between her small impudent breasts as he had known it would. “And you went out especially tonight to get it for me. Thank you, my darling!”

And looking at her sitting there, the delight of a child on her face, he vowed again that no one would ever take her from him. She might be the head of a large Irish family, but they had managed these last few years and they’d have to continue to manage without her. She was his wife! His!

“Geoffrey, you look so fierce. Have I displeased you somehow?” “Nay, sweet,” he reassured her smilingly. “I was just thinking how very much I love you.”

She crept into his arms and put her dark head against his shoulder. “And I love you, my darling. Oh, Geoffrey, I am such a terrible woman! I cannot help but think how lucky we are mat Mary died.” “D’you think I would have let you go? Never! From the moment I first saw you in Dartmoor I meant you to be mine. I will never let you go, Skye! You belong to me!” And men his mourn was taking fierce, harsh possession of hers, and she was meeting his passion with her own, matching him kiss for kiss, caress for caress, until they were again joined in the blazing union so familiar by now, yet never the same. It left them both weak and breathing hard. Afterward he gently scolded her. “We cannot go on like this, my angel. We must be careful of the baby.”

“I know,” she answered softly, “but Heaven help me, Geoffrey.

I love you so, and I love it when you make love to me.” He smiled in the dimness of the room and, pulling her close, sighed, “Go to sleep, my naughty little wife. Too soon we must return to Court to serve the Queen. Then you’ll have to curb your appetite, for the Queen allows her servants very little time to themselves.” She nestled next to him. “I’ll find time, Southwood. Never fear!”

Chapter 19

‘Hurry, milady,” scolded Daisy. “You know how the Queen i dislikes it when her ladies are late to vespers.”

“None of the Queen’s other ladies are about to give birth,” grumbled Skye. “Let any of the others become pregnant and they’re sent home to the country immediately. But not I! Oh no! The Queen must have her ‘dearest Skye’ near her. I wonder if she will allow me the time to birth my son?”

“Remember, milady,” cautioned Daisy, “that you’re not supposed to give birth for another two months. Keep it in your mind, ma’am.” Skye laughed ruefully. ‘Thank God it’s not really that long! If I don’t have this child soon I think I shall burst.” She smoothed her gown over her protruding belly. “There! I am finally presentable. Give me my pomander, girl.” Catching it up, Skye hurried from her apartment and through the maze of palace corridors to the chapel.

She could hear the sweet, fluting voices of the choirboys singing:

“Therefore we before Him bending, this great sacrament revere.” Avoiding Geoffrey’s little frown, she slipped into the pew beside him.

“I couldn’t wake up,” she whispered.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “You should be down in Devon,” he whispered back, and she nodded.

The service was brief. The Court then trooped gaily off to the dancing, which would be followed by supper. Elizabeth’s sharp dark eyes scrutinized her favorite lady as they all moved through the halls, and she thought, So Southwood tasted of forbidden fruit before his last wife died. I wonder what they would have done if she hadn’t died? Then the memory of Robert Dudley’s dead wife, Amy, assailed her. Elizabeth tried to push it away. But this time, as had happened before, she could not banish the thoughts. Amy Dudley haunted Elizabeth Tudor. The Queen was a person of strong and certain morals, and she knew that she had coveted another woman’s husband. Now that other woman was dead, dead under distinctly mysterious circumstances, and the Queen wondered what the truth of the matter really was. It was not the first time she had wondered. She did not believe, as many others did, that Robert Dudley had had his wife murdered by a hired killer. Elizabeth knew Dudley too well. His lust to be King of England was great and consuming. All he had had to do was wait, just a little time, until Amy died a natural death. She had been mortally ill. No purpose would have been served by killing her and, thus, casting suspicion upon himself. No, Robert had not ordered Amy’s death.

But there were two other possibilities. One was that her dear Cecil or someone else who did not want to see Dudley become her husband and their King had arranged Amy’s death, well aware of the furor a suspicious death would cause. The other possibility was that poor little Amy, in revenge against Elizabeth for stealing her husband’s love or else in despair over her doctor’s grim verdict, had thrown herself down the staircase, knowing that this unhallowed death would destroy Robert and Elizabeth’s chances of marriage. Could someone love a man as deeply as Amy Dudley had loved Robert, and one day come to hate him with equal passion? Elizabeth wondered whether this could be. Oh! If only Amy had died a natural death! Sometimes Elizabeth felt actually responsible. It wasn’t fair! Angrily, she managed to put the subject from her mind and looked again at the Countess of Lynmouth.

I really should let Skye go home to Devon, she mused, but there are so few women who amuse me. Perhaps in a week or so, she considered.

The Queen also noted how radiant the Countess of Lynmouth was. Her gown was of mulberry-colored silk, cut low to reveal her very full breasts. There was an attempt at modesty in the soft creamy lace tucked into the bodice. The same lace overflowed the sleeves. Skye’s dark hair was styled severely, drawn into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck, and tucked into a net of very thin gold wires. The long double rope of pearls she wore about her throat were a source of envy to every woman in the room, including Elizabeth. Skye did not join in the dancing, remaining instead on her footstool by the Queen’s chair. She watched the others dance, and was content. The Queen loved dancing and scarcely sat at all during the entire evening. When he was not partnering Her Majesty, Lord Dudley stood by her throne. At one point his hand dropped to Skye’s bare shoulder. She froze. Dudley laughed softly. “I’ve heard Southwood brag of the fineness of your skin.” His long, elegant fingers moved slowly downward to the swell of her breasts. He stroked her lightly, casually. “He does not lie,” drawled Dudley insolently. Slowly, he drew his hand away. “You play a dangerous game, my lord,” said Skye in a low, furious voice. Skye studied the Queen’s favorite without bothering to conceal her scorn. He was a handsome enough man, if one were drawn to his type, she considered. He was tall and elegantly slender, and always dressed himself with foppish care. His long, aristocratic face and slender hands enhanced h i s… well, elegance. She had to admit it. He was not an easy man to overlook, even among the welldressed courtiers. But Dudley did have one flaw, as though nature, having designed him so well, could not bear to endow a mere mortal with everything. His dark red hair, his mustache, and his very short, carefully clipped beard were all very sparse.

His dark eyes were slightly hooded and he never managed to look one directly in the eye. By contrast, however, his words were brutally straightforward.

“I enjoy the game I play, my dear, and I shall win it,” he said sharply. His eyes now held a mocking expression. “You’d like to slap my face, wouldn’t you, Lady Southwood? But you can hardly slap your King, can you?”

“You’re not the King yet, Lord Dudley!” Skye was shocked by the man’s boldness.

“But I will be, my dear, never fear. Bess must wed and produce heirs for England. The council would far prefer a good, solid Englishman to some mincing foreigner. Would you like to be the King’s mistress, m’dear?”

“You’re insufferable,” Skye raged, struggling to her feet. “And, my lord, you are insulting!” Finally standing and balancing herself, she walked slowly away with as much dignity as she could muster. Finding an empty chair in the card room, she sat down and joined the game. She was very angry, and played with a fierce concentration. She had never liked Robert Dudley, finding him overly ambitious. and arrogant to boot. Given free access to the Queen’s apartments, he came and went at will, particularly when the women were likely to be in states of undress. His eye was bold, and when the young, love-besotted Queen was not looking, his hands were even bolder. Skye was