Page 26 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)

The new year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and eighty-nine was ushered in with relief in England. No longer did the threat of the Armada hang over Elizabeth Tudor’s realm.

The queen and her court looked forward eagerly to the Earl and Countess of Lynmouth’s Twelfth Night masque. It had been over twenty years since Lynmouth House on the Strand had opened its doors to the festivities made so famous by Robin’s late father, Geoffrey Southwood.

Angel, just beginning to thicken slightly at the waistline, had appealed to her sisters-in-law to help her with the many preparations. The young countess, having been raised at court, knew exactly what needed be be done, but such an enormous undertaking required several cool heads. Willow, whose approval of Angel grew daily, was delighted and threw herself into the melee with enthusiasm. Velvet, on the other hand, was as untried a hostess as Angel, and far more interested in what she would wear than all the many tasks to be done in order to entertain the queen and the other guests.

“You’d best pay attention to all of this,”

the Countess of Alcester scolded her youngest sister. “After all, you may be called upon to entertain King James once you’re in Scotland.”

“Their court isn’t as formal,”

responded Velvet.

“Does that mean you’ll forget your upbringing?”

Willow looked shocked. “Mama may be Irish, but she never forgets that she bears an English title, and she behaves accordingly.”

“Mama behaves as it pleases her to behave.”

Velvet laughed. “You can’t deny it, sister. Even the queen says it!”

Willow harrumphed, but the corners of her mouth twitched with private amusement. She always wondered how it was that she, the daughter of an Irish rebel and a Spanish nobleman, had turned into such a proper Englishwoman. Then she remembered her own upbringing, which had been overseen for the most part by Dame Cecily. Her poor mother with her adventurous life had had very little to do with Willow despite the fact that Skye adored her firstborn daughter. There had been a strong bond between Dame Cecily and Willow from her birth, and Skye, loving her daughter enough to want what was best for her, had given Willow over to the childless Englishwoman who loved the girl as if she were her own.

Willow looked at her sister again. Sweet, spoilt Velvet, who had been so very much loved and so dearly cosseted by both her parents, was really far too young to be a wife. She had no real sense of responsibility, but there was no malice in her at all. Well, Willow thought, she’s not a stupid girl. She’ll learn quickly. Then she said, “Tell me about your costumes. You first, Angel, for you’re the hostess. Lord, how I remember Mama’s gowns and Geoffrey’s elegance. No one could ever learn what they were to wear in advance, and then the following year there would be at least half a dozen imitations of their previous year’s costumes.”

She laughed at the memory.

Angel smiled. “Robin is to come as the sun, and I shall be his sky. My gown is the most exquisite shade of blue!”

Willow clapped her hands delightedly. “Perfect!”

she said. “Blue is definitely your color, Angel.”

She turned to her sister. “What of you, Velvet? What will be your costume?”

“Nay, you first,”

countered Velvet. “I can well imagine how James feels about a costume masque, being more a country gentleman than a courtier.”

Willow nodded ruefully. “Aye, ’tis true, but I have managed to persuade him, and he has given in with good grace to me. I shall come as a perfect English spring day, and James will come as a perfect English spring night.”

“What does a perfect English spring night wear?”

Velvet giggled.

“Black velvet,”

came the practical reply. “James’s doublet, however, will be sewn with silver thread, pearls, and small diamonds in a design of stars and the moon.”

“How clever you are!”

exclaimed Angel.

“Aye,”

agreed Willow. “The very simplicity of the costume was what decided him. One has to know how to handle a man. It is all really quite easy.”

“Depending upon the man,”

said Velvet. “Now your James and certainly our brother, Robin, are biddable men. But my lord Gordon is surely the most stubborn male ever created by our Lord God. He refuses to wear any silly folderol, as he has put it to me. He says he will wear his plaid instead, as he suspects that none of the queen’s court will have seen full Highland regalia. That is the best I can do with him. He is impossible.”

“What will you come as then, Velvet?”

said Angel.

Velvet smiled mischievously. “I shall be fire,”

she replied. “Blazing, furious fire! I have had it planned for weeks, of course, and knowing it, Alex presented me with the most marvelous necklace and earbobs of rubies for New Year’s. Every woman in court will envy me, my dears, perhaps even the queen herself!”

“He’s most generous, isn’t he?”

noted Willow. “Diamonds and rubies for Christmas, and now more rubies for New Year’s. It would seem you’re a woman who inspires jewelry, like Mama.”

For a moment Velvet’s face grew somber. “I do miss Mama, Willow! Will this winter never end? How I look forward to the spring and the return of my parents! There is so much that has happened since they left for the Indies two years ago. There is so much I have to tell them, to share with them. Is it really so childish to love one’s parents as I do, Willow?”

Willow put a comforting arm about her sister. “Nay, Velvet. I suppose it seems strange to the rest of us because we never had both of our parents around for very long. Do you realize that you’re the only one of Skye O’Malley’s children to grow up with her always nearby? And you’re the only one who has grown up with both a mother and a father. If your devotion to your parents seems excessive to us, perhaps that’s the reason why. When we were growing up we were lucky to have Mama to ourselves for any period of time. You’ve had her your whole life. Of course you’re close to her, Velvet, and even if you’re Alex’s wife that closeness will remain, but you must accept the responsibilities of womanhood now. Why you could be a mother yourself within the year!”

She kissed her sister’s cheek. “What color is your gown?”

“Colors, Willow, not color! ’Twill be all the colors of the fire. Scarlet and red and gold and orange! Wait until you see! ’Tis most original!”

It sounded rather vulgar to Willow. Scarlet and red and gold and orange? Even a gypsy wouldn’t dare such gaudiness, and with Velvet’s auburn hair, too! Still, it was the girl’s first elegant masque. If her costume wasn’t quite as marvelous as the others, then she would be disappointed for certain, but she was quick and would learn from her unfortunate experience, thought Willow.

On the night of the masque, however, Willow had to revise her opinion of her youngest sister’s taste.

The three women met in the main hall of Lynmouth to compare gowns. Angel was pure perfection in a sky blue silk creation: the skirt’s center panel was sewn with pearls and moonstones to create the effect of puffy white clouds. Here and there, scattered across the blue silk, were small jeweled pins fashioned to represent birds in flight. Angel’s golden blond hair was hidden beneath a headdress of fluffy white lawn and lace that represented a large cloud that was topped by a multicolored jeweled rainbow glittering with rubies, emeralds, topazes, amethyst, and peridots. Since her neckline was high and no skin was exposed, it was not necessary that she wear a necklace.

By her side stood Robin, resplendent in a costume of cloth of gold and twinkling with golden beryls. Atop his head was a large headdress fashioned like a sunburst. Looking at him, Willow couldn’t ever remember her late stepfather, Geoffrey Southwood, looking more resplendent.

Willow had come, according to her word, garbed as the perfect English spring day. Her gown was of spring-green satin, the center panel of the skirt a meadowful of colorful yellow and white flowers. Across her skirt gamboled small silver lambs, and in her dark hair rested a small, golden bird’s nest complete with a bejeweled inhabitant. By her side stood her husband dressed, as she had said, in black velvet.

Alex, true to his word, had come decked out in his full Highland dress, his one concession to the festivities the golden mask on a gilt wand that was carried by all the guests. It was Velvet, however, who caused gasps from her sister and sister-in-law. She had indeed come dressed as fire, but not garbed as the other women in full dress. Velvet had instead chosen to wear a wild assortment of flowing draperies whose rather savage hues of scarlet, red, gold, and orange flowed and blended themselves so cleverly that it was difficult to decide where one ended and another began. About her neck glittered her fiery ruby necklace, and from her ears bobbed the matching earrings.

“You can’t be seen like that!”

protested Willow. “ ’Tis the most indecent costume that I’ve ever seen. Blessed Mother! You can see your legs!”

“Don’t be such an old woman, Willow,”

retorted Velvet. “I’m wearing scarlet silk stockings.”

She held out a rather shapely red leg. “See!”

Her garters, covered in twinkling red garnets, flashed wickedly.

“That’s worse!”

shrieked Willow.

“I can’t be fire in a gown over vertingale and hip bolsters, Willow. It would have been far too awkward. Fire must leap and flow gracefully.”

“I think she looks rather original,”

said Robin, his lime-green eyes sparkling with amusement. “I certainly have no objection to her costume, and I must assume, Alex, that you have no objections either, else we would not see Velvet here before us now in her delightful garb.”

Alex let his eyes slide lazily and appreciatively over his wife. “She’s more covered than ye are, Willow, with yer rather low neckline.”

“Indeed,”

said the Earl of Alcester, looking pointedly down his wife’s décolletage. “Besides, I think Velvet looks rather fetching.”

Willow threw up her hands in despair. “I cannot imagine what the queen will say,”

she fussed, and then drawing her lips together in a severe line grew silent.

The queen, however, was enchanted by the originality of Velvet’s costume and praised her greatly. There wasn’t a gentleman at court who didn’t agree with Her Majesty’s entirely astute judgment, and Alex found his temper sorely tried on far too many occasions that evening. The women were divided between those who agreed with the queen and those who hid their jealousy behind disapproving frowns and pretenses of shock at the Countess of BrocCairn’s outrageous garb.

Mary de Boult was one of the latter. She had come dressed as an English rose, but had chosen a dusky pink for her gown, and not until it was too late had she realized that the deep color rendered her milky skin sallow. She would have been far better off had she chosen the clear pink her dressmaker had tried to press upon her. Added to this was the fact that her gown lacked originality—there were at least two dozen other roses in the room—and Lady de Boult’s unhappiness was complete, particularly in the face of Velvet’s much-talked-about costume.

“I am appalled that Lord Gordon would allow his wife to appear in such an outlandish garb, but then he’s naught but a rude and savage Scot,”

she said spitefully.

The Earl of Essex turned and fixed the lady with a rather fierce look. “Madame,”

he said, “I fear that your disappointment stems rather from the fact that Alexander Gordon used you to bring Velvet around. But then how could he have possibly had any serious interest in you when he was betrothed to her?”

Mary de Boult gaped, struck dumb by the insult, but before she could reply, Essex had turned away from her, and the few people who had been gathered about her melted away with mumbled excuses. Angry and ashamed, she vowed vengeance. Essex had been right. Alex had used her. He was the most exciting man she had ever known, but he didn’t know that she was alive. He had simply used her to gain his own ends. She hadn’t even been able to bring him to her bed, an unheard-of thing in her experience. Men were ever eager to get into her bed. He would pay! God’s bones, he would pay dearly! And that proud, arrogant bitch he was married to would pay as well!

Mary de Boult sought out her husband. “Take me home,”

she commanded him. “I am ill.”

Clifford de Boult was some twenty years older than his wife. His first wife had died childless after some fifteen years of marriage, and he had had no illusions about Mary when he had married her. She had been fifteen at the time and came from a large family. He had noted that she was quite healthy, and he had hoped she would prove fecund, which she quickly did, birthing him four healthy children in four years. He now had three sons and a daughter. She had done her part, and now he did his by allowing her to spend a portion of each year with the court and turning a blind eye to her little flirtations as long as they were discreet. He had not, he believed, been made a cuckold by his wife, and he would have called out any man he believed had had intimate knowledge of his Mary, for in his own way he loved her.

Bending, he inquired solicitously of her, “What is the matter, my dear?”

“My head aches unbearably with all this noise and the stink of the fireplaces,”

she whined. “You’d think Lynmouth’s fireplaces would draw better.”

He had not noticed any excess smoke and had thought that, quite to the contrary, the ballroom was quite well ventilated. Still, it was not like Mary to leave a good time, and so he could only assume that she was telling the truth. “I will beg the queen’s leave for us to withdraw,”

he said and hurried off.

Mary de Boult looked across the room to where Alexander Gordon stood next to his wife. The open look of love on the earl’s face as he bent to speak to Velvet made Mary almost physically ill, so great was her jealousy. Why should he be so happy when he had made her so miserable? she fumed bitterly. Her hatred rose, almost choking her, and she whispered to herself, “I wish you were dead, Alexander Gordon! I wish you were dead!”

Velvet shivered suddenly.

“Are ye cold, sweetheart?”

Alex inquired worriedly. “Those silks ye’re wearing cannot be very warm.”

“Nay, Alex. ’Twas just a rabbit hopping across my grave.”

She was puzzled herself. For the briefest moment she had felt some terrible, fierce hatred directed toward herself and Alex, and, looking around, she had seen no one who might be their enemy. She shook off the anxiety and concentrated on having a good time. Was she not the highlight of this evening, the center of attention? There wasn’t a person in the room this night who hadn’t either admired or disapproved of her costume.

The queen did not leave Lynmouth House until the first pale light of dawn was beginning to gray the skies over London. She had danced every dance that evening, eaten of the finest food, and drunk the best French wines. Elizabeth Tudor felt more relaxed and at peace with the world than she had felt in many months. She had even, for a few brief moments that evening, not missed her Dudley.

The young earl’s Twelfth Night masque was declared an enormous success by all who had attended it, and even Robin himself admitted to having had a good time. So much so that he had promised the queen that from now on he would continue his late father’s custom of keeping Twelfth Night. Well-satisfied, Elizabeth Tudor had stepped into her barge and, waving gaily, departed.

Now began another round of fêtes and parties prior to the beginning of the Lenten season. Feeling better than she had felt in weeks, Angel persuaded Robin to remain in London at least until Candlemas, and perhaps beyond. The Earl of Lynmouth, his beautiful wife, and his sisters became a familiar sight at all of the galas.

Velvet could not ever remember being happier. It was true that she and Alex still quarreled over the slightest thing, but she sometimes wondered if they both remained stubborn only because their reconciliations were so wonderfully passionate. Yes, she was very happy and certainly not prepared for the sudden arrival home of her brother Murrough O’Flaherty.

Murrough was the second of Skye O’Malley’s children and perhaps the one most like her, for as much as he loved his wife and children he also loved a good adventure. He had spent his early years in Ireland, and later followed the Tudor court where he had been a page to Geraldine FitzGerald Clinton, the Countess of Lincoln. Growing bored with it, and realizing that with no lands of his own or title he could not go very far at court, he had asked his mother to send him to Oxford where he studied diligently both there and later at the university in Paris where his father had studied. No one had been more surprised than Skye when Murrough announced his intentions of going to sea.

Taken in hand by his mother’s best captains, he had shown a true O’Malley talent for the sea. By the time Murrough reached the age of twenty-five he had his own ship, and was one of Skye and Robbie Small’s most trusted captains.

“Of them all, he’s the only true O’Malley you spawned,”

old Sean MacGuire, Skye’s senior captain, had observed to her.

Murrough’s had been one of the eight vessels accompanying Skye and Adam to the Indies. Now suddenly he was back, sailing not into his home port of Plymouth, but up the Thames into the pool of London itself. By chance, one of the Earl of Lynmouth’s retainers was on the docks seeking a ship with oranges, for Angel craved them desperately. Recognizing the Sea Hawk and her master, the earl’s man spoke to Murrough.

“Welcome home, Captain! The earl is in London at his house along with the lord and lady of Alcester, the lady Velvet and her bridegroom, the Scotsman. Shall I tell my lord that you’ll be coming?”

Murrough’s brain only registered that Robin and two of his sisters were here. “Do you have a horse, man?”

he demanded of the servant.

“Aye, Captain. Over there. The bay with the Lynmouth livery.”

“I’ll need the loan of her,”

Murrough replied, and without even waiting for an answer he hurried over to the animal and, mounting it, rode swiftly away.

Only when he was on his way did the words spoken by his brother’s servant penetrate his mind. “The lady Velvet and her bridegroom, the Scotsman.”

Velvet married? When had that happened, and what would her parents have to say when they learned about it? He hurried the horse along the river road. It was early, and fortunately there were few people out and about as it was a raw and chilly day. Lynmouth House finally came into view, and he barely acknowledged the greeting of the gatekeeper as he galloped his mount through and up the driveway.

“Welcome home, Captain,”

said the majordomo, hurrying forward as he entered the house. “His lordship is not up yet, but I shall inform him that you’re here.”

“Don’t bother,”

came Murrough’s quick reply as he ran up the staircase. “I know my way to Robin’s apartments.”

“But, Captain …”

The majordomo’s voice trailed off as Murrough disappeared at the top of the stairs.

“Captain O’Flaherty!”

Robin’s valet bowed briefly as Murrough came through the door of the earl’s apartment. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, Kipp. Is his lordship still abed?”

“Aye, sir. ’Twas rather a late night.”

Murrough only chuckled. He put his hand on the bedchamber door.

“Captain!”

Kipp looked uncomfortable. “His lordship isn’t alone.”

A smile split Murrough’s face. “I would hope not, Kipp!”

He flung open the door and, striding in, called loudly, “Robin, you slugabed! Up with you now, and let’s have a look at the lass you’ve spent the night debauching.”

Walking over to the bed, Murrough yanked back the bedcovers.

With a roar the Earl of Lynmouth leaped from his bed. Angel shrieked loudly and sought to cover herself. Murrough’s startled gaze took in her condition, her blond beauty, and the wedding ring on her finger. Then his brother hit him. “Ouch!”

grunted Murrough, rubbing his jaw. “Is that any way to greet me, you young pup?”

Robin was now on his feet, and he stared at the big, shaggy man who stood before him. “Murrough? Is it you? Jesu, man, you gave us a start!”

“Did you think it was her husband then?”

Murrough chortled.

“ I’m her husband, you randy old seadog!”

The earl laughed. “You’ve been away too long, big brother. I was wed last August by the queen’s own chaplain and in Her Majesty’s presence. This is my wife, Angel.”

Murrough O’Flaherty had the decency to look abashed, and he actually blushed. “Madame,”

he began, “I do beg your pardon.”

Angel’s beautiful face was serious. “I do not know if I shall ever forgive you, sir,”

she said, but her eyes were dancing with merriment, and, unable to restrain herself, she giggled mischievously, which turned Murrough’s woebegone expression back to a merry one.

“Oh, brother, I can see I shall have to get you aside so that you may tell me all about my husband’s bachelor adventures. Welcome home, Murrough O’Flaherty! Your sisters have told me much about you, but I can see that they don’t know the half of it!”

Murrough laughed. “Nay, madame, they don’t! Nor my good wife either! When is the babe due, for I can see my little brother has done his duty well by you.”