All the Sweet Tomorrows (18 page)

The two women hugged a final time, and then Skye caught her daughter to her once more. “Be good, my little love,” she said, and then releasing Willow, she almost ran out the door.

They hurried through the gardens of Greenwood House down to the private landing where Skye’s barge awaited them. The glory of the day had not abated one bit, even now in the late afternoon. The flowering trees scented the air, and already blossoms were beginning to fall, drifting like bits of pink and white silk along the river’s green edge. She looked back only once, and then the tears filled her eyes so quickly she couldn’t really see. Turning, she climbed into her barge. It was better that way. There were so many memories. Memories of her first trip to London, of Geoffrey, of their falling in love, of Lynmouth House right next to Greenwood, of Niall, and of Robin’s birth upon this very river, in this very barge. She had not felt this way since she had fled Algiers. It was as if one door was closing firmly upon her, and although another door loomed open and inviting, through it was the unknown. The unknown had always frightened her.

The river traffic was light at the moment. Business was done for the day, and it was yet too early for the pleasures of the evening to begin. Independent watermen looking for fares to take from one landing of the city to another poled about the river calling out to likely-looking customers along the river banks. They entered the London Pool, and Skye’s bargeman steered them skillfully through the many merchantmen and galleons moored or awaiting departure. Her heart quickened as she saw the
Seagull
and the
Mermaid
next to each other.

“The Queen did provide us with a strong escort, didn’t she, Robbie?” Skye queried him.

“Aye, lass. We’ll be traveling with a total of ten ships. The escort is led and commanded by a young gentleman from Devon named Francis Drake. He’s a competent seaman, but God help the Moors if they attack us. He’s the fiercest fighter I’ve ever known. If he doesn’t manage to get himself killed he’ll one day amount to something, I’ve not a doubt.”

The river barge bobbed and bumped itself against the
Seagull
, and Skye stood up, calling out, “Ahoy,
Seagull!
Where are you, MacGuire? Kelly? I’m coming aboard.” She grasped at the rope ladder hanging from the side of the ship, and climbed up to the main deck of the vessel. Clambering over the ship’s rail she looked back down into the barge. “Go on to your ship, Robbie. We’ve no time to visit now, the tide’s about to turn.”

“Aye, lass. I’ll see you later,” he said, and then the barge moved off across the space of water separating the two ships.

“So there you are at last, Skye O’Malley.” Sean MacGuire stood before her on his sturdy sea legs.

“Good afternoon to you, MacGuire,” Skye said. “Thank you for bringing
Seagull
safely to me.”

“Ye’re so grateful that you’ve put another captain aboard,” he complained to her.

“Bran Kelly is merely an extra man, MacGuire. If you’re annoyed, he’s just as annoyed. I took him from his own command to sail with me on
Seagull
. I’m going into an unknown situation in Beaumont de Jaspre, MacGuire. I want my own people about me. You understand that.”

“Aye,” he grudgingly gave in to her. “I don’t know why you have to run off and marry some foreigner anyways, Mistress Skye.”

“I made a bargain with the Queen, MacGuire.”

“She’s not our Queen.”

Skye snorted her impatience. “Ireland has no queen, MacGuire! It has no king. What it has is a thousand lordlings, a thousand cocks, each on its own dung heap, crowing its own song. Do you know the song those cocks sing, MacGuire? They sing of freedom from England and the English, but not one of those cocks would give up his rights to another man so that Ireland could be united under one Irish king, so we might drive the English from our homeland and be ruled by an Irish king. No, my old friend, they sing, they get drunk, they weep of the grand, great days of yore, but in the end they do nothing except make widows and orphans. Is it a wonder the English abuse us?

“Well, if that’s the way it’s to be, then I must think of my
own first. England rules Ireland, and I’ll not lose the Burke lands over a dream. The price of the Queen’s protection is that I marry this duc, and I will marry him! I will marry him lest Niall and the old MacWilliam rise from their graves to haunt me for losing what the Burkes have fought and died over for a thousand years. Now you nosy old man, that’s the last I’ll speak on it!”

He grinned wickedly at her, and drawing his pipe from his pocket, he lit it. “You needn’t get huffy, Skye O’Malley. I remember you when you were wearing nappies and crawling about the decks of yer father’s ship, may God assoil his noble soul.”

“Are we sailing on this tide or not?” she demanded, attempting to regain her dignity. It was damned well time MacGuire retired, but she knew he’d die aboard his ship one day, as her father had done.

“If ye weren’t so busy talking, lass, you’d see that we’ve already weighed anchor, and are underway.” He chuckled at her chagrin. “You’ll find that pretty piece that serves you, as well as the little foreign lord, waiting you in your dayroom.”

“Where’s Kelly?”

“Sleeping. It’s agreed between us that I’ll captain the ship during the day and he at night.”

She nodded. “A wise decision, considering we’ve got to avoid the French, the Spanish,
and
the Barbary pirates.”

“We’ll get there safe and sound, Mistress Skye,” he said, puffing comfortably on his pipe.

By evening they had rounded Margate Head and were out into the Strait of Dover. The next morning they were in the English Channel, where a light but steady breeze and a spring rain and fog protected them and their escort from detection by any foreign vessels. Several days later the gray weather left them, and they sailed briskly across the Bay of Biscay under bright blue skies. They were far enough out to sea to avoid coastal vessels. Rounding Cape Finisterre brought them into the Atlantic Ocean. The weather had been magnificent, and Skye was reminded of her first voyage to the Mediterranean. Ten years ago. Had it really been ten years ago? She gazed out over the dark blue sea to the cliffs of Cape St. Vincent rising steep and red-brown above the water.
Khalid. Geoffrey. Niall
. She shook her head. All gone. She seemed fated to be alone. Perhaps the duc would change her luck.

Seagull, Mermaid
, and their escort sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean Sea, swinging north once more as they set a course for Beaumont de Jaspre. Several times
now they sighted other vessels, but the size of their escort discouraged any unfriendly encounters. As they drew nearer to Beaumont de Jaspre Skye thought that she would even welcome an encounter with Barbary pirates. Anything to stave off the inevitable: her arrival—and her marriage to a total stranger.

“We should be docking in Villerose in less than a half an hour, Mistress Skye,” Bran Kelly told her, coming into the dayroom where she was writing a letter to Willow describing the voyage.

“Thank you, Bran,” she replied quietly, and then turned to address the man across the room. “Well, Edmond, I have brought you safely home, haven’t I?” Her tone was affectionate and amused.

“I admit I do not like sea travel,” he said, “but this voyage has been magnificent, Skye! It would have been quicker if we had crossed the English Channel and driven across France, however.”

“Quicker if the French allowed Elizabeth Tudor’s emissary free access to their roads and inns. Do you think they would have, Edmond?”

He chuckled and hopped down from the window seat in the stern window, where he had been sitting. “Stand up, Skye, and let me have a good look at you.”

Finished with the letter, she pushed it aside and stood up. She wore an exquisite gown of delicate lilac-colored silk, styled in the Italian manner. The skirt was full, over several starched petticoats, the underskirt embroidered in silver thread and pink glass beads showing a design of windflowers and dainty, fluttering moths. The sleeves of the gown were full to the midarm, and slashed to show a lilac and silver-striped fabric beneath. The neckline was low and draped with a soft lilac silk-kerchief added for modesty’s sake. About her neck Skye had chosen to wear a dainty necklace of small pearls and amethysts set in gold, and from her ears bobbed pearls falling from amethyst studs. Her hair was parted in the center and drawn back over her small ears into a full chignon that had been dressed with purple silk Parma violets and white silk rosebuds.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Edmond de Beaumont said quietly. “How can my uncle fail to love you, Skye? You are love incarnate!”

“You are extravagant in your praise, Edmond. Remember you have told me that your uncle is a reserved man. Perhaps I shall shock him rather than please him. I have never liked arranged
marriages for just this reason. My first marriage was arranged when I was in the cradle, and it was a disaster from the outset. It is better that people get to know one another. Still, I am older than when I was first married, and your uncle has known sorrow also. Perhaps we can console each other, and be happy in the bargain.”

“I know it can be so,” he said fervently. “Be patient with him, Skye. If anyone can reach him you can.”

What a strange remark, she thought, but before she could ask him exactly what he meant, Captain MacGuire was entering the cabin to announce, “Well, we’re here, and there’s a pretty fancy carriage on the dock, which I suspect is your betrothed’s. He’ll probably come aboard as soon as we’re moored securely.”

She panicked. “Where is Robbie? I must speak to Robbie before I leave the ship!”

“Easy, lass,” MacGuire soothed her. “I’ll have
Mermaid
signaled immediately. You’re as fretful as a virgin going to the marriage bed for the first time.”

“MacGuire!”
she shouted at him, outraged.

The old seaman chuckled and, turning about, left the day room.

“You mustn’t be fearful, Skye,” Edmond de Beaumont said. “My uncle is the kindest man alive. You have nothing to fear from him.”

She drew a deep breath, dispelling some of her panic. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I am behaving like a green girl.”

“I shall go ashore,” Edmond de Beaumont said, “and greet my uncle. Then I shall bring him back to introduce him to you. It will be far more private if you meet here for the first time, than if you meet on the dock or at the palace.” He gave her a quick smile and then hurried out, his short legs pumping eagerly.

She was alone. For how long? she wondered. In a few minutes
he
would walk through the cabin door, and she would no longer be free. She did not delude herself that this would be like any of her other marriages. Lord Burghley had sworn that the duc would sign the marriage contracts that left her her own mistress, but then Lord Burghley had also sworn that the duc was old and ill, which his nephew had most certainly attested he was not. Edmond had signed the contracts for his uncle in England, but Fabron de Beaumont must ratify them. She would insist he do so before she wed him! It was the only way. She could not after all
these years find herself at anyone else’s mercy. It was bad enough to be wedding a stranger.

The door to her dayroom opened and Robbie came in. “It looks a fair place, Skye lass,” he said.

She nodded.

“MacGuire signaled you wanted to see me.”

“You’ll not leave me, Robbie?” Her voice was anxious.

“I’ll not leave you, Skye. You’re my lass. I’ll be here whenever you want me.” He reached out and took her hands in his. They were cold despite the warmth of the day. “He’ll love you, and perhaps you’ll love him.”

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’m a grown woman with four marriages behind me. I’ve six children!” She whirled, and her gown whirled with her. “God’s nightshirt!” she swore, using the Queen’s favorite oath. “What is the matter with me?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing that won’t be solved by your meeting the duc and getting to know him.”

“There’s no time. We are to be married immediately. Edmond told me that that was the agreement; but Robbie, you must stand behind me. I won’t marry the man until he ratifies the marriage contracts agreeing that what is mine remains mine. I won’t even get off
Seagull
until that is settled. You’ll help me?”

“I will handle it for you, my dear,” he said. “Let me do it. These Mediterranean types are not your Englishman.”

“Oh, yes, Robbie! Please take care of it for me!”

A knock sounded at the cabin door. Skye froze, but Robbie said in a loud voice, “Enter!”

The door opened, and Edmond de Beaumont entered, followed by another gentleman. Fabron de Beaumont’s almond-shaped eyes widened just slightly, but other than that he showed no emotion; his expression remained unsmiling. He was exactly as Edmond had painted him; a serious, aristocratic man of medium height with fierce dark eyes and severely cropped, curly black hair. It worried Skye that she could see no emotion in those eyes, but then perhaps he was as nervous of her as she was of him. If Edmond had been flattering at all to his uncle, it was only in the fact that he had softened the duc’s sharp features; the long, narrow nose, the large, thin mouth, the very square jaw. For a long moment there was silence in the room, and then Edmond spoke.

“Lady Burke, may I present to you my uncle, the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre.”

Skye curtseyed gracefully.

“Uncle Fabron, may I present to you Lady Burke, your betrothed.”

“Welcome to Beaumont de Jaspre, madame,” the duc said. His voice was deep, but musical in tone.

“Thank you, monseigneur,” was her reply.

“Uncle, this is Sir Robert Small, Lady Burke’s business partner.”

Fabron de Beaumont raised an elegant eyebrow. “My nephew tells me that you are a woman of commerce, madame. Is it true?”

“Yes, monseigneur.” Skye looked to Robbie.

Clearing his throat, he said, “There is the matter of the ratification of the marriage contracts, M’sieur le Duc.”

“I must read them first,” was the reply.