All the Sweet Tomorrows (69 page)

“What of the responsibilities I owe to the O’Malleys, Adam? I cannot simply walk away from them. I promised my father! ’twas a deathbed promise!”

“A promise made fourteen years ago, Skye, when your brothers
were babes; but they are men grown now, and Brian already has children of his own. It is time they accepted their responsibility. Brian O’Malley has run the O’Malley enterprises these last two years while you have been away. Your Uncle Seamus could not do it and defend Burke lands as well. He is growing very old, although he would knock me down if he heard me say it.

“I would take nothing from you, sweetheart, and neither would your brothers. We adore you, but if we must live in France, then you will have to allow your family to take care of themselves.”

“I have always taken care of them,” she worried.

His big hand reached out to cup one of her perfect little breasts. “You will have me to take care of now, Skye O’Malley, and I am a very big responsibility,” he said as he rolled her in one smooth motion onto her back to take a nipple into his warm mouth.

“Ohhh,” she gasped softly, his action catching her by surprise. His lips, clamped firmly around that sensitive little knob of flesh, seemed determined to draw her soul from her body. Gently he bit down upon the tingling peak, eliciting another “Ohhhh!” from her. She didn’t need this torture to know that she wanted him desperately.

With a groan Adam raised his dark head, and she could see the hunger in his stormy eyes. “God forgive me, little girl,” he whispered harshly, “but I cannot attend to any of the niceties this time. I must have you, Skye! I ache for you!”

“Oh, God, yes, Adam!” she answered, to his delight. “I cannot wait, either! I keep remembering how it was with us before I left England, and I shall die if you do not take me now!”

Assured he would neither harm her nor offend her, Adam covered her beautiful body with his own. Beneath him, her shapely thighs opened smoothly, and she eagerly reached for him to guide him home. With a low cry of pleasure he thrust deep, feeling her push up to ease his passage even more. Her arms wrapped themselves around him and their mouths met in a searing kiss. The kiss was seemingly endless, deepening and easing again and again as his strong hips drove her downward into the feather mattresses. He could not get enough of her, nor she of him. Skye reveled in his strong passion, urging him onward with soft little cries that were obvious in their delight. She felt the delicious tensing begin as his wonderful maleness filled her with his love and his warmth. The first rocket’s burst came quickly
thereafter, followed by several other starbursts in quick succession. Her sharp nails raked fiercely into his smooth back as he tore his head away from her, gasping for breath. “Sweet, hot little bitch!” he moaned. “Damn, but you have unmanned me too quickly!” Then she felt the warm rush of his love flooding her, and she wept with joy and murmured softly,
“Je t’adore, mon mari!
I love you, my husband!”

Adam de Marisco shuddered with the pleasure both her body and her words had given him. “Marry me when we return to Archambault after the royal wedding,” he begged her.

“Will Michaelmas be soon enough?” she teased him.

“The end of September? ’Tis too far away,” he grumbled.

“I need time for a trousseau,” she pouted, “and perhaps we shall even be able to have the children here.”

“I foresee problems in marrying an older woman,” he said mischievously.

“Older woman!”
With a little shriek of outrage she shoved him off her, catching him unawares in his relaxed and weakened condition.

“You’ll be thirty-two in December,” he countered, beginning to laugh.

“You are no gentleman, Adam de Marisco, to mention such a thing out loud!” she said with mock anger, and began to tickle him. “You are ten years my senior, a veritable graybeard! I might have a young man of twenty for a husband should I so desire,” she mocked him from her perch atop his chest.

He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Stop, witch!” he begged her as her nimble fingers found yet another sensitive spot upon his helpless flesh to tickle. God, how he loved her! It was a dream come true for him.

“Not until you apologize!”

“For marrying you, or for saying you will be thirty-two?” he teased.

“Ohh, beast!” She leaned forward and, grasping a handful of his thick black hair, yanked it hard in retaliation.

“Ouch!” he roared in pain. “Enough, you witch!” And reaching out, he grasped her about the waist and lifted her high off of him. For a brief moment he held her above him while she shrieked in mock terror, and then he lowered her gently onto the mattresses while his mouth swiftly found hers. “I love you, Skye O’Malley,” he whispered against her trembling lips. “I love you, my little girl!”

* * *

They loved seemingly without ceasing that night and in the days that followed. The night before they left for Paris Skye drifted off to sleep, replete with his love and wondering how they would ever start off the next day. She was still tired when she was forced to crawl from her bed as the dawn was beginning to tint the edges of the horizon. Adam was gone, and Mignon was bustling busily about.

“I have already packed your things, madame, but you must hurry. The comtesse has arranged with Père Jean that the formal betrothal ceremony be said in the chapel before you leave for Paris!
Vite, vite
now, madame!”

Her bath was drawn, and she was not allowed to enjoy soaking in its perfumed warmth. The bath this day, Mignon declared, was for washing, not pleasurable daydreaming. Skye was washed, and dried, and powdered and perfumed quickly by her adept tiring woman. Her silk stockings with the climbing roses were rolled up her slender legs and fastened with rosette garters of silver ribbon. Her silk chemise, silk blouse, and silk petticoats were swiftly donned to rustle elegantly beneath her crimson silk gown with its pink satin undershirt. Creamy lace dripped from the sleeves and modestly garnished the neckline of the gown, which revealed more breast than Skye would have normally shown, but the château’s dressmaker had sworn that it was the
latest
style and that Madame would be totally out of fashion if her necklines were any higher. While Mignon did her hair Skye slipped her feet into a pair of red leather shoes with tiny heels. The tiring woman dressed her hair in Nicolas’s pearls, and she wore pearls about her neck and in her ears. When Mignon had finished with Skye’s hair she signaled her mistress to stand, and then fastened about her waist a gold cordeliere to which she attached a small mirror and a pomander.

“If Madame will allow me I will escort her to the chapel,” Mignon said as she picked up Skye’s crimson silk cloak with its pink satin lining. “Père Jean is to say a late mass for the family, and then you and M’sieur Adam will repeat your vows before God.”

Skye nodded to Mignon and followed her from the apartment. She caught her breath with delight as they entered the family’s private chapel, for the octagon-shaped room was really a little jewel. Although she had seen it earlier, its beauty still astounded her. Situated in the oldest part of the small château it had floors
and walls of stone; but on either side of the altar which faced the double entry doors were long Gothic windows of exquisite stained glass. The rich reds and blues and golds of the windows cast dancing shadows on the gray stone. On either side of the room were dainty shrines, one to the Blessed Mother Mary, the other to her mother, Saint Anne. The delicately carved statues had been painted so that the two women resembled living creatures.

Mary had been portrayed as the young mother, and was gowned modestly in pale sky-blue robes, a white veil over her blond hair. Her coloring—pink cheeks, fair skin, and real sapphire eyes—was quite lovely. She was seated, and in her lap a laughing pink and white cherub of a baby boy sat waving his fat little hands. The statue of Saint Anne, opposite that of Saint Mary, represented her as a slender, standing woman. Her face was that of a warm and loving woman as she gazed with pride across the room to her beloved daughter and holy grandchild. Her skin was pale, her braids dark, her eyes genuine topaz, her robes a dark red.

There were only four pews on either side of the chapel, and they and the altar were beautifully carved with religious scenes. As Skye and Mignon entered the chapel a priest in green and gold vestments greeted them. Mignon stepped respectfully back and curtseyed.
“Bonjour, mon père.”

“Bonjour, ma fille,”
the priest replied softly, and then he gave his complete attention to Skye. “Madame la Comtesse has told me about you, Madame Burke. You are Irish, and I believe, a true daughter of Holy Mother Church?”

“Oui, mon père
. My uncle is a bishop.”

“And when was the last time you made your confession,
ma fille?”

Skye reddened. “I have been in a Moslem country for over a year,
mon père
. It was not possible.”

Père Jean smiled. “Of course,” he murmured understandingly, “but you will, naturally, wish to confess to me now before the mass, and before you take your vows with M’sieur Adam.”

“Oui, mon père.”
Skye was mortified, but she knew that there would be no escaping her religious duties. She wondered almost hysterically what the priest was going to think of what she had to tell him. She would wager that he had never heard a confession such as she was going to give him now. Meekly she
followed him to the confessional, where she knelt and said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Some twenty minutes later both she and Père Jean exited the booth, the priest looking somewhat exhausted and bleary-eyed. “Never,” the priest declared softly, “never have I listened to such a tale,
ma fille
. I am astounded that these things can occur in our poor world.”

“Yet you gave me no penance,
mon père.”

The priest stopped, and looking into Skye’s face, he took her hand in his. “What penance could I possibly give you,
ma fille
, that you have not already suffered? You have twice lost the same husband, a man for whom you truly cared. You have suffered a shameful and degrading captivity in your brave if foolish effort to free your husband from an equally shameful captivity. You have been bereft of your children, threatened wickedly by your sovereign Queen, and yet still you survive without bitterness. I may only be an unsophisticated country priest,
ma fille
, but I know anguish when I see it. God has already punished you. I can certainly do no more.” He smiled at her and patted her hand. “You are a good daughter of the Church,
ma fille
. It has taken great courage to tell me your mountain of sins, but you were brave enough to do it. Now you are following the dictates of Holy Mother Church by marrying once more. I will pray that God bless this union between yourself and the Seigneur de Marisco with many children. Come now, the family is assembled and ready for the mass,
ma fille.”
The priest gallantly escorted her to where Adam awaited her in the pew with his mother and stepfather.

As she knelt in prayer during the service Skye thought sadly that Père Jean’s prayers would be wasted with regard to a child for her and Adam. She did not care for herself, but for Adam she was sad. He was a man who loved children, and should have sons of his own. She signed herself with the cross at the mass’s end, and then with Adam she knelt before Père Jean and repeated her betrothal vows, as thrilled as a maiden to hear his deep voice speak back pledging himself to her till death.

Afterward they broke their fast in the family’s dining room, and then the Comte and Comtesse de Cher and their family piled into several coaches with their servants and their baggage to begin the trek to Paris. There were twenty-one adults and children in the party, the six youngest children having been left behind. It would take them five days to reach Paris, traveling at a reasonable
speed. As they crossed the river at Tours, suddenly the reality of the trip seemed to touch the family all at once. The marriage between Henri de Navarre and Marguerite de Valois was the most exciting thing to happen in France in some time, especially considering the fact that the bride was most vocal in her opposition to the match.

Marguerite de Valois was as strong-willed as her Florentine mother, Queen Catherine de Medici, but being far more beautiful, young, and gay, she was more popular than the dowager queen. All Paris, devoutly Catholic, was in extreme sympathy with their lovely princess, who was being forced to wed with a Huguenot. Were not their fear of Catherine de Medici greater than their love of her daughter, the young prince of Navarre might have found himself in extreme danger. Even the princess’s lover, Henri de Guise, dared not act against the bridegroom.

It was painfully obvious that the lovely young Queen of France, Elizabeth of Austria, would produce no more children than her little daughter; and King Charles IX’s only son was a bastard by his official favorite, Marie Touchet. The king’s heir was therefore his younger brother, the Comte d’Anjou, whose favorite pastime was dressing as a girl. The French, a practical race, realized there was not much hope there. The eventual king would be Henri of Navarre, who, it was hoped, would by then be converted to the true Church; and his queen would be their own beloved princess. Perhaps this union would bring an end to the religious wars that had been plaguing France the last few years.

The de Saville coaches raced onward toward Paris, the women of the family chattering excitedly about what they would wear to the ball that was to be held the night before the wedding at the Louvre. Skye could not but help feel some of their excitement in her own contentment and happiness. Outside the coach, the French countryside was lush with midsummer; the fields ripening, the vines heavy with their fruit. It was very different from both her beloved Ireland and beautiful England, but Skye thought it was just as lovely in its own way. She prayed that someday she might return home, but if she could not, it would not be so difficult to live in this fair France. At least here she had no fears that she would be disdained for her race or her religion.