indulge my curiosity now. Who is this Sir Robert Small you will not leave England without seeing?”
“Robbie?” She smiled broadly. “Robbie is one of the two best friends I have in this whole world! He is my business partner, a marvelous man, and I adore him! He has never married, and his sister, Dame Cecily, is a childless widow. My second husband was a Spaniard, and he died before my eldest daughter, Willow, our only child, was born. Robbie and his sister adopted her and made her their heiress. With all the bad feeling between England and Spain, it is better for my daughter that she have an English surname, be an Englishwoman. Although her parentage is no secret, little is thought of it because she is Willow Mary Small.”
“This Sir Robert? He is due back from a voyage shortly?” Edmond de Beaumont asked.
“Aye. His advance ship arrived in Plymouth a short while ago, and Robbie could appear any time between today and the end of the month,” she said happily.
To Skye’s surprise, Robbie appeared the very next morning, shouting her name as he entered Greenwood’s paneled reception hall.
“Skye lass! Dammit, Skye, where are you?” Sir Robert Small, sea captain and owner of Wren Court, an exquisite Devon house, stood with his legs spread wide, his homely, freckled face anticipatory.
Skye’s secretary, Jean Morlaix, came hurrying downstairs from the library where he had been working, a smile upon his usually serious features. “Good day to ye, Jean. How is your Marie, and the children?”
“Very well, captain,” Jean Morlaix greeted Robbie. “It was a good voyage, I trust?”
“Splendid!” was the enthusiastic reply.
“Robbie!” Skye stood at the top of the staircase’s second landing. Her long black hair was tousled from sleep, her feet bare, her pale-blue quilted silk dressing gown open at the neck. With a glad cry she flew down the stairs and into his arms. “Oh, Robbie! You are home safe!”
He hugged her lovingly. She was the daughter he might havehad, had he ever taken the time to marry. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, asking as he did so, “Is Niall with you, lass?”
Jean Morlaix stiffened, and Skye’s smile faded. “Niall is dead, Robbie. He was murdered this past February by his first wife, the nun. That bitch, Claire O’Flaherty, insinuated herself into St. Mary’s Convent, attached herself to poor, mad Darragh like a bloodsucking leech, and then tortured her with the idea that Niall was coming to reclaim her. Claire terrorized Darragh to the point that she was amenable even to murder to save herself. Darragh told the Mother Superior of her convent that she stabbed Niall several times, and there was a great deal of blood. Then she and Claire dragged his body to the beach, and the last thing Darragh remembers of the event is the waves lapping at Niall’s body. When the Mother Superior and the other nuns hurried to the beach they found the tide fully in, and Niall’s body gone.”
“Christ’s body!” Robbie swore softly, and then his arms went back around her. For a moment she wept softly, moving her head into his shoulder for refuge, and his weathered, square hand stroked her dark hair comfortingly. “Ah, lass, ah lass, Robbie is here now, and I’ll make it all right! See if I don’t, Skye lass.”
“The MacWilliam is gone also, Robbie,” she said, regaining some control. “I kept his death a secret, and came to England to gain the Queen’s protection for my infant son, Padraic. She will confirm his title and his lands, but only for a price. I am to become the wife of the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. I must leave England by mid-May.”
“The Devil you say!” he cried. “This is some plot of William Cecil’s, I vow. What of your children? Has that old spider thought of your children? Aye! I’ll wager he has! He’s thought what fine hostages they’ll make. Would he separate a mother from her babies? Aye, he would to serve the Queen!”
“Beaumont de Jaspre
“Robbie?” She smiled broadly. “Robbie is one of the two best friends I have in this whole world! He is my business partner, a marvelous man, and I adore him! He has never married, and his sister, Dame Cecily, is a childless widow. My second husband was a Spaniard, and he died before my eldest daughter, Willow, our only child, was born. Robbie and his sister adopted her and made her their heiress. With all the bad feeling between England and Spain, it is better for my daughter that she have an English surname, be an Englishwoman. Although her parentage is no secret, little is thought of it because she is Willow Mary Small.”
“This Sir Robert? He is due back from a voyage shortly?” Edmond de Beaumont asked.
“Aye. His advance ship arrived in Plymouth a short while ago, and Robbie could appear any time between today and the end of the month,” she said happily.
To Skye’s surprise, Robbie appeared the very next morning, shouting her name as he entered Greenwood’s paneled reception hall.
“Skye lass! Dammit, Skye, where are you?” Sir Robert Small, sea captain and owner of Wren Court, an exquisite Devon house, stood with his legs spread wide, his homely, freckled face anticipatory.
Skye’s secretary, Jean Morlaix, came hurrying downstairs from the library where he had been working, a smile upon his usually serious features. “Good day to ye, Jean. How is your Marie, and the children?”
“Very well, captain,” Jean Morlaix greeted Robbie. “It was a good voyage, I trust?”
“Splendid!” was the enthusiastic reply.
“Robbie!” Skye stood at the top of the staircase’s second landing. Her long black hair was tousled from sleep, her feet bare, her pale-blue quilted silk dressing gown open at the neck. With a glad cry she flew down the stairs and into his arms. “Oh, Robbie! You are home safe!”
He hugged her lovingly. She was the daughter he might havehad, had he ever taken the time to marry. Then he kissed her on both cheeks, asking as he did so, “Is Niall with you, lass?”
Jean Morlaix stiffened, and Skye’s smile faded. “Niall is dead, Robbie. He was murdered this past February by his first wife, the nun. That bitch, Claire O’Flaherty, insinuated herself into St. Mary’s Convent, attached herself to poor, mad Darragh like a bloodsucking leech, and then tortured her with the idea that Niall was coming to reclaim her. Claire terrorized Darragh to the point that she was amenable even to murder to save herself. Darragh told the Mother Superior of her convent that she stabbed Niall several times, and there was a great deal of blood. Then she and Claire dragged his body to the beach, and the last thing Darragh remembers of the event is the waves lapping at Niall’s body. When the Mother Superior and the other nuns hurried to the beach they found the tide fully in, and Niall’s body gone.”
“Christ’s body!” Robbie swore softly, and then his arms went back around her. For a moment she wept softly, moving her head into his shoulder for refuge, and his weathered, square hand stroked her dark hair comfortingly. “Ah, lass, ah lass, Robbie is here now, and I’ll make it all right! See if I don’t, Skye lass.”
“The MacWilliam is gone also, Robbie,” she said, regaining some control. “I kept his death a secret, and came to England to gain the Queen’s protection for my infant son, Padraic. She will confirm his title and his lands, but only for a price. I am to become the wife of the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. I must leave England by mid-May.”
“The Devil you say!” he cried. “This is some plot of William Cecil’s, I vow. What of your children? Has that old spider thought of your children? Aye! I’ll wager he has! He’s thought what fine hostages they’ll make. Would he separate a mother from her babies? Aye, he would to serve the Queen!”
“Beaumont de Jaspre
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