This Heart of Mine (39 page)

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.”

“In May,” she replied, and Murrough raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t wait, did you, Rob?”

“For what?” came Robin’s laughing reply, and then the earl turned serious. “Murrough, what are you doing home? Are Mother and Adam with you?”

“Nay, Rob, and that is why I sought you out first when I learned you were in London. I had originally planned to go to the queen, but now that I think on it ’tis better we make our own plans before speaking with Her Majesty. Mother and Adam are being held captive by the Portuguese viceroy in Bombay. The only reason they aren’t dead is that they can pay a fat ransom to the Portuguese, and Mother made a huge fuss as well about the fact that she and Adam are members of the holy mother church. She made it sound like our uncle Michael O’Malley is about to be elected the next pope. The viceroy is surrounded by Jesuits, y’know, and the Jesuits are far too clever and political to offend a high churchman. Besides, they’ll get a goodly share of the ransom for their missionary work in India.”