“I’ll wait,” said Niall.
Wat disappeared back into the cave, and Niall could hear his steps as he mounted the stairs. It was quiet again, only the gentle slap of the sea against the rock of the ledge to cut the silence. The star formations overhead moved slowly across the heavens, and new ones took their place. Niall dozed, waking suddenly to find the sky gray with the early dawn, and Skye’s small boat sailing toward him. Slowly he rose, shaking his lean frame loose, and walked down the steps to take the rope she tossed casually to him. Fastening it to the ring, he reached down and pulled her up. She moved past him, and he smelled the scent of tobacco on her sea clothes. Jealousy surged up in him and he had a difficult time controlling his voice. “Where the hell were you?” he demanded.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “At sea,” she replied shortly.
“I waited all night!”
“Did you? I’m touched, but you wasted time you might have spent rutting with your Devon Rose in a warm bed.” She was mounting the stairs and he leaped after her.
“You weren’t at sea all this time,” he said flatly.
“No?” She looked over her shoulder, a mocking expression on her beautiful face.
“Not unless you’ve taken up smoking tobacco, Skye.”
“What?”
“Your clothes reek of it!”
She stopped and sniffed at her doublet. “You’re absolutely right, Niall,” she said, and continued on her way without another word. Astounded, he stood rooted to the stairs for a few moments. The bitch had a lover! It was the only possible explanation. What was it about him that sent his wives seeking other men? Nothing! he decided, slamming his fist into his palm. He remembered women who had lain panting with passion beneath him. He would not allow memories of Constanza’s treachery to obliterate good sense. Suddenly, he heard the door click shut above him and he returned to the present. The little bitch! To hold him off in the guise of mourning for Geoffrey Southwood when all the while she was sailing off to join a lover! How they must have laughed at him, she and her lover. His rage grew. Who was the man?
He mounted the stairs purposefully. There would be no more waiting. Her little game was over. And after he had settled the score with her he intended sinking her damned boat so she could not run off again. This might be Lynmouth Castle, and she might be the Countess of Lynmouth, but she was also Lady Burke, a fact he was about to bring home to her.
Time had taught Niall Burke the value of subtlety. Reaching the door that led into his own apartment, he entered and called to his body servant. Mick came running. “A bath!” ordered his master, and the deep oak tub was filled with hot water. Niall spent a good half-hour washing, including his short-cropped dark, wavy hair. Climbing out, he toweled himself vigorously while standing before the fire. His body was still long and lean, and had matured well. He was warm and the blood raced in his veins as he thought of Skye. Mick held out his dressing gown and he wrapped it tightly about him. Then he went through the door that connected their bedchambers. Skye, too, was freshly bathed, as the tub before the fireplace bore evidence. She sat naked at her dressing table brushing her long black hair while Daisy turned back the bed. Startled by his entry, she reached for the lacy shawl that lay on the edge of the table. He snatched it away. Suddenly wary, she sprang up. “Daisy! Get out!” His voice barked the command.
“Daisy! Stay!” she countermanded desperately.
Frantically Daisy looked back and forth between the two, caught in a terrible quandary. Niall took a menacing step toward the servant woman and, with a shriek, Daisy fled, slamming the door behind her. Niall calmly threw the bolt, then leapt across the room in two strides to close and bolt the connecting door that separated their two apartments. In doing so he successfully captured Skye, who had been trying to escape through that door.
He towered above her, his handsome, craggy face dark with rage. His eyes blazed a chill, silver fire, colder than anything she had seen in those eyes before. Real fear began moving upward from her belly, and she fought to hide it from him.
Niall pinioned his wife against the door, his arms making prison bars on either side of her. Neither of them spoke for the space of several heartbeats, and he did not fail to notice the frightened pulse leaping at the base of her slender throat. At long last, Skye managed to whisper hoarsely:
“You have no right.”
“More than your lover!” he snapped, his eyes fastened on her perfect small breasts, their rosy peaks rigid with fear. Bewildered, caught off guard, she nearly stammered. “My-lover? I have no lover!”
“You stay out all night and come home with your clothes reeking of tobacco smoke and tell me you have no lover? What then, madam, is your explanation? And think not to tell me this is not my business. You’re my wife.”
Christ’s bones! she swore silently. She couldn’t tell him, for he’d never understand. How could she say, you hurt me, and I sailed off to Lundy because I have a friend there? How could she tell him that she and Adam de Marisco had spent the whole night just talking, that the reason her clothes smelled of tobacco was that Adam had recently taken up a pipe? How could she explain the lord of Lundy to a husband? Niall would never know that Adam had indeed once been her lover, for de Marisco was no more eager to tangle with Lord Burke than Skye was for him to know.
She looked up at him and was frightened by what she saw in those silver eyes. “I have no lover, Niall,” she repeated. “Then you’ve taken up tobacco, my dear?”
“Yes!” she answered him desperately.
In answer he caught her chin in one hand, and kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging swiftly into her mouth. When he released her lips he smiled cruelly. “You’re a liar, Skye! Your mouth and breath are sweet with no hint of tobacco. What else have you lied to me about? For over two months you’ve denied me with this pretense of mourning. And I, great fool that I am, believed you and respected your grief, and all the while you were sneaking off to fuck with your lover!”
Angrily he yanked her away from the door. Sweeping her up in his arms, he strode across the room to the big bed. “Well now, madam, you’ll fuck with me!” and he dumped her down onto the feather mattress.
While he undid his robe she scrambled up, only to be shoved back onto the bed. “Oh, no, my dear! What you give to him, you’ll give to me too!”
“Whoreson!” she snarled at him as his body crushed her flat, but he only laughed. Infuriated, she struggled against him like a madwoman. His mouth came down hurtfully on hers, and she clenched her teeth, tightly together. His hands tangled in her dark hair, holding her head still. She closed her eyes to blot him out, but she couldn’t close out his voice, which crooned in her ear. “Are you going to be my wife willingly, Skye, or is it going to be rape? Maybe that sort of thing excites you, eh, my darling? I’d rather you’d let me love you and that you would try to love me back.”
“Love you?” Her scorn was thick. “You sicken me! And to think that I once preferred you to Dom O’Flaherty!”
He wanted to hit her. What had happened to them? All desire left him. Rape was not his style. To her surprise, he rolled off her. But when she tried to rise he held her back. “No, madam! From now on you’ll sleep with me. But I’ll not give you further excuse to hate me by taking my rights by force. You’ll have to ask me for loving, my darling. And you will, Skye. You will.”
Relief made her brave. “Never!” she spat.
He laughed, and pulled her into his arms so he might caress her breasts. “Those two pretty apples of yours have grown plumper,” he observed.