“My daughter, I shall pass on to you any information I receive.”
Skye flashed her a small smile, then followed the novice out.
How sad, thought the Reverend Mother. Another young woman pushed into an unhappy marriage. She wondered what the MacWilliam would do. She knew what he would not do. He would not let Niall have Skye, for he sought a better match for his heir. Damn him and the others like him for the fools they were! Hadn’t they yet learned that overbred wenches invariably proved to be bad breeders? A good sturdy lass of less elegant lineage made a better wife.
The Reverend Mother Ethna realized that beneath the gallant defiance, Skye O’Malley was a frightened and desperate girl. If the child was to be disappointed, best she learn it now so she might face her grief with the nuns. In the time she was with them, they could, with the grace of God, help her make peace with herself.
Alone in her apartment Skye inspected her surroundings. There were two rooms, a good-sized dayroom, and a small bedroom. Both had fireplaces. The bedroom fireplace was set into the corner. The room held only a big oak bed with claret velvet hangings. There was no room for any other furniture. The size of the bed amused and puzzled Skye until it dawned on her that the convent probably relied on the generosity of its friends to furnish its rooms. Giggling to herself, she wondered what the nuns thought of the great bed. It faced the one small window in the bedroom, and looked out over the sea.
The dayroom was a bright, pleasant room with windows on two sides. They faced north, giving a far view of her home on InnisfanaIsland, and west across the open sea into the setting sun. On the east wall of the room was a large stone fireplace flanked by two great carved winged angels. To the north of the fireplace was the stout oak door that served as an entry.
On the opposite side of the fireplace a small floor-to-ceiling bookcase had been built into the wall, matching a larger one that shared the south wall with the paneled bedroom door. Before the lead paned western windows was a polished oak refectory table with armchairs at the head and foot. To one side of the fireplace was a settle and on the other a comfortable chair. There was a large carved chest, and in the space between the windows stood a little prie-dieu with an embroidered cushion. Skye’s trunk had been placed in the bedroom, beneath the window.
The convent’s benefactors had been more than generous. Heavy claret-red velvet draperies hung from all the windows, and a large Turkey carpet in reds and blues was spread across the floor, matching a smaller one in the bedroom. Skye later learned that the O’Neills had furnished the West Tower’s guest quarters when their own Ethna became the head of St. Bride’s of the Cliffs.
Skye’s days quickly took on a comfortable pattern. She rose early, and attended mass in the convent’s chapel. She was not particularly religious, but she prayed now that Niall would soon come for her. Afterward she obtained her own breakfast from the kitchen and went off by herself to walk across the convent grounds. A small sailboat belonging to the order was placed at her disposal, and Skye spent many hours sailing and fishing to pass the time. The convent soon enjoyed a number of fresh seafood dinners courtesy of their young guest.
The main meal of the day was served at two in the afternoon, and Skye ate it alone in her dayroom. The evening meal was served after vespers, and sometimes Eibhlin joined her young sister. Otherwise Skye was again alone.
The convent had a surprisingly fine library, and the bookshelves in Skye’s dayroom were also well filled. On very wet days, she read. Skye O’Malley was a well-educated woman for her day. She could speak her native Gaelic as well as English, French, and Latin. She could write, and though she might not sew as fine a seam as her sisters did, her needlework was passable and she could knit.
She knew how to run a household, understanding provisioning, salting, conserving, preserving, soap-making, and perfume-making. She knew the rudiments of brewing and household medicine. She had been taught to keep accounts, for O’Malley firmly believed thatthe only way to avoid being cheated by one’s own steward was to do one’s own household accounts. And as if that were not enough, Skye was one of the finest navigators her father had ever sailed with. The O’Malley often joked that he thought his daughter could smell out her ship’s destination.
Though she saw the nuns as she moved through the uneventful pattern of her days, Skye actually spent most of her time alone. The order of St. Bride’s was not a cloistered one, nor was it a begging order. The nuns were workers, devoted first to their God and second to the poor. Some of the nuns were teachers and others gave medical aid to the surrounding area. The rest farmed for the convent, cooked, knitted, sewed, and did the farm and household chores.
Skye adapted instantly, and entered into the spirit of the convent, doing her share of fishing, snaring rabbits, and one day even bringing down a young buck. The venison was a rare treat for the nuns.
Skye needed that constant physical activity. Had she not worked so hard she might never have slept. Why had Niall not communicated with her? Surely he understood the anguish she was feeling. He could not, she was sure, have made love to her with such exquisite delicacy while intending to leave her forever.
It might have eased her mind to know that Niall Burke suffered no less than she did. He had clawed his way up through the swirling darkness to discover himself trussed like a damned Christmas goose on a cockle of a boat that was bouncing all over the ocean. The bearded captain of the little boat gave him a wicked but sympathetic grin.
“So, you’re awake, me lord.”
“Where the hell am I?” snarled Niall. “Unloose me at once!”
The captain looked unhappy. “Ah, now, your worship, I can’t do that. If I were to unloose you, and you became violent, which I can see you’re sure to do, I’d be in terrible trouble. Take Lord Burke home to the MacWilliam was what the O’Malley told me to do, and that’s just what I’ll do.”
“At least sit me up, man, and give me a dram. I’m cramped, my head feels like the little people are mining gold inside it, and I’m not sure I won’t be seasick.”
Captain MacGuire chuckled. “All right, lad. You don’t ask a great deal of a man, and I’m no fool to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are.” Bending, he hauled Niall into a sitting position, his back against the mast, and held a flask to his lips.
Niall gratefully swallowed several gulps of the smoky, peat-scented whiskey. It hit the pit of his stomach like a burning rock, but almost immediately it began to spread its warmth through his cramped, wet body. “So the O’Malley sent me home?” he said thoughtfully.
“Aye, me lord, and you’ve slept as peaceful as a babe most of the way. We’re just about there.”
Niall craned his neck and looked to the coast, but he was not a sailor and the distant landscape looked all the same to him. “How long?” he demanded.
“A bit,” came the infuriatingly vague answer. “See that little point over there? Once we’re around it you’re home. That’s where we’ll land, and then I’ll walk you from there. I’ve a message to deliver to the MacWilliam.”
“Walk!” Niall exploded. “We’ll take the first available horses we can find. The MacWilliam’s stronghold is a good stretch of the legs from the sea, man. Do you ride?”
“About as good as you sail, laddie.”
“Then God help you, MacGuire! You’ll soon be as uncomfortable as I am now!”
When they finally reached shore the captain untied his passenger and helped him from the boat. Niall Burke rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chafed him. He was anxious to be home so he might speak with his father. He clambered up the hillside from the beach.
Without even looking to see if MacGuire was with him, Niall strode quickly away, following a faint path. After about a half-hour they came in view of a thatched roofed farmhouse. Next to the farmhouse bloomed a kitchen garden of herbs, carrots, and other root vegetables, cress, and a few bright flowers. The nearby fields, well kept, were already colored with barley and rye. And in a pasture just beyond the garden a dozen sleek horses grazed peacefully. There was no sign of life, though MacGuire could have sworn he had seen smoke coming from the chimney. “Ho! The house! ’Tis Niall Burke, and a friend.”
