“No!”

“Yes! Listen, you young idiot, take O’Malley’s girl as a mistress
if you wish, but you cannot wed her. She already has a husband.
And from what I hear of him, once he takes her to bed, you’ll
become just a pretty memory to her.”

“Go to Hell!” Niall Burke stormed out of his father’s study and
got gloriously drunk. The following day, his head feeling twice its
normal size, he was summoned back to his father.

“This,” said the MacWilliam, “was brought for you this morning.

I have taken the liberty of reading it, and can only say that O’Malley’s
daughter is wiser than you are. She obviously has more sense than
you do. Here.”

Niall snatched the parchment and read it with shock.

My lord Burke:

I have retired with my sister to her convent of St. Bride’s
on Innishturk Island, where I shall pray to Our Lady that the
shameful night we spent together bears no unhallowed fruit.
What we did was wrong, and I can only hope and pray that
my husband will forgive me. I beg that you forget me, and
for the good of your soul enter into Christian marriage with
a good woman at the earliest possible moment. May God go
with you always.

Skye, Lady O’Flaherty

He wanted desperately to deny what he read. And, after all, he
had never seen her writing. Was it a forgery? The hand, however,
was sweetly rounded and feminine, and he recognized the imprint
on the wax seal as the one she wore on a ring. Perhaps they had
forced her to write this message. But he knew how stubborn Skye
was. They could have burned her feet with hot irons and she’d not
have written it, had she not wished to do so. Damn her! Damn her!
Was that all he meant to her? A shameful night? Damn her for the
fickle bitch she was! Anguished beyond anything he had ever known,
Niall blinked back his tears and said hoarsely, “I’ll marry Darragh
O’Neill.” Then he dropped the letter and strode from the room
without a backward glance.

The MacWilliam waited a moment to be sure his son had gone,
then said, “You can come out now, Captain MacGuire. Go back and
tell the O’Malley that his strategy worked. My son will be wed in
three weeks’ time, and will give him no further trouble.”

MacGuire bowed, nodded wordlessly, and departed.

Alone, the MacWilliam felt a twinge of conscience. He loved his
son deeply, and hated denying him anything. Still, when given the
choice between an O’Neill and an O’Malley for his daughter-in-law,
there was only one choice the MacWilliam could make. Yes, Niall
would settle down quite nicely with Darragh O’Neill. By this time
next year he would have a grandson.

Chapter 4

An especially nice tiling came of Skye’s stay at St. Bride’s.
Walking on the beach one day, she came across an injured
young wolfhound, not quite full grown. The poor creature
was half starved, its ribs plainly visible. Its fur was so filthy
and matted with salt that it was difficult to tell the dog’s true color.
Its leg had been caught in a rock crevice. Hearing the weak bark,
Skye ran to the dog, who looked up at her hopefully and thumped
his long tail in a friendly fashion.

“Ah, poor beastie,” murmured Skye sympathetically, and set
about freeing the dog. Carefully she removed the small rocks about
the animal’s leg. And then, as gently as she could, she drew the leg
from its prison. The dog winced, but did not growl. Skye patted
him. “There, love, come along now and let’s find some food for
you.” The dog fought his way to his feet and limped, stumbling a
little, after her.

The nuns were as sympathetic as Skye had been, and allowed the
dog into the convent. His origin and owner remained a mystery. The
island peasants would not dare claim the royal canine. Peasants kept
only working dogs, such as terriers, mastiffs, and mongrels. The
Irish wolfhound, that great killer of wolves and other predators,
belonged to the ruling class, as did Irish setters.

Skye named the dog Inis, after the favorite hound of Partholan,
an early settler in Ireland. Inis attached himself to her with a singular
devotion. He walked out with her in the mornings, sailed with her
in the convent’s little boat, and slept with her at night, spreading
his great lanky frame across the foot of her bed. Within a few weeks
he had regained his normal adult weight, one hundred sixty pounds,
and stood thirty-eight inches high. Bathed, his fur became a shining
silvery gray that reminded Skye of Niall’s eyes. Inis’s ears and the
feathers on his legs were black. The hound was Skye’s slave, his
soulful eyes lighting up with pleasure each time he looked at her.

Skye needed the dog’s love, for Niall Burke appeared to have
forgotten her entirely. And then there came the day when her show
of blood arrived right on schedule. She wept into Inis’s soft neck,
her heartbreak complete.

The Reverend Mother Ethna sent a message to the young O’Flaherty informing him that his wife was not pregnant and a week
later Dom arrived to claim his wife. The Reverend Mother personally
showed him into Skye’s apartment. “I would have come sooner,”
he said, smiling smugly, “but I was obliged to attend Niall Burke’s
wedding to Darragh O’Neill.”

Skye fainted. When she came to she was lying on the settle. She
heard Dom speaking solicitously to the nun. “I did not realize the
news of Lord Burke’s marriage would so unsettle my lady.”

“Did you not, my lord?” said Ethna O’Neill coolly.

O’Flaherty smiled and, ignoring the nun’s sarcasm, continued.
”I realize it is unusual for a gentleman to spend the night in your
convent, but I really do not think my wife should be moved until
the shock wears off.”

The Reverend Mother Ethna had decided she did not like Dom
O’Flaherty, but she did agree with him that Skye should not be
moved right now. She was forced to assure him that, though it was
unusual, it was not forbidden him to spend the night under St. Bride’s
roof. He was welcome. Dom thanked her politely, then asked if she
would take his wife’s hound, see that it was fed, and have it put in
the stables with his men and horses. Inis, who had taken an instant
dislike to Dom, was removed under protest.

They were alone. Dom O’Flaherty walked to the settle and said
coldly, “I know you’ve recovered your swoon, Skye. Now get up
and greet your lord and master properly.”

Slowly, she rose and placed a quick kiss on his mouth. He chuck-
led and with lightning swiftness pulled her close. She tensed and he
laughed. “Ah, yes. You don’t like me, do you, wife? How unfor-
tunate for you for you’ll soon be spreading yourself wide for my
pleasure, and my pleasure alone. And when I’m deep inside you I’ll
wipe all thought of Niall Burke from your mind!” His mouth ground
down on hers, and she beat her clenched fists against his chest. Then
suddenly she was rescued by a knock on the door. Dom smothered
a curse and called out sharply, “Come in!”

Two nuns, each laden down with a tray of steaming food, hurried
in, their eyes lowered. Placing their trays on the great refectory
table, they hurried out as quickly.

Skye pulled from her husband’s grasp. “How thoughtful!” she
exclaimed brightly. “We have been sent supper.”

“I’ve no appetite for food yet,” he said in a surly tone.

She raised the cover of a dish. “Look! Boiled shrimp! And here’s
a lovely capon, and a small joint of mutton! If we don’t eat it now,
it will get cold.”

“Let it!” He came swiftly up behind her and loosened her laces,
sliding his hands around to cup her breasts. “This is what I’m hungry for, Skye,” be said, squeezing her flesh. “The food will wait. Your
laces are loosened. Go into the bedroom, finish undressing, and wait
for me in the bed.”

She closed her eyes to squeeze back tears. “Oh, Dom!” she
pleaded. “Not here! I’ll do whatever you want me to, but not here
in this holy house. Not here!”

“I hadn’t considered it that way,” he said thoughtfully, “but the
idea of fucking you in a convent appeals to me. Shall we pretend
you’re a young nun about to be ravaged by a Viking chief?” She
blanched at his sacrilege, and he snarled, “Quickly, Skye! I’m hot
for you-having been denied my marital rights for over a month!”
He punctuated his words with a light slap to her cheek.

She wanted to fight him, but she had been so badly broken by
the news of Niall’s marriage that she couldn’t find the spirit. She
fled into the bedroom and, with shaking fingers, pulled her clothes
off and climbed into the big bed. A moment later, Dom entered the
room, drinking from a goblet of wine. Placing the goblet on the
nightstand, he undressed swiftly, letting his clothes fall where they
dropped. When he turned to enter the bed she bit back a cry of
terror. Niall had been a big man, but Skye’s husband was unnaturally
large, enormous. Seeing her fear, he chuckled. “The wenches in
Paris call me Le Taureau! Do you know what that means?”

Terrified, she nodded. “The bull.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Aye, the bull!” he said proudly. “And I am, wife! Now spread
yourself wide. I’ve got something for you!” He tore back the covers
she clutched to her breasts. The sight of her naked body inflamed
his lust, and he flung himself on her.

Skye managed to gasp, “But Dom! I am not ready!”

He raised himself above her, and gazed down at her. “You’re not
ready?” His look was incredulous. Had he not been so astounded
he might have hit her. “You do not have to be ready, Skye. I am!”

And she felt herself being ripped asunder by his monster sex.
Before she could cry out, his hand clapped over her mouth. He
pushed himself into her, muttering all the while, “You’re tight as
a drum, woman! Burke’s cock must be no bigger than a worm, to
have left you so tight!” He grunted his pleasure while, beneath him,
her eyes reflected pain and fright. She tried to lie still, hoping to
ease the pain, but she couldn’t. She writhed in an effort to escape
him, and mistaking her actions for growing passion, he laughed.
”I knew it! Beneath all the ladylike manners you’ve the makings of
a good whore! I’m a lucky man!” And he drove deeper and harder
into her. “Don’t fear, lovey,” he panted, “I’ll teach you many a
good trick to please us both!” Then, with a growl of pleasure, he
collapsed.