Dubhdara O’Malley sat down on the edge of his favorite child’s
bed. “Now, poppet, we’ve been over this before. Of course you’re
going to marry Dom. He’s a fine young man, and it’s a good match
for you. These bridal nerves are natural, but you must not give way.”

Why didn’t he understand? “No, please, Da! No! I hate Dom! I
cannot… I will not marry him!” There was an hysterical edge to
her voice.

“Skye!” His voice had become stern. “Enough, now! I have post-
poned this wedding for two years in hopes you would outgrow your
willfulness, but no more, poppet! You’ve no reason to cry off, no
religious calling, only silly maiden fears that will have vanished by
this time tomorrow.” He stood up. “Make yourself beautiful for
Dom, poppet.” And he left her.

Skye began to weep, a combination of frustration, anger, and
fear. Great, gulping sobs of anguish poured hot and salty from her
eyes until they were almost swollen shut. Molly, finding her young
mistress in this shocking state, turned about and sought the lady
Eibhlin. The young nun came instantly and, taking her younger sister
into her loving arms, tried to soothe her. When the sobs had finally
abated, Eibhlin laid her sister back on her pillows and mixed some
herbs in a goblet of wine that she made Skye drink. The medication
would soothe her. Eibhlin had seen cases of bridal nerves before.

Next the nun took soft pads of linen soaked in rose water, and
lay them on Skye’s closed eyes.

“It will take the swelling down,” she told Molly. “We’ll let her
rest for half an hour, then dress her for the wedding.”

Very soon thereafter, Skye O’Malley stood beside Dom O’Flaherty
in the castle’s candlelit chapel and was wed. All the guests agreed
that there had never been a more beautiful bride. Her gown was of
creamy white satin with a deep, square neck edged in a wide ruffle
of silver lace. The low neckline gave the groom a fine view of her
breasts, and Dom O’Flaherty licked his lips in anticipation at the
sight of small, pink nipples.

As the elderly priest intoned the ancient Latin words of the cer-
emony over them, the bridegroom thought lasciviously of how he
would pillow his head tonight on those soft breasts. When she raised her hand to receive the marriage ring, Dom noted the richness of
her gown for the first time. The sleeves were slashed, the inserts
filled with silver lace. This lace also edged the wrists. Her beautiful
Mack hair was unbound, in recognition of her innocence, and topped
by a simple wreath of sweetly scented white flowers.

She was whiter than her gown, and had Dom bothered to look
closer, he would have seen the helpless, trapped look in her eyes.
The drug given her by her sister forced her to comply with the farce.
Her responses were so low that they could barely be heard, and she
moved like a puppet. Her family assumed it was bridal nerves.

They were pronounced man and wife. They turned to face their
families and, at that moment, the chapel doors were flung open,
revealing Niall Burke, his face anguished, his eyes stark with a pain
that only she could understand. Skye simply wanted to die.

“Kiss the bride! Kiss the bride!” came the ribald shouts.

Dom O’Flaherty turned Skye so that she faced him. “Now,” he
said triumphantly, “you belong to me!” His mouth found hers. He
forced his tongue between her soft lips and into her mouth. Around
them came the crude cries of encouragement. The tongue was soft,
and demanding. Seeking to escape this horror, Skye fainted.

“Ho!” shouted Dubhdara O’Malley, well pleased. “Here’s fine
proof of my lass’s innocence! Her first kiss and she swoons! Loosen
her laces, lad. You’re no stranger to women’s clothes, or so I’m
told.”

While the laughter that greeted O’Malley’s sally echoed around
the chapel, Dom O’Flaherty picked up his bride and carried her from
the room. Helplessly Niall Burke watched as the unconscious Skye
was borne back to her room. He wanted to hit the smug young man
who cradled Skye in his arms with such obvious pride of ownership.

For the first time in his life, the heir to one of the most powerful
families in Ireland had been thwarted. For the last three days Niall
had tried unsuccessfully to see the O’Malley, but Dubhdara had been
unavailable to his guests because of his young wife’s lying in. Under
the circumstances, Niall hadn’t expected them to marry Skye off so
quickly. He had thought he had time to speak with the O’Malley.
Though the situation would have been embarrassing, there would
have been no real disgrace in O’Malley exchanging the heir to Ballyhennessey for the heir to the MacWilliam of Mayo.

Niall pushed, along with the family, into the bedchamber. Dom
laid his burden upon the bed. With nimble fingers the bridegroom
loosened the girl’s laces. Momentarily forgetful of his audience,
Dom caressed the soft, creamy swell of Skye’s breast. The hunger
in his pale-blue eyes was unmistakable, and Niall felt a murderous
rage well up in him.

“Now, now, my son, we’ll have none of that until tonight,”
chuckled O’Malley. “Your bride’s got to be able to stand for all the
toasts that’ll be drunk at the feast, and she’ll be in no condition if
you have her now.”

O’Flaherty flushed amid the leers and snickers. Then Eibhlin
pushed through the crowd to Skye’s side and, kneeling, began to
rub the girl’s wrists. “Molly-the wine, please. And a burnt feather.
Da, it would help if all these people left. You too, brother Dom.
If Skye is to be up to enjoy her own wedding feast, she must rest
now.”

The room slowly emptied, and Eibhlin and Molly raised Skye up.
First the feather was burnt and waved beneath her nose, then the
drugged wine was forced between her lips. Skye coughed, choked,
and opened her eyes. “You fainted,” said the nun drily.

“He… he put his tongue in my mouth, Eibhlin,” said Skye,
visibly shocked. “He… he said that I belong to him.”

“You do.”

‘No! Never to Dom O’Flaherty! Never to any man!”

Eibhlin turned. “You may leave us,” she told the reluctant Molly.
Then Eibhlin said quietly, “It’s Niall Burke, isn’t it, Skye? Dear
Lord, he didn’t take your virginity?”

Miserably, Skye shook her head. “He wanted to wed with me,
Eibhlin. He was to speak with Da.”

“But he didn’t, or if he did Da said no. You’re married to Dom
O’Flaherty, Skye. You must face it. It is your duty to be a good
wife to him. He loves you and he is your lord in the eyes of the
Church.”

“I cannot, Eibhlin! I simply cannot! I hate Dom, and I can’t bear
his touch.”

“Some women are like that, Skye. Perhaps you are one.”

“No! When Niall Burke kissed me it was perfect! I wanted him!
The way a woman wants a man… in marriage. But I don’t feel mat
way about Dom.”

“Go to sleep, little one,” said the nun soothingly. “In a few hours’
time you must hostess your wedding feast.”

Sighing, Skye lay back. The herbs were doing their work, and
suddenly she fell asleep, her face still wet with tears. Eibhlin shook
her head. What on earth possessed Da to insist on this marriage,
knowing Skye was so against it? He had always indulged his young-
est daughter, adoring her lavish beauty, delighting in her love of the
sea. He had never before forced her into something.

Eibhlin speculated. Perhaps their father wanted the last of Peigi
O’Malley’s daughters out of his house so that he could be free to
enjoy his second wife, and his five sons. At any rate, though she would never admit it to Skye, the nun shared her sister’s dislike of
O’Flaherty. He was stubborn, far too vain, and for all his fine
education, woefully ignorant. Eibhlin sighed. There was simply no
help for it. It was a man’s world, and a decent woman was either
a wife or a nun. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, it would be different
someday. Eibhlin went back to the chapel to pray for her sister.
There was nothing else she could do.

When Skye awoke several hours later, the terrible reality of her
situation swept over her once more. Her knowledge of men was
limited, but she instinctively understood that her husband was the
sort of man who preyed on the weak and helpless. Dom liked win-
ning. She must not let him know how upset she was.

Slowly she rose from the bed, feeling just slightly dizzy, and
bathed her face in rose water. Still unlaced, she breathed deeply,
clearing her head. She whirled at the sound of the door behind her,
furious that her privacy was to be so quickly disturbed. “How dare
you enter my chamber!”

He smiled lazily. “You forget, Skye pet, that I have the right to
enter your chamber whenever I choose to do so. I am your husband.”

She shivered. “I forget nothing, Dom,” she bravely answered.
He moved toward her, and her courage cracked. “Don’t come near
me!” She backed away from him, but he kept on until she felt the
edge of the bed against the backs of her legs. The look in his eyes
terrified her, and she had to force herself to stand straight, to look
directly at him. She could hear the sound of her own heart drumming
in her ears.

“Your maiden shyness pleases me-to a point, Skye.” His hand
caressed her cheek, slid down her neck to her shoulder, then gripped
the soft flesh. “I am your husband and I will brook no disobedience
from you. Your father has spoiled you badly, but I will not. I will
school you as I do the bitches in my kennel, and you will do your
duty by me. When you err, I shall punish you. Do you understand
me, Skye?”

“Yes, Dom.” Her eyes were lowered in apparent compliance, but
really to hide her smoldering hatred.

“Good,” he said, his voice softening a little. “Now come here to
me, pet.” He took her chin between his fingers and forced her head
up. His wet mouth ground on hers, and his tongue forced itself
between her clenched teeth. She shivered with revulsion. The wet
lips were on her throat. He pushed her onto the bed and, atop her,
pulled down her gown, exposing the small, perfect breasts. His
mouth opened to capture a little pink nipple, and she screamed.