Niall Burke was the only son of Rory Burke, the MacWilliam of Middle Connaught. The MacWilliam had almost despaired of ever having an heir. All three of his wives had died in childbirth. The last of them, Maerid O’Brien, had given him his only child. From the moment of his birth Niall had been a strong and healthy lad, but the MacWilliam anxiously protected him.
His wet nurse ate at the MacWilliam’s table so that the lord of Mid-Connaught could oversee her diet. The baby’s nursery was kept well warmed in the winter and dry in the damp weather. No child had ever been so well taken care of. Even his sleep was overseen by a night nurse who sat first by his cradle, and later by his bedside, monitoring his every bream.
Despite it all, the boy flourished. Convinced that he had a lively heir, the MacWilliam finally eased his stranglehold. Intelligent, Niall was educated first by the priests and then sent to England for polish at Cambridge. In sports there was no one to touch him, and because he could not be bested in any field, he was called Ironman.
He could run faster than any man in Ireland, was unbeaten in wrestling from the time he was twelve, was both an excellent swords- man and an excellent falconer. He swam as though bom to water, rode like a centaur, and could follow a stag’s trail better than most hounds.
Niall proved a lusty animal between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. There wasn’t a serving wench in his father’s castle, or a girl in the surrounding countryside, who was safe from his attentions. Gradually, however, he calmed down and became more discerning.
Rory Burke adored his only son. And in the number of Niall’s bastards scattered about the countryside, the father saw a resurgence of his branch of the Burke family.
Rory now wanted his heir safely wed to a suitable young woman. Niall, however, had preferred to remain free.
But today had changed that. He had fallen instantly in love with Skye O’Malley. Never having been denied anything in his entire life, Niall fully expected to have her.
On Niall’s right sat Eibhlin O’Malley, and throughout dinner he devoted himself to the nun, much to Eibhlin’s secret amusement. Like her perceptive stepmother, she had seen the sudden, powerful attraction between Skye and Lord Burke. She pitied them both.
After dinner, O’Malley suggested that Skye show the O’Malley rose garden to Lord Burke. It wasn’t an unusual request, for Dubhdara was proud of his youngest daughter’s beauty, wit, and manners. He enjoyed impressing his guests with her. Anne could only hope to God that Lord Burke remembered Skye was to be wed in a few days.
Niall and Skye walked slowly from the hall, down the steps to the entry, and across the lowered drawbridge. Neither spoke. The mauve and golden twilight of the early Irish summer gave more than enough light. The air was cool, with an occasional slight breeze that carried to them the sensuous fragrance of the roses.
“My mother planned this garden for years,” murmured Skye.
“She loved roses. It was the one thing Da indulged her in. He had bushes brought in from all over the world. It’s a beautiful garden, isn’t it?”
“It is most charming,” replied Lord Burke gravely.
“Thank you.”
They walked a bit farther, in silence once more. As they came to the end of the roses, Skye turned to go back to the castle, but Lord Burke touched her shoulder and she stopped, her face upturned. His strong arms wrapped about her. A flame of fierce joy shot through her. She had known this would happen! She had wanted it to happen! His dark head dipped, and Skye O’Malley’s lips parted slightly like an opening rosebud as she received her very first kiss.
To her great surprise his lips were soft. She hadn’t expected that in a man. Then he was drawing her even closer, and the mouth on hers became demanding. Instinctively she answered that demand, freeing her arms and sliding them around his neck so that their bodies touched. For a brief moment she was floating. Then suddenly, abruptly, he released her mouth. His eyes were dark with passion. Looking down on her, he muttered huskily, “I knew it! I knew it would be this way with you!”
For the briefest moment reason returned, and she began to trem- ble. Concern filled his eyes and, catching her face between his thumb and forefinger, he whispered, “No, sweetheart! Don’t regret, or be afraid of me. God, not that! I could not bear it!”
“I… I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t understand what is happening to me.”
‘To us, sweetheart! It’s happening to me too, Skye! I barely know you, but I’m in love with you. I have never been in love before, Skye, but I know that I am in love with you.”
“No!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You must not say these things to me, my lord. In a few days’ time I am to wed with Dom O’Flaherty.”
“But you don’t love him, Skye!”
“My lord Burke! You know the way of these things. I have been betrothed since the cradle.”
“I will speak to your father at once, sweetheart. You must not marry young O’Flaherty!”
She looked at him wonderingly. “Are you not contracted, my lord?’
“She died before we could be wed. I did not even know her. Come, sweetheart, I would kiss you again.” His mouth swooped down, and Skye gave a small cry of joy as she yielded herself wholly to him.
It was utter madness, yet he loved her! This great and famous man loved her! And dear God! she loved him. She, the level-headed Skye, had fallen in love at first sight. She could feel his powerful body restraining itself in its desire, and she loved him the more, for if he tried to take her now she would give herself gladly, and he must surely know it.
Reluctantly he loosed her, his eyes warm and caressing. “Skye sweet Skye! How you intoxicate me, my love! Come, sweetheart Let us return before I lose my head.” He took her hand and led he slowly back to the castle.
Anne O’Malley watched them enter the hall, and silently she despaired. Skye’s cheeks were flushed, her lips softly bruised with recent kisses, her eyes dreamy with anticipation. Anne rose from her chair. She had to talk with her husband! Suddenly a pain tore through her belly, her waters broke, soaking her stockings, shoes, and her petticoats. “The baby!” she cried, doubling over clutching her swollen middle. Instantly she was surrounded by the women. Dubhdara O’Malley shouldered his way through the crowd and, picking up his wife, carried her out of the hall and upstairs to their bedchamber.
No one could believe that a woman who had borne three children so easily would have such a difficult labor with the fourth, but Anne O’Malley struggled for two days. Eibhlin, trained in midwifery, worked hard. But the child was large, and turned the wrong way.
Four times the young nun turned the baby to the correct position, and four times the infant reversed itself. Finally, in desperation, Eibhlin turned the baby a fifth time and, finding its small shoulder, gently grasped it and drew the child slowly down the birth canal. After that, Anne was able to finish the job. As Anne had predicted, it was a son. The boy weighed over ten pounds. He would be named Conn.
Dubhdara O’Malley came to his young wife’s bedside. They had bathed her and put her between clean, lavender-scented sheets. She had been given a nourishing drink of beef broth mixed with red wine and herbs, which would stop the bleeding and help her sleep. She was exhausted.
The room emptied. O’Malley bent and kissed his wife’s cheek. He looked somewhat older, for he had suffered untold agonies at the possibility of losing this loving woman.