“How did I come to be here?”

“You were brought to us from the fleet in which you traveled by
a Captain MacGuire. He explained you are a great lord.”

Niall forced back a small smile. “Is MacGuire still here, Senorita
Constanza?”

“Si, Senor Niall. Although the rest of your fleet sailed weeks
ago, he refused to leave you. He said his mistress would not forgive
him if he did. Would you like to see him?”

Niall nodded and the girl pulled the embroidered bellpull by his
bed. “Fetch the Irish captain at once, Ana,” she instructed the an-
swering servant, then moved to straighten Niall’s pillows. She wore
a rose fragrance, which caused a sharp pain to tear through Niall.
Constanza poured something from the frosty majollica pitcher into
a silver goblet.

“It is the juice of the oranges from our garden,” she said. “Drink
it. It will give you strength.” She gracefully handed the goblet to
him, then sat and drew a small embroidery frame from a hidden
pocket in her gown and began to stitch.

He drank, and was pleasantly surprised by the cool, tart sweetness
that slid down his parched throat. He studied the seated girl over the
goblet. She was, he decided, about fifteen, and very lovely. She was
quite petite, with a tiny waist and generous breasts. Her skin was
a pale golden shade, her hair a darker gold, and her eyes were the
color of purple pansies.

He let his eyes wander about the room. It was spacious and
pleasant with white walls and a red tile floor. On one wall was a
large dark wood armoire with intricately carved doors, and a long
walnut table stood before the French doors opposite his silk-draped
bed. There were two chairs by the table and an embroidered chaise
Iongue by the bed.

“Is the juice good, Senor Niall? May I pour you more?”

“Thank you,” he answered politely. Dammit to hell, where was
MacGuire? As if in answer to his silent summons, the door flew
open to admit the captain and Inis. With a joyous bark, the dog
leaped onto the bed and lay down beside Niall, his tail thumping
happily.

“So, lad, you’ve decided to remain among the living! Praise be
to God!”

“Skye? Where is she?” MacGuire looked most uncomfortable.

Sighing, he admitted, “We
don’t know where the O’Malley is, my lord. When the infidels shot
you down our first concern was to get you safely aboard. We knew
they couldn’t outrun us. But no sooner had we gotten you back to
the ship man a damned rain squall hit, and we lost the bastards in
a fog bank. We were nearer Mallorca, and so we brought you here.
The rest went on to Algiers, but alas, sir, no trace has been found
yet of the O’Malley.”

For a moment, all was silence. Then Niall said, fiercely and
simply, “I’ll find her! I’ll find her!” And he swung his legs over the
edge of the bed trying to rise. Inis whined.

Constanza Alcudia Cuidadela rose swiftly and sped to his side.
”No, No! Senor Niall. You will reopen your wound. It is still not
totally healed.” She slipped an arm about his back and gently forced
him back to the bed. “Fetch my papa immediately,” she hissed
angrily at the stricken captain. “Ana, help me get the senor back
into bed.” She fussed about him like a little mother hen, puffing
the pillows and smoothing the coverlet, and despite his anxiety he
was amused by this little creature whose concern for him was so
touching. “For shame, senor!” she scolded. “Ana and I have worked
so hard to make you well! Why do you allow your captain to agitate
you? If you cannot remain calm then I will not let him in to see you
again.”

He realized then that, although he was speaking Spanish with
her, he had spoken Gaelic with MacGuire. She hadn’tunderstood.
He felt suddenly weak, but wanted her to understand. “My betrothed
wife was kidnapped when I was injured,” he said. “MacGuire tells
me she has not yet been found.” It was several moments before she
spoke.

“You love her very much, Senor Niall?”

“Yes, Senorita Constanza,” he replied gently. “I love her very
much.”

“Then I shall make a novena to the Holy Virgin that she is found
soon,” the girl said gravely, and Niall thought again how sweet the
child was.

MacGuire quickly returned bringing an older gentleman with him.
The man was of medium height with a short, dark, tailored beard,
dark hair, and the coldest black eyes Niall had ever seen. He was
dressed richly but soberly, his short velvet cape edged in a wide
band of deep brown fur.

“Lord Burke,” the voice was as cold as the eyes. “I am the Conde

Francisco Cuidadela, and I am happy to see you conscious at last.
Captain MacGuire tells me, however, that you are agitated about
your betrothed. It is best that you hear the truth now.”

“Papa!” the girl’s voice was pleading. “Senor Niall is not yet
strong enough.”

“Silence, Constanza! How dare you presume to advise me? You
will come to me after vespers for punishment, and then you are to
spend the night in the chapel meditating on filial respect and obe-
dience.”

The girl hung her head, beaten. “Yes, Papa,” she whispered.

“Your betrothed wife is lost to you forever, Lord Burke, and the
sooner you are able to accept this the better off you will be. Should
she be found you could not possibly want her back. If she is alive,
she has by now been defiled by the infidel, and no decent Catholic
could live with that.”

“No!”

“Be reasonable, Lord Burke. Captain MacGuire tells me the lady
was a widow. Without the protection of virginity-for purity brings
a very high price among the infidels-she was probably raped by
at least the captain and officers of the ship that kidnapped her. If
she survived that and was beautiful, then rest assured that she was
sold into slavery. If she is still alive, she now graces some pasha’s
bed. It is not possible mat you could want a woman like that back,
even if she could be found. Under these circumstances, the holy
Church would not hold you to your betrothal. The lady is as lost to
you as if she were dead, and in all likelihood she is dead.”

“Get out!”

The Conde bowed from the waist. “Your grief is understandable,
Lord Burke. I shall leave you to it. You will soon see the wisdom
of my words. Come, Constanza!” And he swept from the room, his
daughter meekly behind him.

Niall Burke watched the door close behind the Conde and his
daughter. For a moment the silence hung heavy in the room, then
he said grimly, “All right MacGuire, talk! I’m no child to be whee-
dled, and if I’ve lived this long, you can bloody well be sure I’m
going to survive. Where is the O’Malley fleet, and what’s this non-
sense about Skye being lost forever, and how the hell long have I
been here anyway? Speak up, man, or I’ll tear the tongue from your
head!”

“You’ve been ill six weeks, my lord.”

“Jesu!” swore Niall.

“The fleet went directly to Algiers and we were able to obtain
an immediate audience with the Dey. He was most sympathetic and
sent to every slave merchant in the city, offering a king’s ransom for the O’Malley’s return, or at least information leading to her
return. It was like hollering down a rabbit hole, my lord-not even
an echo. The Dey came to the same conclusion the Conde has. She
never reached Algiers alive. What other answer is there?” Here his
voice broke, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

In truth, MacGuire was more distressed by something he dared
not tell the seriously ill Lord Burke. It seemed that there was one
other possibility about the O’Malley’s fate. The Dey had told him
that Skye might have reached Algiers alive and then been sold pri-
vately. Private sale of captives was strictly illegal because it cheated
several people, including the Dey himself, of their shares in the
purchase price. But private sales were managed, especially sales of
beautiful women. MacGuire reasoned that, if this had happened to
Skye, then the Dey would not be able to trace her.

“I don’t want to believe it, my lord, but if Mistress Skye is alive
then where is she?”

Niall Burke was stunned. Skye dead? No! Not Skye. Not his
vibrant Skye with her Kerry-blue eyes and her proud spirit. No! His
shoulders began to shake as the dry sobs took hold and racked him
mercilessly. Stumbling from the bed, he lurched across the room,
through the French doors and out onto the terrace. All around him
everything throbbed with life and they said his Skye was dead!
Clutching the cool marble balustrade, he howled his frustration and
anger at the unfairness of it all, howled and shouted until his voice
was so hoarse that he made no sounds at all.

He felt an arm about him, heard a soft voice making soothing
sounds he could not comprehend, allowed himself to be led back
inside where he barely reached the bed before he collapsed, uncon-
scious. Constanza Cuidadela shook her head as she drew the covers
over him. She felt his forehead.

“The fever is back, Captain MacGuire. You must sit with him
tonight for my father will not excuse me from my punishment. I will
tell you what to do.”

MacGuire nodded. “He’s not an easy man, your father.”

The girl did not reply. She went quietly about her business, caring
for the unconscious Niall. Smoothing the pillows first, she next
tucked the sheets about her patient and, finally, placed the frosted
pitcher on the bedside table.

“You can do very little, Captain, except to keep him as quiet and
as comfortable as possible. Ana will bring a basin of scented water
shortly, and she’ll come again during the night.” The vespers bells
began to toll, and Constanza said, “I must go. When the fever breaks,
change his nightshirt and the sheets. Ana will help.” And then she
was gone.

MacGuire tended Niall throughout the night. Strangely, Niall was
not restless, but lay ominously quiet as the burning fever consumed
his big body. Diligently the O’Malley captain cared for his charge,
bathing his forehead regularly with the cool, scented water, gently
forcing the sweet juice down his throat. During the night, the servant
woman, Ana, appeared regularly, bringing fresh water and juice for
the sick man. Once she brought a tray for MacGuire with a small
cold chicken, bread, fruit, and a carafe of sweet golden wine.