Epilogue

The old woman was dying. They had not said it to her, of course, but why else had all her children gathered here together at Queen's Malvern with their spouses, offspring, and grandchildren? Even her eldest child, her son, Ewan, now in his sixty-seventh year, had made the trip from Ireland to bid her a proper farewell. God's boots! Was it that long ago she had given birth to Ewan in that draughty tower house that the O'Flahertys called home? Her sister, Eibhlin, had been there to help her, and again ten months later when Murrough had been born.

So many years gone by. So many wonderful adventures. She outlived them all. Her husbands. Her lovers. Bess Tudor. What a great friend to her the queen had been. And what a bitter enemy. She had, she decided, absolutely no regrets at all. She had lived her life to the fullest; raised her children well; founded a commercial enterprise that had made them all wealthy. And she had loved. From her innocent first love for Niall Burke, Deirdre and Padraic's father, to her last love, Adam de Marisco. Aye! She had loved well, and been well loved by them all.

The curtains about her bed had been drawn back at her request so she might gaze out the open windows. Willow, of course, had wanted the curtains drawn and the windows shut, but Skye would not have it; and Robin, her dearest Robin, had overruled his eldest sister, which gave their other siblings the courage to side with him. Willow was growing sallow as she aged. I have not told her the truth about her father, the old woman thought, but I think I shall spare her the knowledge that the "respectable Spanish merchant" in North Africa whom she believes sired her was, in truth, a renegade who took the name Khalid el Bey, and was known as the Great Whoremaster of Algiers. A bubble of laughter choked the old woman for a brief moment. Such a knowledge would destroy poor proper Willow, and she did not want that on her conscience as she went to meet her Maker. There is no harm in my daughter's ignorance, and after all, I have kept this secret for sixty-three years. Even my dearest Daisy did not know.

Daisy Kelly, her faithful tiring woman and dearest confidante and friend. She had died suddenly just over a year ago, and nothing had been the same ever since. Just gone to bed one evening and never awakened in the morning. Young Nora had been a great comfort to the old woman, but it was not the same. Nora had not been young with her mistress, nor shared her many adventures or her secrets. No. It hadn't been the same, nor would it ever be again. Her time was long past. Her eyes strayed to the windows beyond. It was almost sunset now. The sky was slowly becoming streaked with gold, lavender, pink, scarlet, and orange. It was, she thought, the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen. Soon the midsummer fires would begin leaping from the hillsides. It was a most magical night.

"Grandmama?" Jasmine placed a kiss on her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," she answered the young woman . Jasmine. Darling Jasmine, her husband called her. Her favorite grandchild, although she had certainly never had a favorite until Jasmine had come into her life. She felt no shame at all in loving Jasmine best of all of them. She had arrived a month ago for her English summer, with her beloved Jemmie, and her eight children. India, who at fifteen, was already a great beauty; Henry, now fourteen, and his father's image; Fortune, at thirteen outgrowing her coltishness, and promising to rival India shortly; Charlie, the not-so-royal Stuart, now eleven, and, like his elder brother, every inch his father's son. And the four little Leslies; Patrick, Adam, Duncan, and the old woman's youngest descendant, Janet Skye, who had been born just over six months ago on her own eighty-second birthday.

She turned toward the windows again, and it was then that she saw them as they came walking toward her out of the sunset. Niall Burke as she had first known him, his smoothly shaven face tanned by the outdoors, his short-cropped hair as midnight dark as her own. Her father, and Eibhlin, who was smiling at her. And Khalid el Bey, with his long oval face, with its well-barbered black beard and those melting amber eyes fringed in the outrageously thick lashes she had always envied. And here was Geoffrey Southwood, lean, blond, and arrogantly handsome, his lime green eyes laughing at her surprise. And her darling Daisy! Not old and wizened as she had been but a year ago, but apple-cheeked, and gap-toothed, and young again. The old woman strained to see them all, yet something was missing.

"Come, little girl, it is time for us to go now." Her eyes widened, and he was there before her, holding out his hand for her to take.

" Adam!" she said, reaching for his hand, and Jasmine gazed anxiously at her.

Skye rose from her sickbed, gazing long and lovingly at each of them; her smile was as bright as the morning. Her heart was filled to overflowing with the deep, pure happiness she felt. She would miss her children and grandchildren, of course, but one day they would meet again. For now another door was opening. Another wonderful adventure was beckoning to her. Never fearful of a new venture, she eagerly accepted their invitation. "Gentlemen, lead on!" she cried; and then, linking her arms with those of Adam de Marisco and Geoffrey Southwood, she hurried off toward the sunset and down the road to forever, without so much as a regret or a backward glance.

"Jemmie!" Jasmine's hand went to her heart as she felt the pain of the separation. She looked up at her husband, stricken.

"Aye, she is gone, darling Jasmine," he said gently, putting his arms about her. "She is gone from us for now. Do not weep, sweeting. She would not want it. She would want you to be brave as she was brave."

"They say I am like her," Jasmine said brokenly, "and I wish it were so, but it is not. There will never be a woman like Skye O'Malley ever again, Jemmie. Never again!"

James Leslie, the duke of Glenkirk, leaned over, and gently closed the old woman's now sightless Kerry blue eyes, but upon her face he saw there was a tiny smile. She had been glad to go, he thought. No. There would never ever be a woman like Skye O'Malley. Godspeed, Skye, he said silently. Godspeed until we meet again!