English being anybody not openly waging war against England. And
too, they asked themselves, what possible real damage could one
high-spirited young man do?

He was indeed a fascinating man, thought Skye, and when their
eyes met there had been a moment of deep recognition.

Safe in her room, she watched as Molly, her maid, prepared her
bath. Molly thought the lady Skye bathed too much, but Molly had
to admit that her mistress smelted better than anyone she knew. She
took the riding clothes from the girl and, brushing them, put them
in the wardrobe. Skye divested herself of her undergarments, pinned
her long hair up, and climbed into the tub.

The warm water felt good. Slowly Skye rubbed the cake of scented
soap between her hands, then washed her face. Niall Burke. Niall
Burke. Her mind repeated his name like a litany. He was so tall.
He had made her feel petite, which she most certainly was not. He
had been dressed in the English fashion, with elegant parti-colored
hose and matching green pantaloons to the knee. She imagined the
rippling muscles beneath the green velvet doublet. She suddenly
wondered what it would feel like to be crushed against that broad
chest, and to her shame the little nipples on her small breasts hard-
ened, thrusting above the water.

What on earth was the matter with her? She had never had thoughts
like these before. She knew so little about what went on between
men and women, and Dom had certainly never inspired her. In fact,
for all his good looks, Dom repelled her.

Molly took the soap from Skye, finished washing her, and dried
her off with a linen towel. She had barely finished wrapping the girl
in a silken chamber robe when a knock sounded on the door. Molly
opened it, bobbed a flirtatious curtsey, and admitted Dom O’Flaherty.

He sauntered in with a lascivious look to his bride-to-be, whose
young body was well outlined by the robe. “I have to leave you for
a few days, Skye. Sir Murrough has sent word that I am needed.
I will be back in time for our wedding.”