Cameron squeezed his eyes shut as she plopped down on the stool.
“I talk to my potatoes and they grow. I whisper to my horses and they learn,” she said, just as if he were listening. “I run with my dogs and they thrive. But for all the talkin’ I’ve done to ye, for all the nursing and fussing over ye in the past three days ... ye still do not respond. But your wound is healin’, so ’tis not me impeding progress.”
“You shot me.”
“Aye!” She reeled back, slopping a bit of gruel. “Ye are awake.”
“You impeded my progress when you shot me.” Cameron ground the words between his teeth in a rasp.
“’Twas a horrid mistake,” she allowed with a wag of her head. “But ye are better now.”
Her smile was as blinding as lightning. And to Cameron’s astonishment, Meggie’s smile warmed him more than a fiery winter’s hearth, warmed him in untouched places.
“You claim I’m better” he muttered.
“Aye. ‘Tis true.”
“I’ve been lying here for three days?”
“Aye. I did not expect you to be ... sleeping for quite so long.”
Sleeping? Was that what she chose to call his lost days in an insensible state?
Cameron leveled a cold gaze at the Irish maiden. Seemingly fearless, she met his disdainful regard without flinching. Her large, startling blue eyes fixed on him in brilliant challenge.
“Nor did I,” he grumbled, looking away from her remarkable eyes, eyes that might mesmerize a man. Eyes capable of impairing a man’s judgment.
A curling mass of shining red-gold hair fell to her shoulders, held back from her fair, heart-shaped face by a kercher. A slow, simmering anger curled through Cameron. The neat, yellow triangle of cloth was one of the adornments forbidden by law. Irish clothing had been outlawed years ago by King Henry. An edict much ignored by the inhabitants of the rainy isle. Even now as Queen Elizabeth grew old and querulous, Irish garb continued to be worn in the countryside.
The wild woman’s defiance did not stop atop her head. She wore Irish dress as well. Her lightly laced Shinrone gown over a white linen chemise hinted of womanly curves beneath its folds. The outlawed saffron color complemented the sweeping, gleaming gold of Meggie’s curls. High, chiseled cheekbones lent her features an elegance befitting royalty. She was beautiful. She was extraordinary.
She was the enemy.
He swallowed air, sputtered and fell into a fit of coughing.
“I expect at the rise of the next full moon ye will be ready to continue on your way,” she told him.
“And how long before the next full moon?”
“Twenty days or more.”
“I cannot linger for twenty days!” he exclaimed in alarm.
“Perhaps less,” she added brightly, before offering another of her warming smiles. “To have a bard amongst us will be a pleasure, indeed.”
If she but knew the truth. Cameron had no gift for poetry. He could describe the woman sitting beside him only in the simplest of terms. Her lips, for instance.
Meggie’s lips were full, her bottom lip a bit more so. They were softly bowed and the color of juicy spring strawberries. The Irish vixen’s wondrous lips drew a man’s eye, invited his taste. Stifling an inward groan, Cameron fell back. Such thoughts were traitorous—and treacherous. He had been rendered half-witted by his weakened condition. Muzzy.
He could only hope not to give himself away. “I cannot be promisin’ you pleasure,” he said. “I am a wounded bard.”
“But ye shall heal,” she replied, quite spritely.
The Irish lass’s unflagging cheerfulness in the light of his pain served to irritate Cameron. “Why do you shoot unarmed men?”
“I explained to ye. I aimed at a duck. The wolves were howling. I cannot be certain, even now, if ye are a man or a wolf.”
He opened one eye. “You think me a werewolf?”
“Legends say ’tis possible.” Her clear blue gaze flitted over Cameron as if she might be seeking a sprouting on his knuckles or from his ears. Given a choice, he preferred Meggie to believe he might be a werewolf. In a way, he found it amusing.
Except for the patter of steadily falling rain, a silence fell upon them. When Meggie lowered her eyes to fix on the gruel she stirred, Cameron took the opportunity to study the young woman once again.
A light smattering of freckles fell across the bridge of her narrow patrician nose, marring an otherwise faultless, milky complexion. The faint blush of a soft sunset brushed her cheeks.
She raised her eyes to Cameron’s. A fringe of long, dark lashes welcomed him into riveting pools of heavenly blue that quite literally took his breath away.
Meggie Fitzgerald might believe herself in danger from him. But Cameron knew, without doubt, that it was the Irish lass who posed untold danger to him.
He made a great business of clearing his throat in order to restore the normal rhythm of his breathing. “To set matters aright, Mistress Fitzgerald, I am a man.”
She smiled. A knowing smile, as if she might have studied him inch by inch while he lay naked and vulnerable. A stirring of fresh indignation fired in the pit of Cameron’s stomach.
“I am certainly hoping ye are,” she said. “But since I was a wee lass, my grandfather has told me stories of the wee people, the werewolves, the banshees, and such. They are as real to me as you.”
“Do you believe all that you are told?”
“Nay.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “But there are things beyond our understanding. Things we must accept on faith.”
Cameron believed only what he could see and touch.
“Now, if you will take some gruel, ’twill speed your recovery.”
Dipping into the bowl with a spoon, the wild woman named Meggie leaned toward him. Small, girlish breasts rose above the gathered neckline of her chemise. Breasts he could easily cup in the palm of each hand.
The devil take him! He’d been without the company of a good English woman for nine months now. His assignment in this so-named heathen land was not without its drawbacks, the lack of female companionship being one. He turned his gaze to the bowl.
“Do you have nothing but gruel?”
“A mutton stew.”
“That’s what I wish. Mutton stew.”
“But ye’ve had nothing on your belly for three days but dribblings of gruel.”
“Then, ’tis time you fed me stew.”
With a roll of her eyes, she huffed a sigh, a frustrated sigh like one that might be provoked by a stubborn child. “Aye. I’ll fetch ye stew.”
“And my clothes, if you please.”
Rising, she placed the bowl of gruel upon the stool. “I’ll bring your clothes in the morning. No need for them now.”
The Irish slept without clothes. Under the proper circumstances it was a custom Cameron felt had much to commend. If a man shared his bed with a beauteous, buxom woman, clothes were naught but a hindrance.
He watched Meggie leave. She appeared to walk to a silent melody only she could hear. Her hips swayed gently beneath her wool gown. Her hairy ghost dogs followed close at her heels.
She paused at the passage. “Rest well.”
“Until you return.”
Determined to wait for her return with mutton stew, Cameron nonetheless soon felt what little strength he possessed ebbing. His eyelids felt heavy, as if gold bars rested on his lids.
No, he was Colm now. He must think of himself as Colm at all times or risk exposure and certain death. He gathered information as he traveled Ireland claiming to be a bard by the name of Colm ... a name chosen because it was close enough to his real name, Cameron. As a bard he could roam the country without question and receive a warm welcome wherever he went.
He reached for the bowl of now cold gruel. The porridge was preferable to having nothing. He must regain his strength quickly and leave this place before the wild Irish woman discovered that he was a spy. Cameron felt certain that a woman who bel
ieved in werewolves and shot at shadows would not hesitate to hang an English spy.
Chapter Two
On the fourth day following the poet’s ... accident, Meggie carried black pudding and barm brack to his chamber. It was all she could do to keep the arrogant man confined to his bed. She had quickly learned the roving poet had all the sense of a goat, stubbornly refusing to allow his wound to heal in its own time.
Colm pushed himself needlessly, propped up in his bed with the support of feather cushions on the second day. Determined to return to full strength before the next full moon, he argued that he could not take advantage of her hospitality any longer than necessary. Her repeated protests met deaf ears.
On this morning the bard was not alone. Meggie’s grandfather had taken a liking to Colm. Sometimes Gerald sat quietly in the corner watching their guest; sometimes he regaled the poet with stories of his own.
“I fought in the uprising at Cork, I did, in the year fifteen eighty. Were ye there?” the elder Fitzgerald asked.
Colm’s frown descended to the depths of what might be considered a scowl. He regarded the old man with a leery eye and replied in a word. “No.”
“Aye, we came near to runnin’ off the English, we did.”
Meggie’s grandfather was having a lucid moment as he recited the details of the uprising to the taciturn stranger. Gerald’s lucid moments were rare of late, but the old man had not lost his ability with a knife. As he talked, he carved a blackthorn stick with only fleeting glances at his handiwork. His thick fingers rubbed and stroked the grain, following the path of his knife.
“Grandfather, ’tis you who must be runnin’ off now before ye drain what’s left of the bard’s strength.”
“Aye?” He raised his head in seeming surprise. The old man’s once bright blue eyes had become milky. For months now he had viewed the world from behind a gossamer curtain. As much as she prided herself on her nursing skills, Meggie had no cure for it.
Gerald’s thick silver hair shot out in all directions, as if he had been struck by lightning. But when Meggie bent to straighten the coarse strands, he jerked back from her touch.
“Deirdre’s waitin’ to take porridge with ye down in the hall,” she told him.
At the mention of food, her grandfather raised his knife and stood. It was a slow process, and once up on his feet, Gerald did not stand straight but hunched at a forward angle. He leaned like an ancient yew.
“I’ll see ye again when we advance on the bridge,” he said to Colm as he slipped his carving tool into a low-slung rawhide girdle. “We’ll take the English by surprise, we will. An’ we’ll turn ’em back ’fore darkness falls. They don’t know what they’re dealin’ with when they war against the Fitzgeralds.”
Pleased with his plan, Gerald made his way from the chamber chuckling to himself.
Meggie walked her grandfather to the door to make certain he did not forget that he was leaving. “Deirdre’s waitin’ on ye,” she reminded him.
“Aye. Aye.” After giving the poet one last look, he shuffled out of sight.
“Ah, what a glorious day we have,” Meggie declared cheerfully as she turned back to Colm. “The sun is shinin’, and the earth is rich.”
The poet glowered at her. She paid no mind. Oh, he looked so fine in his clean white lawn tunic that her heart near forgot to beat. The white of his garment contrasted against his sun-darkened skin in a most heart agitating manner.
Though she knew Colm must be in pain, he sat on the edge of his bed. Up until now, she had seen to it that he lay flat upon his bed with his left leg elevated. Fearing his movement might have broken the stitches she’d sewn so carefully, her gaze flitted to his bandage. But there were no telltale stains.
“Your grandfather said there was an English regiment camped at a bridge nearby. Is that true?”
“No. More often than not, my grandfather’s mind dwells in a time long since past.”
“I suspected as much.” The poet gave a sharp nod of his head and unleashed a deep sigh.
She wondered at his sigh. Was he unhappy to tarry at Dochas? Did he yet harbor ill will toward her for the... misfortunate incident?
From the first, Meggie had taken pleasure in the bard’s presence, in his face and form. Like a master limner, she had painted a portrait of him to fix upon her mind. At the slightest notion, she could close her eyes and see the broad expanse of his chest, the crisp mat of curls. She could dwell for hours upon the cynical curve of his lips and a certain, undefinable wariness reflected in his sooty, brown-black eyes.
“I have brought you a fine meal. You’ll be havin’ your strength back in no time.”
He stared into the bowl. “And what would this be?”
“Blood pudding, of course.”
“’Tis not one of my favorites.”
“Ye must eat it just the same, before the lard congeals.”
He swallowed hard. She did not miss the movement.
“What sort of Irishman are ye?” she chided.
He raised his gaze to hers. “The sort who never eats pigs’ blood.”
Meggie could not wrest away from his gaze, captured in the deep brown depths of his eyes and the wee, faint gold light that glimmered there. Moments passed before she remembered to breathe.
Saints above!
She pushed the bowl at him. “Ye need the blood to strengthen your own.”
He refused to take it. His lips pressed firmly together. She understood his unspoken message. She would have to pry his lips apart in order for him to partake of the blood pudding. A dozen means of parting the bard’s lips flashed before her, causing Meggie to grow exceedingly warm.
She abruptly wheeled on her heel. In a swirl of skirts, she sought to distance herself from the source of her discomfort. Meggie made for the window and hopefully a cooling breeze.
“Aye, bard, ye know the way of it. There’s no need for you to recover in haste. No need for you to eat the pudding which will help make you well.”
She threw the blood pudding out of the window, bowl and all.
The poet’s eyes grew round; his jaw dropped open.
Meggie smiled sweetly. “Dochas has no bard, and sore we need one. I feel honored ye will stay with us—”
His glower returned. “I am expected in Dublin.”
“Does a fair lassie await ye in Dublin?”
“Nay. No lassie awaits me anywhere.”
Meggie’s heart responded with a leap. She ambled back toward him. “Ye are alone in the world, then?” she asked, attempting to restrain the joy she felt from injecting itself into her tone.
“As you are? Who protects you and your castle?”
“Dochas is under grandfather’s protection.”
“Your grandfather offers little protection,” the bard hooted. “He lives in the past.”
“When my father left, he could not know the old man would lose his mind.”
“You mean there is no one to protect you?”
Meggie sank to the bedside stool, close enough to Colm to breathe in the virile male scent of him. ’Twas finer than any of the English perfumes her father had brought to her.
“Oh, aye! I am well protected if ye consider the servants and retainers. But we have never been threatened. As far as the English are concerned, Dochas is too distant to bother.”
“But would you not feel safer in Ulster?”
“If I remain at Dochas, I have the opportunity to see my father. He has fought alongside Hugh O’Neill for what seems like forever. But Da and Hugh do travel to Dublin from time to time.” She paused to give the bard a wry smile. “For peace talks with the English.”
“So you risk the wrath of the English for the possibility of seeing your father?”
“Aye. The English are kept busy in Cork and Kerry,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Dochas is safe.”
Colm’s rich, earth brown eyes narrowed on hers. “I hope that is so for your sake.”
“One day soon my father
will return for all time,” she assured the poet. Each time she assured another, Meggie reassured herself. “A man belongs at home by his hearth, tending his land and animals.”
She blamed the English for taking her father away from her. If ever one Englishman approached Dochas and attempted to claim her castle for his own, she would raise her musket without remorse. She would ask no questions before she fired.
The bard’s dark brows deepened. “I hope your father returns soon, or...” His voice trailed into a whisper and then into silence.
“Or what?”
Averting his eyes, he rubbed his forehead. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you should have a husband looking after you.”
His insinuation stung. “’Tis no concern of yours!”
“Forgive me.”
“But if ye must know, I have been betrothed.”
With only the trace of a smile parting his lips, such sensuous lips, she thought, he nodded. “I knew a pretty lass like you would have suitors.”
Pretty lass? The bard thought she was pretty! Tamping down unspeakable delight, she drew a deep breath to compose herself. “Two years past I was promised to Declan, chief of the Hennessy clan.”
“A fine lad approved by your father?”
“Aye. Declan swore to me on my mother’s brooch.” She slapped her hand over the silver brooch pinned above her heart. “He swore that he would never raise a sword. He promised he would farm his land and make arms from his forge, but nothing more. That is what he promised me.”
She stopped and heaved a heart-wrenching sigh. Declan had always done her bidding without question. The boy would have ridden a wild mare to Dublin and back without stopping had she asked.
Colm ran a hand through his long hair. “Did your young man break his promise?”
“My wondrous boy up and joined my father and Hugh O’Neill without sayin’ a word to me!” Declan’s perfidy still riled Meggie. “The next I heard of him, he’d been killed in battle, cut down by an Englishman.”
“He wished to take his stand as a man, to be your hero,” Colm offered in consolation.
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