Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  He eyed the tool as if at any moment the simple instrument would become a weapon and fly from her fingers to his throat.

  “Do ye require a good housekeeper and a woman who will bear ye many children?” Meggie thought it an interesting question and one that would take the bard’s mind off of what she was about.

  “She should enjoy the making of them.”

  He raised his head to make eye contact with Meggie then, just as she lowered the razor to his cheek. The unexpected movement threw her hand off course. The razor slightly slashed Colm’s jaw ... drawing blood.

  “What the devil have ye done?” he demanded, raising his hand to his cheek where his fingers dabbed at the blood. On the third finger of his right hand he wore a gold ring that Meggie had noted when first she nursed him.

  “’Tis only a nick.” That much was true, but she had scraped more beard from his cheek than she had planned. She would have to shave the same amount from his other cheek to balance her work.

  “I’ve seen men bleed to death from a nick,” he grumbled, pressing his fingers against the cut.

  Meggie thought of reminding Colm that he had escaped death just days ago, but then thought better of it.

  Moments later Colm was just about clean shaven. All that remained of his beard was a dark shadow which accentuated his strong jaw more than his beard ever had. But would he see it that way?

  “Have ye finished?” he barked.

  Meggie nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  She had never heard of a violent poet. Most were peace loving, passionate men who wrote of love and beauty. But a bright fire burned in Colm’s eyes; his vexation appeared as tangible as steam from a hot spit.

  He raised a hand to his jaw. His brows met at the bridge of his nose, so severe was his frown. “Woman, what have ye done?”

  “Ye ... ye look splendid clean shaven.”

  “Ye’ve robbed me of my manliness!”

  “Nay. Nay, ye look finer than any man.”

  “Leave me.”

  The words came from deep within his throat, like the low, menacing growl of a wolf.

  A werewolf? Nay!

  “I only meant to help—”

  “Meggie Fitzgerald, ye have shot me and shaved me and held me like a prisoner in this old castle. Pray, do not... in God’s name ... do not help me again.”

  “I have not held ye prisoner. Ye are free to walk out of Dochas at any time.”

  “I cannot walk, thanks to ye.”

  Meggie’s blunders had been innocent, with no malice intended. Most certainly, she did not deserve the bard’s wrath. She attributed his ill humor as a sign of healing. “Your beard shall grow again, but if I may speak plainly—”

  “Is there anything that can stop you from speaking?”

  “Ye look far better without the beard.”

  The warning light in his eyes flared as he scowled at her for a long moment. “Will ye leave me now?”

  “With pleasure.”

  But shouts from below drew Meggie to the window. In her haste, she knocked over the stool.

  “What is it?” Colm demanded. “Has someone come?”

  “Aye, the defenders of Westmeath.”

  “Irish rebels?”

  “Would ye be expectin’ English rebels?”

  “Nay.” The bard rubbed his clean jaw as if he were soothing a wound.

  “The men are from the village and have the hearts of true warriors. Barra and his small band have sent more than one Englishman home in a box.”

  The color drained from Colm’s face. He had obviously attempted too much for one day.

  “I must go now and make the lads welcome.”

  “The rebels will be staying at Dochas?”

  “Aye, they usually rest here for several days.”

  Chapter Three

  Cameron suffered a relapse. Eager to avoid the maverick band of Irish rebels, he took to his bed, claiming the pain from his wound had escalated from a constant dull throb to a piercing fire.

  “Aye?” Meggie appeared suspicious. She had come to his chamber to help him hobble down to the great hall for supper. The risk was much too great. It would be like throwing a young hare into a fox’s den if he were to join the ragtag band of Irish fighters for a meal.

  “Aye,” he croaked, feigning agony with a grimace and a low, pitiful moan.

  “’Tis festering, is it?” she asked.

  He dared not exaggerate the matter. “Not festering, perhaps, but to put any weight at all upon my leg is to invite unbearable pain.”

  Which was untrue. He could bear the pain.

  But Cameron was troubled in the telling of a falsehood to Meggie Fitzgerald. His stomach caught in knots. Although the success of his mission depended upon deception, Cameron found it difficult to fabricate even this one small lie with Meggie’s astonishing blue eyes fixed on his. If it were not a life-and-death situation, he feared he would be quite unable to deceive her. In all his planning, he hadn’t anticipated such a dilemma and such a dangerous one.

  Cameron did not understand his feelings. With her fiery blaze of red hair, splash of freckles, and lily-petal complexion, no one could mistake her for the Irish enemy. God’s bones, the woman had shot him!

  “Ye need a clean dressing,” she declared.

  “Nay! Nay, surely not.” The last thing Cameron desired was to have Meggie examining his thigh and ... body parts thereabout. “I have seen no trace of blood or ... or anything else through the binding,” he protested.

  She wagged her head in warning. “Infection is always a danger. If ye should lose your leg, I should feel terrible.”

  “Lose my leg?”

  “’Twould be a terrible thing to lose to a misplaced sense of shyness.”

  If Meggie laid a finger anywhere near his manhood, Cameron would be in more danger than any infection offered. “I will not hold ye responsible should the worst happen,” he vowed.

  “A one-legged bard might be quite a sight, now.” Her lips turned up in a bemused twist, before her gaze locked on his.

  Cameron’s heart skipped a beat. Adventure beckoned in the startling blue of her eyes. Adventure forbidden to him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His heart had never skipped a beat before. Perhaps the wild Irishwoman’s lips were to blame. He tore his gaze from hers to contemplate her full, scarlet lips, moist as English poppies sprinkled with early morning dew. He could almost taste her lips, knew they would be pliable beneath his, as tender and soft as sweet clover.

  Perhaps the graceful movements of her slender body were to blame; the hither-hey way her hips undulated beneath the folds of her gown had not been lost to him.

  Mayhap, it was the promise of more than simply a glimpse of her cleavage that caused Cameron’s heart to miss a beat. The slightest tug at the lacings of her gown might prove a boon.

  Or, more than likely, he was going mad.

  Confined to a small chamber in an Irish castle with a ravishing nurse might drive any man barmy. Still, Cameron resolved to take charge of his thoughts.

  “Should you not be with your guests, Mistress Fitzgerald?”

  She arched one soft copper brow. “Mistress, is it?” Her mouth turned up at one corner in a coy hint of a smile. “Nay, no need.”

  Without so much as a fare-thee-well, Meggie knelt beside him and gently pushed up his tunic, stopping just short of Cameron’s manliness.

  A white-hot shiver streaked through him.

  “Do not concern yourself over Barra and his men. None of them are healing from a wound,” she said, apparently unmindful of the slight quiver of his body that followed the lightning bolt. “I must be with whoever needs me.”

  He could not resist a droll reply. “Ye mean ye haven’t shot any of your other guests yet?”

  She raised her eyes to his. As Cameron had intended. He would have her look elsewhere.

  “Will ye never forgive me?”

  Meggie’s solemn gaze regarded him in a soul-deep plea that ripped his heart apart. He
could do naught else but apologize. “A thousand pardons. Ye have nursed me well.”

  “’Twas the least I could do.”

  She was right about that.

  As the young Irishwoman removed the old linen strip binding Cameron’s wound, her warm hands toiled dangerously close to his manly pride. He clenched his entire body in an attempt to keep from jumping out of his skin. Desperately, he sought a way not to think about how near her gentle fingers were to the source of his pleasure. How they brushed softly against his flesh, how his nerve endings buzzed ... alive with anticipation, doomed to disappointment.

  Calling upon a monk’s stoicism, Cameron chose to overcome his feelings by ignoring them. Instead, he concentrated on the wound, regarding it with great interest. His raw, flame-red flesh had been sewn neatly together with precise saffron stitches.

  Meggie’s fingertips gently pressed the area around his wound.

  A soft ache invaded his groin.

  The devil take him. He was bound for hell. Cameron did not possess the fortitude of a monk. He clamped down on the insides of his mouth, attempting to suppress his arousal with pain. In vain.

  A searing warmth spiraled through him.

  Meggie looked up, her brows gathered in a puzzled frown. “I do not understand. I see no signs of infection, no festering nor swelling.”

  Cameron’s true problem swelled, even as she spoke.

  Fortunately, Meggie appeared not to notice. Her eyes rested on his. Again, Cameron’s heart skipped a beat. Unable to tear his gaze away, he stared into sky blue eyes as wide as the Irish Sea, eyes that promised to swallow him into endless depths.

  Meggie was the first to blink, a fluttering of dark, curled fringe.

  Cameron drew in a breath, the first he had taken in some moments, he realized. He closed his eyes, envisioning the face and hands of a hag who might be nursing him, instead of the beauty who did. But the beauty’s face filled his mind. He grew harder still.

  With each brush of her fingertips, Cameron wrestled with a fresh assault of sensations: a tingle, a rush, waves of fire, chills that caused him to shudder without control.

  A lecherous notion took hold of him. He wrestled with the devil who danced within his head urging Cameron to place his hand over Meggie’s. Slowly, slowly, he would move her hand up ... to where a new and powerful throbbing vied with the ache of his wound.

  Nay! In an effort both to conceal his condition and deny the devil, Cameron moved swiftly, yanking the thin blanket up and over him, forcing Meggie to draw her hands away.

  “Ye cannot see what’s inside of me,” he said. “ ‘Twould be best for my wound to heal in the open air.”

  She tilted her head, regarding him as she might a stubborn child. “ ‘Twould not be best. I’ll wrap a new bandage.”

  If she touched him again, Cameron could not guarantee her safety.

  “Later. I would not keep ye from your guests.” Please be, all the saints in heaven.

  Cameron struggled for strength to quell the aching within him, to subdue the fierce need for her that Meggie had stirred.

  The Irish vixen folded her hands in her lap and leveled a wistful gaze. “I had hoped ye would entertain Barra and his men ... and me, with your poetry this eve.”

  “My regrets,” he said, feeling only vast relief in mind if not in body.

  “It would please me greatly if ye composed a poem about Dochas while ye heal. Will ye, sir?”

  His throat closed. “I, ah...” Cameron made much of clearing his throat while creating an acceptable excuse. “I... I do not believe there are words to describe—”

  “But ye will find them,” she said, offering a confident smile.

  He had failed to produce a swift, sensible explanation. Though he was a spy, subterfuge did not come naturally to him. “I... I shall.”

  Cameron knew only three poems and each written for his use by an English author. He could recite with feeling an ode to the mistress of the castle - or cottage - another poem he had memorized boasted of the glory of Ireland, and the third praised the season. He had only to substitute spring, winter, or fall.

  If his life depended upon him creating a sonnet or verse outside of these three verses, Cameron would face the hang man.

  “Perhaps you will feel well enough to regale us another day.” Unaware of his problem, Meggie chatted as if to pass the time of day. Her nearness consumed him.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed.

  She rose from beside him, but lingered still. Her lavender scent had settled in the blanket covering him. He inhaled deeply, taking solace in its sweetness.

  “’Tis well I did not tell Barra ye were here,” she said, looking down upon him. The hint of a frown played between her brows. Obviously, she was puzzled by Cameron’s setback.

  “Aye, ‘tis very well.”

  “I did not wish to disappoint him if ye were not feeling well enough.”

  “Wise of ye.” Cameron had not the time to remain in bed on pretense while the Irish rebels took their respite. “How long will your guests stay?”

  “They have not said.”

  “Do ye like havin’ them here?”

  Meggie shrugged and gave him a doleful smile. “I must do my duty.”

  “Aye.”

  “And most certainly ye will feel better on the morrow. Good eve.”

  Cameron should have felt a swell of relief as she walked away. The heat of desire had cooled, but he could not rid himself of the wolfish craving. His body, coiled with tension moments ago, collapsed into a withering mass of blood, flesh, and bone.

  He wanted Meggie Fitzgerald. But he could never have her. Never.

  * * * *

  After several days in hiding, Cameron could no longer allow the Irish rebels to hold him back. According to Gerald Fitzgerald, Barra and his men drank until late at night and slept until the mid-day sun was high overhead. With this in mind, Cameron left his chamber early in the morning. He set a goal of walking from his chamber to the bailey and back. When he reached the bailey, his leg throbbed. Breath-sucking sparks shot from his thigh to his knee and back. The muscles from knee to ankle ached and trembled beneath his weight. Hopes of leaving Dochas by week’s end were dashed like a keg on the cliffs of Dover. The opportunity to distinguish himself in enemy territory appeared doomed. At the moment, the rank and prestige he sought were as elusive as Meggie’s werewolves.

  But Cameron refused to accept life as an innkeeper. He had been meant for more; he knew it, felt it.

  How he had studied the nobles who stopped for the night at the Thatchers’ inn. For years, he’d observed the manner in which they walked and talked. He had studied the manner in which they behaved with their women. As a result, Cameron could be as noble as any nobleman. He’d mastered their studied indifference, modulated tones, and affected gestures. He knew how they thought, what they dreamed, why they enjoyed the sporting life. He meant to walk among them one day.

  However, if he did not overcome his present circumstances, Cameron dreaded the consequence. To lose his commission and find himself a Cotswold innkeeper would be an intolerable fate. He was meant for a loftier station in life.

  Cameron rested on a bench by the thatched dwelling housing the wash house. Those who lived and worked within the crumbling walls of Dochas had readily accepted him as a traveling bard who had the misfortune to be mistaken for a werewolf and wounded by the mistress they all adored.

  As he sat alone, lost in his thoughts, he was greeted on this misty afternoon with cheerful smiles and concerned inquiries about his health.

  Reaffirming his resolve to restore his health as soon as possible, he stood up and started back toward the castle and the stone steps that gave him astonishing pain whether walking up or down.

  At the sound of the first retort, he wasn’t certain if he had heard musket fire. By the second, he knew.

  Deirdre held the door for him as if he were an old man - which irritated him. “Was that musket fire I heard?”

  She shrugg
ed and gave an aggrieved sigh. “It is Mistress Meggie.”

  “Is she shooting at werewolves?”

  “She wants to perfect her aim.”

  “Someone is bound to get hurt,” he muttered. Cameron turned around and headed for the gate. Despite the pain of each step, he pressed on. If he were one day to join the society of gentlemen, he must behave as one at all times. Any gentleman worth a fig would stop Meggie at once and protect the innocent.

  He found her in the rocky valley just outside the walls of the castle. She had placed an assortment of pots and jugs on a boulder to serve as targets. At least no humans were in danger.

  “Good day, Mistress Meggie.”

  She greeted him with a glowing smile, a smile that put the sun to shame. A smile that nearly melted Cameron’s heart. “Look at ye out for a stroll. Your leg must be on the mend.”

  “Aye. My thanks to ye.” He looked out to the boulder. “Are ye after werewolves or jugs?”

  “Neither. I am improving my aim with the musket.”

  “Too late.”

  Her chin jerked up. “Ye may either help me or leave me.”

  It was in his best interest to help the duchess. “If ye would stand with your feet wider apart, the retort might not knock ye down each time.”

  “Like this?” She spread her feet apart.

  He shook his head. “Your arms aren’t long enough to shoulder a musket properly.”

  “Do ye suggest I use bow and arrow?”

  “Just who is your target? Werewolves?”

  “Englishmen.”

  “If the English attack Dochas, you will need more than musket balls and arrows.”

  She tilted her head to one side, regarding him suspiciously. “Do the English frighten you?”

  “Nay. You do. Your innocence.”

  White lightning flashed in her eyes as she tossed her head and the mass of flaming hair that fell past her shoulders. “If you have nothing to contribute, leave me.”

  Cameron would like to contribute ... but forcing himself upon her would not be the thing. And standing in one spot for so long had taken its toll. He could no longer feel his wounded leg.

  Meggie spun away from him. He limped to stand behind her, circling his arms around her slender body, engulfing her, steadying her hands upon the musket, breathing in her lavender-scented hair.