Even though aided by his walking stick and Meggie, Colm winced with the first movement. “Aye,” he agreed.
The bard’s muscular body brushed against hers with each slow step. His heat curled through her limbs, spread to and dulled her senses. She could only feel. And she felt an amazing lightness of spirit
“Just a few more steps now,” she said.
“I can make it to my bed alone.”
But Meggie did not care to untangle herself from Colm.
She plopped down beside him as he sank to the featherbed. A small sigh escaped her as she slipped from beneath his arm, shifted away from his side.
“Did ye say ye would sleep with me?” Colm’s eyes were shadowed by confusion, making them appear as dark as night.
“Aye.” Meggie felt safe beside the poet. “But first I will fetch ye a nip of whiskey to ease your pain. I fear ye have spent all of your hard-earned strength this eve.”
“Why did Barra attack you?”
“Ach!” Meggie shook her head and gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The lad was drunk.”
Colm’s gaze locked on hers. He spoke in a whisper. “A man would not have to be drunk to want ye.”
Meggie’s pulse took on a swift, furious beat. Did he mean—? No, he certainly could not mean—! He seemed indifferent, but did this mean—? One wild thought followed another. Within seconds however, Meggie realized how foolish it was to think for one moment that the handsome bard wanted her.
She angled her chin upward. “I had reached my dagger and would have put a stop to his foolishness if you had not come to my rescue.”
“Ye would have killed him?”
“Nay! Do ye think I go around killin’ men for sport?”
His lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Aye.”
The bard’s smile set Meggie’s heart to thumping at a loud and alarming pace. She completely lost the power of speech.
“You’re a brave woman, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
“Ye ... Ye saved my virtue this eve.”
He shrugged and ran a hand through disheveled hair. “Any man would have come to your aid. Any man would have done the same.”
But she knew differently. He might have been badly hurt in the fray. He had risked the recovery he desperately worked toward every day. “I should look at your wound to be certain ye did not rip—”
“I’ll look,” he interrupted quickly. Gazing into the blackness, Colm slid a hand beneath his tunic and examined the wound by touch. “You need not worry. It has not opened but feels fiery hot to the touch,” he reported.
Meggie wished she were the one doing the touching. But relieved no harm had been done, she stood. “I shall return with whiskey for ye.”
But when she did, she found the bard dead asleep. Nothing short of cannon fire would wake him now. Feeling a senseless pang of disappointment, Meggie removed her gown and chemise. Without an ounce of shame, she slid into bed beside the bard.
An unmarried man and woman did not sleep together unless there were several bodies in between them. She would be disgraced if anyone knew she had climbed into bed with the bard. But who would know?
Her body hummed.
* * * *
Meggie woke at the first streak of dawn and rose without waking Colm. There was much to do. There was always much to do. Barra confronted her later in the day. He held a tankard of mead in one hand, rubbed his swollen jaw with the other.
“Mistress Meggie, I fear I’ve misbehaved.”
“Ye took liberties a gentleman would never think of doin’.”
“I’m beggin’ yer forgiveness.”
She did not yield, throwing him a look of disdain. There seemed not a man in the world she could trust. Except, perhaps, for the bard.
Wagging a finger at Barra, Meggie admonished him as if he were a child. “See ye keep your distance in the future.”
“Ye have a powerful blow for a lass.”
“And there’s more where that came from,” she bluffed. The scoundrel obviously did not remember it was Colm who struck him, and that was just as well for the poet’s safety. “Ye should think about being on your way, Barra. Ye are not welcome at Dochas any longer.”
His downcast eyes reminded her of a whipped puppy. “We cannot leave until Niall comes.”
“Niall.” How could she have forgotten? Niall had promised to come for the Lughnasa celebration.
* * * *
Stretching as far as the eye could see, the rolling emerald green hills of Dochas glistened with morning dew. Flocks of sheep and herds of Irish black cattle grazed on the far hillsides. Cameron felt the beauty of the Westmeath countryside as certainly as he felt the warmth of the summer day.
Not far from the bailey, a young mare pranced within a fenced enclosure. Leaving the castle gates, Cameron leaned heavily on his walking stick as he made his way toward the enclosure.
Determined to be strong enough to leave in two days’ time, he viewed walking on the stony road that led from the bailey as restorative. Each laborious step brought him closer to his goal. Cameron risked the failure of his mission if he was not on his way to Dublin soon. And he could not fail. His future depended upon success.
In Cameron’s travels through Ireland in the guise of a bard, he had been charged with noting the defenses, the weapons, and the number of fighting men in each village. If by chance he gathered information on Irish battle plans, it would mean a promotion. To this point he had discovered nothing so remarkable - but not for lack of trying.
Periodically, he would be contacted by another spy to whom he would divulge all of the information he had gathered. Cameron never knew his contacts or where he would meet them. Most often he would be approached by a young man disguised as a farmer, monk, or craftsman. The contacts always asked the same question: “What bird flies near?”
Cameron always replied, “The jackdaw.”
The information he gathered would be used by his countrymen to overtake the last stronghold of the Irish, Ulster. With the defeat of Ulster, the English would assume command of the entire Irish isle.
Knowing he had lost precious time due to his injury drove Cameron on. Who knew what information he had missed gathering to the north while confined to his chamber at Dochas? He had learned nothing while an invalid. Time grew short. He must be on his way.
Cameron suffered the pain of determination with each step on the path. Every movement burned as if a searing poker branded his flesh from his thigh to his toes. The physical torture exceeded the mental tension of encountering Barra or one of his men. The churlish band had not yet left the castle. It was clear they cared more for women and mead than they did for fighting.
For the past several days, he had caught little more than a glimpse of the Duchess of Dochas. But this morning, from his window, he had seen Meggie leave the keep. Her two faithful hounds trotting at her heels, she had set out for the fenced enclosure.
He knew Meggie’s habits by distant observation. She rose before he did, before the sun, and retired to her chamber hours after he fell asleep, weary of waiting for her to pass by his chamber. She had teased him on the night he saved her from Barra’s unwelcome advances. Meggie had vowed to sleep with Cameron that night. But exhausted, he had fallen asleep quickly and did not know if she had returned. He thought not. A man would know if Meggie had slipped into his bed, he thought. In all likelihood.
Absorbed in her task, the duchess did not hear Cameron approach. She stood within the fence, crooning to the dappled gray mare as if the horse understood.
The loosely laced crimson gown Meggie wore slapped about her ankles, stirred by the soft summer breeze. A white linen kercher covered the top of her head. Glinting gold in the sunlight, her burnished hair fell in one thick plait down her back. She wore an expression of pure rapture. Evoked by a horse?
Unreasonable irritation pricked at Cameron like a shower of needles against his bare flesh.
When her wolfhounds barked, Meggie looked his way and flashed a brilliant smile. The warmth o
f her smile banished the needles and gave renewed vigor to his throbbing leg.
Cameron reached the enclosure slightly out of breath, but unwilling for Meggie to know. She would force him back to bed once more. Leaning against the fence rail, he greeted her with his own smile. “Good day, Mistress Meggie.”
“Ye are looking fit this morning,” she said, leaving the mare and strolling to the fence.
“I owe my recovery to your nursing skills.”
Her smile grew wider. “’Twas the least I could do under the circumstances.”
He chuckled despite himself, expecting that was the closest he would ever hear to an apology from the stubborn lass. “Ye have a fine looking mare there,” he called.
“Aye.” She looked over her shoulder at the horse now grazing peacefully. “While I must tend the fields, the growing of the corn and praties, this is what I love ... raising the horses.”
“The Irish produce the finest horses in the world.”
“Aye.”
If this mare was an example of Meggie Fitzgerald’s horse-breeding skills, she knew her business. However, it wasn’t women s work and he said so. “Ye know, Meggie, some would say that it’s not a woman’s place to be breedin’ and trainin’ horses.”
Her chin rose defiantly. “It is for any who love the horses the way that I do.”
“When they are broken and trained, do ye sell them to our proud Irish rebels?”
“Sometimes.” A sly grin spread across her wondrous lips. Lips that tempted him increasingly. “But mostly I take them to Dublin and sell them to the English. My father uses the profits to outfit his men.”
It was all Cameron could do to mask his outrage. The redhead vixen hoodwinked his country! He rubbed his forehead, calming himself. “If I am to understand correctly, the English are supporting the Irish effort against them.”
“Aye.” She giggled.
She giggled!
“Clever.” Diabolical.
Cameron forced a smile.
Secret, unbridled delight sparkled in Meggie’s eyes as they met his. Her mischievous grin held Cameron mesmerized like a callow boy struck by the first freckle-faced beauty to look his way. Frowning at his lapse, Cameron warned himself against the temptation he found in her eyes, her smile... her enchanting freckles. The Duchess of Dochas posed more danger to him than Barra and his men.
“We profit well by selling the horses for far more than the cost to raise them,” she added with a wink.
A wink!
“Makes me proud to be an Irishman, it does.” Although Cameron had told the lie many times, in this instance he almost choked on the words.
“When ye feel able to ride, say the word, and ye will have the best mount,” Meggie promised.
“I would like that.”
She grabbed hold of the fence, her upturned face just inches from his. He thought no more about the outrageous horse deception. All Cameron could think was that if he tipped his head just a few inches, his lips would be on Meggie’s. His gaze locked on her lips.
“Will ye be joining us for Lughnasa on the morrow?” Meggie asked.
Cameron knew that the Irish, steeped in folklore and superstition as they were, celebrated the start of August and the advent of harvest with the Festival of the Celtic god Lugh.
“Ye will not be required to dance.” She cast a blinding smile straight at his heart.
A smile that could divert a man from his purpose. Cameron tore his gaze away to study the fence post. “Will Barra and his rogues be attending your celebration?”
“Aye, but Barra has not had more than a drop to drink since his foolishness.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “He does not trust himself.”
“Understandable.” Cameron gave a curt nod of his head in acknowledgment. He would prefer Barra gone.
But he saw no way to decline Meggie’s invitation to celebrate Lughnasa without arousing her ire or suspicion ... or both.
“What say ye?” she pressed.
Her hopeful expression caused a twinge in his chest, a gut-wrenching roll of his stomach. Meggie had been sorely wounded by betrayal before. Cameron had not the heart to betray her, too. But he must. His duty was to spy.
“I would not miss Dochas’s celebration,” he said.
“And will ye compose and recite a poem especially for the day? Ye must, ye know. It will be expected, and I shall accompany ye on my harp.”
“Ye play the harp?”
“Aye. Like an angel from heaven.” With a smile as wide as Galway Bay, Meggie Fitzgerald winked at him once again.
The wench was shameless.
“You wish me to recite an ode to Lugh?”
“Do you know such?”
“Nay.” None of the poems Cameron had memorized addressed the great god or any aspect of the festival.
She pursed her lips, a gesture he had noted previously, as a prelude to thought on her part. “Then, ye’d best be creating a special poem,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “Especially for Dochas.”
Under normal circumstances, it took Cameron days to compose a simple message. He found expressing his thoughts difficult, whether on paper or in conversation. If the lieutenant originally selected for this mission had not been killed by lightning, Cameron would not have had the opportunity to be here now. Quite simply there was no one else with his degree of education willing to risk his life as a spy.
How was he to create a poem overnight? But if he did not, the quick-minded Meggie Fitzgerald would know him as a fraud.
He met her eyes, bluebell eyes alight with anticipation.
The devil take me here and now!
Cameron cleared his throat. “I have a confession to make.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Aye?”
“The thoughts that spring to mind have not been the same as before ye ... before I was wounded. I cannot seem to summon the muse as I used to do.”
Meggie’s finely arched brows folded into a frown. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do ye think the wound has impaired your power to fancy?”
He hung his head. “It may be so.”
“I did not mean to do it,” she cried in a raspy tone, clapping a hand across her mouth in genuine horror.
Cameron felt no bigger than a flea on a featherbed.
“Do not fret. I shall make an effort this eve to... to compose.”
Her head bobbed encouragement. “I know ye will.”
For the first time in his life, Cameron wished he were, indeed, a poet.
* * * *
The traditional hill walking was done early the following morning, and by mid-day the mead and whiskey flowed freely. Lughnasa celebrations began at first light and lasted until late in the evening.
During festivities such as this, the Irish in Meggie shone. Although she did not drink, she loved the music and dance and laughter. Between festivities, her Irish heart looked for a cause to celebrate.
She especially enjoyed Lughnasa, for it marked the time of year when the young lambs and calves in the fields were weaned and the corn was ripe and ready for picking. It was a joyous time when stores for the winter were certain. There would be enough for all to eat.
Meggie’s delight in Lughnasa was slightly dampened by the knowledge that Colm would soon move on unless she could find a reason for him to stay.
If she truly had damaged his ability to compose poetry, she would never forgive herself. She admired the bard, not only for his dark, somewhat brooding good looks, but for his courage as well. He had displayed true bravery when he had come to Meggie’s rescue. When he had been barely strong enough to stand, Colm had fought off the drunken Barra.
She never would admit as much, but there were times when Meggie feared being alone, times when the responsibility for the castle and all the inhabitants of Dochas overwhelmed her. She realized the day might come when defending herself from a drunken Irishman or marauding Englishman might prove impossible. A day when there would be no bard to protect her.
/> Like any other young woman, Meggie longed for a loving husband and family. With her father absent for long periods, and her grandfather’s mind losing its ability to reason and remember, she felt wretchedly alone. A solitary soul among many.
Even in the midst of this merry celebration on a summer’s day bright and clear, Meggie knew a sense of detachment as she greeted the guests. She moved in a world apart from the rest. Incomplete, out of place and time, she likened herself to a single yellow gorse blooming in a meadow of rich green clover.
As the afternoon passed into early eve, the torches were lit to brighten Dochas’s great hall. Flickering shadows of the dancers were cast upon the rough stone walls. The long tables, some still laden with remains of the feast, had been shoved back to make room for dancing.
Meggie first danced with her grandfather to a tune played by whistle and harp. The old man’s milky eyes twinkled with the pleasure of believing he danced in his ancestral Cork castle, celebrating the defeat of the English. Preferring that her shuffling partner enjoy his happiness, she did not attempt to correct him.
While she kicked up her heels, Meggie kept a look out for Colm. When at last she saw him descending the staircase, her heart fluttered like a blackbird taking wing. Although the bard leaned on his walking stick, his steps appeared stronger. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his dark tunic.
Beneath the tunic, Meggie knew from vivid memory, his trews fit snugly to his narrow hips and muscled thighs. One muscled thigh. The other sore and aching.
But the poet did not reveal his pain. He made his way with confidence. The arrogance of his towering form and the enigmatic smile that played about the corners of his mouth made all other men dim in comparison.
’Twas as if bright moonlight shone only on one man. Colm. He stood out above all the men gathered in the hall, not only in height. A simmering virility curled about him like seductive smoke. The smoky essence of him clouded her mind and wrapped around Meggie, gently warming her, setting her heart to a furious beat.
As soon as the dance ended, she led her grandfather to the bench where Deirdre waited. The dark-haired, orphaned girl was like a sister to Meggie. Not long after settling at Dochas, Meggie had taken Deirdre in, offering work, shelter, and love to the shy, quiet sixteen-year-old lass. In time, she had come to rely on Deirdre. Now she did not know what she would do without her. “Will ye watch the old man for a moment?”
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