“It’s Niall,” she whispered, before calling out to her one-eyed suitor. “Niall, over here!”
The wealthy farmer strode from the copse and into the clearing. He stopped short. As his glance darted from Meggie to Cameron and back, his lips tightened. And then he cast a grand smile at his intended. “What are ye doin’, Meggie, me heart?”
“Talkin’ with the bard, I am. We met at the river by chance.”
“By chance?” he repeated, scowling at Cameron.
Cameron drew his mantle more tightly around him. He could not think what Niall would might do if he knew there was nothing beneath but bare flesh.
But the big Irishman did not dwell upon Cameron. Turning to Meggie, his harsh, dark features softened. “Your grandfather sent me to fetch ye.”
“Then, I shall be off.” She bestowed a smile upon Cameron and then turned her light briefly upon Niall before dashing away. Escaping, more likely. Her ghostly wolfhounds rose from their resting place and scampered after her.
Alone, Cameron faced the jealous suitor. Would the torture never end? He had endured nothing but one dilemma after another since setting foot on Fitzgerald land.
“What were ye discussin’ with me heart?” Niall demanded as soon as Meggie disappeared into the copse.
“The weather.” Cameron forced a smile. “Is it not a pleasant summer day?”
Niall rolled his shoulders as a man might do before lashing out. His one good eye narrowed on Cameron in all-encompassing scrutiny. “Too warm to be wearin’ a mantle,” he said. His forefinger tapped against his lips.
“I have suffered from chills in all sorts of weather since my unfortunate... accident,” Cameron fabricated.
“Aye?” Meggie’s doubtful suitor inclined his head in study. “Interesting.”
Cameron’s instincts warned him to be on guard. “Life has been exceedingly interesting ever since I arrived at Dochas.”
“Were you about last eve, celebratin’ Lughnasa?”
“I was indeed, until the whiskey put me to sleep and I took to my bed.”
Niall regarded Cameron coldly. “Where were ye headed before the lassie nicked ye?”
“To Dublin.”
“Do ye plan to leave soon?”
“In a matter of days.”
Niall nodded. Unsmiling, he hooked his thumb into the girdle of his tunic. “I worry about me Meggie, if ye mind me meaning. She shouldn’t be taking strangers into Dochas.”
“I did not intend to stop at Dochas.”
Niall grunted. “I may have only one eye, but it’s all I need,” he warned. “My sword hand is deadly and my musket is at the ready.”
“Your Meggie also keeps a musket at the ready.”
The sturdy Irishman grinned for the first time, but it was a dark, mirthless twist of his lips. “Shot ye, she did?”
“Aye.” Cameron wished to end this uncomfortable conversation and be on his way. Instinct told him that Niall was more dangerous than Barra and all of his rebels put together.
Meggie’s suitor took a menacing step closer to Cameron. “Ye look well to me, Bard. Best be on your way.”
Cameron stood his ground. “Aye. I am eager to reach Dublin.”
Tapping his lips, Niall nodded. “There’s somethin’ else.”
Cameron inwardly winced. Had he done or said something to give himself away? “Aye?”
“Ye will recite a poem of love to me Meggie. I shall be askin’ her to play the harp, and when she does, ye will recite words that will win her heart for me.”
The devil he said!
“Is Mistress Meggie’s heart not already yours?” Cameron inquired in as mild a manner as he could muster.
Niall scratched his beard. “’Tis uncertain, I am. Ye must convince her with your words to marry me.”
“I do not know if --”
“Ye will prove your worth as a poet. Ye will put Meggie in the mood so that she cannot say nay to me when I ask her again to be mine, as I will do tomorrow eve.”
Cameron’s throat had gone as dry as bone. “I do not know if I am able to do what you ask. My muse fled when I was wounded.”
Niall shot him an ominous frown. “Yer muse had better return by nightfall.”
Cameron would rather engage in hand-to-hand combat with Niall than compose a love poem. He had never composed a poem of love. Worse, to recite words of love to Meggie for the lip-tapping hulk of a man set Cameron’s teeth on edge.
The scowling Irishman turned on his heel and strode away.
Cameron watched him disappear into the copse. Niall had left him little choice about what he must do next.
* * * *
Donald Cameron, the Duke of Doneval, traveled by coach over treacherous English country roads with Sally Pickering at his side. The two were en route to Cotswold on a mission of utmost importance to Donald. The old woman who accompanied him had served as lady’s maid to his English lover for most of Anne’s life.
Anne had died four months before. Just before her death, however, she had revealed a terrible secret that she had kept from Donald for over twenty years. He had fathered her children. Anne had given birth to a girl and a boy during their long, odd relationship without Donald ever knowing.
In retrospect, her deceit had not been difficult. Often, months went by between Donald’s visits to the lovely recluse. And then there had been times when he came to call that Anne refused to see him. At the time, he owed it to the English woman’s eccentricities. But since he had learned of his children, Donald blamed himself for not demanding that Anne receive him upon every occasion. How easily he had been duped.
How eager he was to find his children. He had discovered Kate first, now happily wed to Edmund Wydville, the Earl of Stamford. Now he searched for his second born, a son.
Sally was the key to his search as she had placed both of the children as foundlings at her mistress’s bidding. In fear for their lives if their true identity was known, Anne made certain each child was placed with couples desiring a babe but unable to have one of their own. Couples of ordinary birth.
“My son is an innkeeper. You are certain, Sally?”
“Aye. Cameron Thatcher is his name.”
Chapter Seven
It was time to depart Dochas. The sooner Cameron left hope behind, the safer he would be. The throbbing in his thigh had been reduced to a dull ache. The piercing shards of pain that shot through his leg occurred with less frequency. Although not yet up to full strength, he persuaded himself that he could sit astride a horse for a full day. To that end, Cameron set out for the stable at dawn on the following morn, bent on “borrowing” a mount.
He had come across no finer horseflesh in his travels through Ireland than the ponies bred in the Fitzgerald stables. If he were truly a poet who could cease his wandering and make Dochas his home, Cameron would be sorely tempted to stay. He believed Meggie. Breeding and training the magnificent steeds would provide challenge and satisfaction as well as a profitable reward.
Meggie.
Niall had charged Cameron with writing a love poem for the duchess that would melt her heart and persuade her to marry the humorless man. As if Cameron, or any other man, could compose a sonnet she could not resist. Impossible! The willful Irish lass could resist anything if she had a mind to. She could resist the great god Apollo reciting a sonnet composed by Cupid.
Last eve, as he lay sleepless, Cameron considered continuing the pretense and employing a bit of guile. That was what a spy did after all. He thought of using words directly from the pen of Shakespeare to woo the blue-eyed, freckled vixen for Niall. But by the first gray ribbons of muted light, his basic nature, an honest one, refused to allow even one more small deception.
Cameron wondered if Niall knew what he was asking for in taking Meggie as his bride. Feeling sympathy for the man did not come easily. Nevertheless, Cameron experienced a moment.
But not a long one, after remembering something Gerald Fitzgerald had said. Meggie’s grandfather believed
Niall wanted Dochas more than Meggie. Yet another Pandora’s box that Cameron could not open. Would not. He had not been charged with saving Meggie from Niall.
Immediate flight was the more prudent course. In a matter of minutes, he would show his heels to Dochas.
Aided by his walking stick, Cameron limped down the winding stone stair case from his chamber. A jumble of unwanted emotions dogged his every step.
He felt angry that Niall, the one-eyed Irish hero, had forced Cameron’s hand and perhaps a premature departure. Worse was the physical disturbance afflicting his innards. His stomach had felt like a churning sea ever since Meggie’s kiss. White caps danced in the pit of his belly, causing undue distress and a disturbing confusion at the memory.
Recalling the sweet taste of her lips on his continued to cause a lusty warming in Cameron’s lower masculine regions. He found it draining after a time to suppress the unbidden recall. Lastly, he felt a very real fear. The danger that he might be discovered in the midst of stealing away set his pulse to racing and his heart to a slow, unnatural beat. He moved stiffly, the muscles in his body constricted tightly as if braced for a shower of blows.
As Cameron approached the great hall and the first door to freedom, he heard the soft, melodic strains of a harp. He paused, allowing the music to wash over him, soothing the raw edges of his nerves. But he could not linger. As stealthily as possible, for a man in his condition, he made his way behind a thick pillar from which he could see who played the harp like an angel.
Meggie.
No angel.
Her ever-present hounds slept at her side.
As he listened to the music of the strings, Cameron regretted that he was not a poet, not the man who could recite beautiful words to accompany Meggie’s music.
But then he quickly reminded himself that although the redhead might play the harp like an angel, even look like an innocent angel, in truth, she was the devil’s own daughter.
Cameron turned away from the source of his misery. And she had given him a fair share of misery. He thought by keeping to the outer edges of the hall he might make his getaway without being detected. While he felt bad for not biding Meggie farewell, he knew such a leave-taking would be far too difficult.
She would meet his gaze directly as she was wont to do. Her eyes sparkling, the smile playing upon her lips at once teasing and provocative. And he would be transfixed, enchanted, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to go.
If Cameron survived service in the queen’s army and grew old, white-haired, and withered, he would never forget the wild Irish woman. Should her beauty fade from his memory, he would still remember her disquieting, candid manner, the surprising gentleness of her touch, and her boisterous laugh.
Oh, nay. She did not hold back. Unlike English ladies, Meggie never twittered behind a fan. She showed her pleasure in all things by laughing often and loudly.
Cameron was only a few feet from the door when the dogs barked. They had at last detected him. If he had come to rape and pillage, they would be dead by now and Meggie his.
The wolfhounds’ nails tapped on the stone floor as they gave chase.
The music stopped.
The great snowy dogs found him.
Cowards that they were, Seamus and Bernadette paced several feet in front of him, howling and barking in turn.
Cameron attempted to scold. “Sssssh.”
The hounds howled louder.
As he promised beneath his breath to end their lives at the earliest opportunity, Meggie poked her head around a pillar.
“Colm!”
He started, then forced a wide smile. “Good morrow, Mistress Meggie. Pray forgive me, I did not mean to set the dogs to barking.”
“Go! You naughty beasts,” she scolded, before turning to Cameron with an apologetic quirk of her mouth. “They overprotect me in the only way they know ... with a great deal of noise.”
“You can never be overprotected.”
A mischievous light gleamed in her eyes, a bright faerie light that caused Cameron’s heart to lurch out of rhythm. A peculiar response to the redheaded omen of ill fortune. And one which occurred with increasing frequency of late. He feared for the state of his heart.
“The tongue of a true poet,” she pronounced.
Rather than leave, Seamus and Bernadette slithered to their usual position behind their mistress.
If Cameron hesitated, he would be lost. He must leave. The longer he lingered, the greater the danger from the Irish and from himself. He had begun to entertain traitorous thoughts. Each day, bit by bit, his protective detachment had melted away. He felt at home here. He had even begun to favor Meggie’s company.
“I’ll be taking a walk now.”
“Do ye seek your muse in the meadows?”
“Aye. Aye, that I do.”
“Niall has requested that I play the harp for him tonight,” she said, then smiled as she added, “’Tis his last night at Dochas.”
“I heard ye. You play the harp like ... like an angel.”
“Would ye bring a blush to my cheeks with your flattery now?”
Before Cameron’s eyes the soft pink of Meggie’s cheeks deepened to a crimson stain, a reaction he found exceedingly charming. “I only speak the truth.”
Which for once was not a lie.
“Think how much more entertaining it would be if you recited a poem tonight while I play.”
“Aye. If only I might find my muse in time.”
“She will come upon ye when ye least expect it, like love.”
Love? What had caused her to think of love? Cameron’s skin prickled with apprehension. “Aye. Perhaps.”
“’Tis true,” she insisted. “I have read that love blossoms when least expected.”
“Do you read?” he asked, taken aback by the revelation that Meggie read. Very few Irish men were capable of reading and he had yet to encounter an Irish lass who could make out more than a few words. But he should have expected as much from Meggie. The duchess was different.
“Aye. I like to read. Especially if I feel lonely. I am not lonely when I read.”
Cameron had read all his life for the same reason.
She cast one of her blinding smiles.
He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He rued the day - Which day? When had it happened? -that Meggie’s smiles had become so powerful as to render him immobile.
“As do I,” he admitted, lowering his gaze, sliding from the warmth of her bewitching eyes.
Her smile faded. He had come to recognize that if Meggie said something she regretted, something that would make her vulnerable like admitting to loneliness, she used a smile to hint that she only jested.
“I shall bring a book to your chamber before dusk,” she said.
“If you’re not careful you’ll be winnin’ my heart,” Cameron replied without thinking. And once again he had spoken the truth. But a spy who spoke without thinking, and worse, spoke the truth, was surely doomed.
“Go on with ye now!” Meggie gently shoved Cameron toward the door. The unexpected blush of her cheeks captivated him. “If ye wouldn’t mind, stop by the stable and look in on Sorcha for me. She’s not due to foal for another fortnight, but she’s been behaving in an unnatural way these past few days.”
“A faerie curse, perhaps?”
Meggie leveled her gaze and hiked a brow. The simple gesture conveyed more meaning than words. He had vexed her. She dared him to say another word. “Would ye mind?”
“I shall be glad to look in upon your mare.”
“And I shall be askin’ the saints to help ye find your muse while ye walk.”
“I fear my muse may have been stolen by the werewolves.”
She ignored his barb, choosing to caution him instead. “The sky is overcast. Take care it does not rain on ye.”
“’Tis good of you to fret over my health ever since you shot me,” he teased, attempting to stifle a grin.
“Pish!” she scoffed, with a roll of
her Irish blue eyes.
All at once Cameron felt as if he were standing in lead boots. He could not move, and could not explain his reluctance to leave. “Despite all you’ve done, perhaps because of all you’ve done, I shall never forget ye, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
Inclining her head to a puzzled tilt, she cast him a fey smile. “And I shall never forget you.” Her questioning glance gave way to a grin. “At least not during the time you’ve gone walking. Ye’ll be back before sundown?”
“I’ll be back.”
Someday he might return to Dochas. When all was settled and under English control, Cameron would like to come back to see how Meggie fared. But now he silently renewed his determination to leave Dochas with utmost speed.
* * * *
Meggie stood at the open door and watched the bard limp away. Even though he walked with an uneven gait, each day his steps grew stronger. Soon he would be strong enough to leave Dochas, and the knowledge made her heart heavy. But she did not cry. She would not cry.
The poet had dressed in the garments he wore upon his arrival. Weeks ago, she had made certain each article had been cleaned and repaired. Colm looked so fine and proud in his long green tunic with its high-standing collar. The patch in his snug brown hose was barely visible, especially when the eye was drawn to the hard curves of his muscular legs.
Meggie longed to take Bernadette and Seamus and stroll through the meadows with Colm. Although she wasn’t quite certain how it was done, she wished to help him restore his muse. Certainly such a thing must be possible! She would never forgive herself if she had destroyed the poet’s muse. Meggie hadn’t realized that a musket ball might damage more than flesh and bone. What could a poet without a muse do? How would Colm make his way in the world if she had murdered his muse?
If his muse did not return, she must offer the bard work at Dochas. Perhaps, he might serve as shepherd to the sheep. No skill was required. But would he accept such a task? And if he agreed, would his constant presence divert Meggie from the course she had set upon?
She was drawn to the compelling bard as surely as a wild swan was drawn to the deep indigo waters of the lake. For days now, Meggie had been unable to think of anyone else when Colm entered a room. In his company, she was unable to still the pounding of her heart and the trembling of her hands.
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