Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  “Oh, aye. No woman has ever done so before.”

  “Then, I am flattered.”

  He is a spy. See how he charms me, blinding me to everything but the lulling deep timbre of his voice, the beguiling twist of his lips and heart-slowing caress of his eyes.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Meggie Fitzgerald.”

  “Truly?”

  I am falling into his eyes, I shall be lost there!

  “Never have I met another as brave and strong as ye.”

  Would ye be the father of my children, spy or no?

  What was she thinking?

  Strong, did he say? Did he not see how she floundered in the wake of his words? Meggie needed to gather every ounce of her strength to resist Colm’s crooked smile, dancing eyes.

  Lowering her head, she answered quietly, with utmost modesty. “I do what I must.”

  “I seem to recall an occasion on which you beseeched me to brush your hair. Although I had never brushed a woman’s hair, I discovered that I enjoyed it. And not once since then have I had the pleasure.”

  She held out the brush. “Take pleasure.”

  The bard swung to the stone wall in one smooth, effortless motion. “Turn your head,” he instructed.

  Meggie turned her head toward the sunrise. A breathtaking burst of muted fire surrounded by a golden halo broke across the horizon. Beneath the burden of her swelling senses, a shudder rippled through her body. She could barely savor it all at once. The splendid sunrise before her, the musky masculine essence of the man beside her.

  Heaving a sigh of delicious resignation, Meggie surrendered to the inexplicable warmth that spread from her skipping heart to her tingling toes as Colm swept the brush through her hair, followed by the smoothing plane of the palm of his hand.

  “Aye,” Meggie murmured, slipping into a state of near bewitchment before an Englishman’s shout in the distance brought her back to her senses. “Aye,” she repeated. “Ye are skilled with the brush, but how skilled are ye with composing poetry?”

  “Before I lost the muse, I was the best in all of Ireland.”

  Lost your muse? More likely the arrogant man never possessed the muse at all.

  “I should like ye to create a poem for me, Colm.”

  “I shall compose one this eve.”

  “No. Now.” Meggie meant to put him to the test.

  The brushing ceased in mid-stroke. The bard dropped the handful of curls he held.

  “Now? But I am working without a muse,” he protested.

  She turned to him with a sweet smile. “I understand. I simply ask that ye make an attempt. I would hear whatever ye create this eve. We – -”

  But Meggie was interrupted. The Englishman’s distant shout of a moment ago became a noisy argument. Meggie joined the bard as he looked to the tower where the quarrel came from. She could see nothing. A sudden silence was followed by a blood-curdling cry that echoed in the still morning and brought a rash of goose bumps to her body.

  Colm jumped from the wall. “Wait here. I shall attend the matter.”

  Meggie could only feel grateful.

  * * * *

  Cameron strode across the bailey, thankful to at last feel only the slightest ache in his leg. When he stepped through the tower door, he immediately saw what had happened. The limp body of young Thomas lay at the bottom of the steep, spiral stone staircase.

  Footsteps sounded in the spiraling staircase. Whoever Thomas had been quarreling with was coming down from the tower. He could wait to solve the mystery, but the boy was another matter. Squatting on his heels, Cameron listened for a heartbeat and felt for a pulse. Neither existed. Thomas was dead.

  As he rose to his feet, Gerald Fitzgerald appeared on the bottom step.

  “What happened?”

  Gerald shook his head as he regarded the body. His wild white hair sprung from his head like wild wool on an old sheep’s back. The wart on his nose appeared to have increased in size.

  “We were havin’ a discussion, we were. Aye, an’ the poor boy slipped an’ fell down the stairs. Is he dead?”

  “Aye.”

  “’Tis a well-known fact the English are a clumsy lot.”

  “Clumsy?”

  “Don’t tell me ye never heard.”

  “I heard arguing,” Cameron said flatly.

  “The lad was snooping where he didn’t belong. What was he doin’ up there in me tower? He had no right, and I told him so.”

  “And then he stumbled and fell?”

  Gerald nodded. “Not a very clever lad.”

  Rubbing his forehead, Cameron stared at Thomas’s body. He was too young to die. The boy should have been home in England. A shower of sadness spilled through Cameron. And then wariness crept in, sliding deep into his very bones.

  The next one to take an inopportune spill might be him. There could be no delaying his departure now. He did not dare entrust any of Thomas’s men. They were unfamiliar to him, their courage and skill unknown. He must carry the information he’d gathered to Dublin himself.

  A burst of exhilaration followed his decision. In a matter of days, Cameron would attain the long-sought rank of captain. He had no doubt of it, as long as he didn’t make the mistake of meeting with an accident before leaving Dochas.

  Certainly Thomas had not been clever enough to outwit the culprit. Gerald? Cameron found it hard to believe that the old man with half of his mind could be capable of killing the boy. But then, he did have moments when his mind seemed as sharp as his dagger’s blade.

  “Where shall we bury Thomas’s body?” he asked. When he reached Dublin, Cameron would make it known that Thomas died a hero’s death for whatever consolation that would offer to his family.

  “I’ll fetch James,” Gerald told him. “During the siege of Cork, he helped me bury an entire regiment.”

  “A regiment?” Surely, the old man had lost what lucid state he might have enjoyed when in the tower alone with Thomas.

  “Aye,” the ancient warrior assured him with a bob of his head. “We laid to rest many Brits that day.”

  Cameron drew in a deep breath. He did not care to hear how many Englishmen Gerald Fitzgerald had dispatched into the next world.

  “I shall explain the accident to Thomas’s men and urge them to continue their journey to report the matter,” he said.

  “Ye are kind to an old man.”

  “I would not like to see anything... like this accident happen to you.” For Meggie’s sake, Cameron intended to do all in his power to keep the old man safe.

  After he saw Thomas’s small band of men safely away from Dochas, he would face still another unpleasant task. The time had come to say goodbye to Meggie.

  Cameron gathered the troop of young invaders outside the gates of Dochas. He spoke to them like the general he hoped to one day become, urging the group to carry on as Thomas intended. Since the young men had little knowledge of what Thomas planned, Cameron exhorted them to rout out the rebel bands of raiders who lurked on the country roads. He counseled the militia men to especially be on watch for Barra.

  “Head for Ulster and take prisoner any who might stop you. I shall ride to Dublin at dawn and make a full report. Thomas’s death shall be avenged.”

  Late in the afternoon, Thomas was buried on a far hill following a brief, solemn ceremony. Shortly thereafter, Cameron watched the young officer’s men ride away.

  Back within the walls of Dochas, the first person he encountered was Gerald Fitzgerald.

  “I see ye sent the bastards on their way.”

  Cameron gave the old man a conspiratorial grin. “The English have not yet learned to judge the truth from pure blarney.”

  “An’ they never will.”

  “We shall know in time “ he said, scanning the bailey without success.

  “Do ye seek Meggie?”

  “Aye. Do ye know where she is?”

  “Where she always is of late, out in the stable making a fool of herself over the new foal. The lass n
eeds a babe of her own.”

  Struck by the old man’s remark, Cameron considered it for a moment. Meggie with a swollen belly. Meggie with a babe. Meggie cooing and rocking, her eyes sparkling like the brightest and lightest sapphires. The visions he conjured melted his heart like butter left by the fire, made his stomach flutter. Fearing he might reveal these strange feelings to Gerald, he dared not comment.

  “You must admit the colt is a prize,” he said, quite woodenly.

  “If we sell it to the English for three times its worth,” Meggie’s grandfather allowed. “It will buy many arms.”

  “Or pay for servants to help Meggie.”

  For a moment, Gerald’s eyes sparked behind the hazy veil that covered the once bright blue orbs. But whatever he thought, he did not voice. “Go on with ye now. I know ye would rather be talkin’ with me Meggie than an old man with a half mind like me.”

  “When I reach your age, old man, I hope to possess half of your mind.”

  But Meggie’s grandfather had turned away. Cameron no longer existed for him. Scratching his snowy beard, he called for Deirdre. “Where is that lass?” he muttered to himself as he shuffled away. “I haven’t seen her the whole day. Deirdre!”

  With the walking stick he no longer needed in hand, Cameron made his way to the stable, greeting those he passed. He had come to know all those who lived within the walls of the castle. The candlemaker, the blacksmith, the washerwomen, and the beekeepers were familiar faces. He had never before experienced the feeling of camaraderie he had enjoyed within these castle walls. Soon Cameron would be plunged back into solitude. He would ride alone, take his meals alone, gaze at the star-filled sky alone.

  It struck him with sudden clarity that he would miss this place. His steps slowed as he realized that all that warmed his heart; the rambling ruins of Dochas, its hearty, brave people, even Gerald ... and certainly Meggie, would shortly be replaced by an irreparable ache. The emptiness would reach deeper into his soul than what he had known before and perhaps last for the rest of his life.

  Could it be more clear that he had stayed too long? But what Cameron had learned by lingering at Dochas would earn him the rank he sought and ultimately the unquestioning respect of his peers. It was the price he must pay.

  The gray sky of dusk darkened as thick plum-colored clouds rolled toward Dochas, borne by a whistling wind. The eerie beauty carried the damp, sweet smell of rain in the air.

  Cameron threw back his head, gazing up at the roiling sky, inhaling deeply as the wind swept through his hair, the mist settling on his face. With the elements swirling about him, he gathered strength. He was about to do what might prove to be the most difficult thing of his life. He was going to say goodbye to Meggie, a task requiring unshakable resolve.

  Drawing himself up, Cameron strode into the stable with determination, but after only a few feet he stopped abruptly. The sweet fragrance of freshly strewn hay rose up to greet him. Meggie’s voice drifted toward him. Soft, lilting music, luring Cameron like the sounds of the sea compelled a sailor to her shore.

  As she was unaware of his presence, Cameron savored Meggie in silence, entranced by the coppery gold gleam of her hair in the low torchlight. She had tamed the mass into one long plait and wound black ribbon through the lustrous strands. He would trade his soul to the werewolves, banshees, or whatever Irish goblin lurked just to loosen Meggie’s braid. If he could brush her glorious mane, bury his face in its lavender scent one more time, leaving the Irish duchess would be less difficult. Perhaps.

  She had changed her clothes and wore a lavender gown over her chemise that he had never seen before. The new garment nipped her narrow waist before falling in gentle folds over softly curving hips. Hanging sleeves made room for the voluminous sleeves of Meggie’s white linen chemise which rose above the bodice, a bodice loosely laced with black ribbon. A bodice that revealed a tantalizing glimpse of her exquisite breasts.

  At the moment Cameron cared not that her hair ribbon was among those articles of apparel forbidden to the Irish. His mind fixed on the notion that he could remove Meggie’s gown with a gentle tug of her laces.

  God’s bones! His body warmed; his loins ached. Uninvited desire held him in its white-hot grip.

  Alone in a newly cleaned stall, Meggie talked softly to the foal as she brushed him. “’Tis difficult to be without a mother, but not impossible. Ye will grow strong and handsome. Ye may be almost as handsome as the bard. But not quite.” She paused. Tilting her head, she regarded the young colt. “How could I compare a stallion and man after all? You should be all that is on my mind, but see how Colm invades my thoughts. It must be a spell placed upon me by the banshee.”

  Cameron’s heart thundered. Thoughts of me invade her thoughts!

  She kissed the blaze on the foal’s forehead.

  Her lips should be on mine!

  He struggled to find his voice, and when he finally did, his tone was little more than a rasp, thick with desire. “Meggie?”

  Does she hear it in my voice? How much I want her?

  ’Twas only one word, and yet it resonated with emotion he had no right to feel.

  She smiled. Her lips, full, deep, shining apple red, parted in delight. “How long have ye been standing there?”

  “Not long. I just came in.” He gestured toward the door, fell all over his words. “I think it’s going to rain. But... ah, we can stay dry in here.”

  “I love the rain!” Her gaze came to rest on his. “’Tis the perfect end to the day.”

  She might not feel the same when he told her he was leaving.

  Meggie tossed the brush she had been using on the foal to the floor and rushed toward Cameron. He could feel the bubbling of her excitement.

  “Colm, I have received wondrous news today! My father is on his way to Dochas.”

  A crack of lightning slashed the silence. A roll of thunder shook the ground.

  Cameron’s pulse thudded to a near stop. His heart leapt to his throat. He forced a smile. “I am happy for ye.”

  No matter how tempted he was to linger at Dochas, there was now no question. Cameron could not tarry a moment longer. If he did not wish to meet up with Humphrey Fitzgerald, which he did not, he must leave at the first light of dawn on the morrow. With her warrior father due to arrive, Cameron would worry less about leaving Meggie alone with naught but her musket and fey-minded grandfather for protection.

  “Father will arrive within the week.”

  “You shall be able to marry Niall.”

  “Nay.” She stood inches away from him. Her wild-flower blue gaze locked on his. “I cannot marry a coward,” she whispered.

  If she only knew. Cameron felt very much like a coward himself at the moment.

  When he made no reply, Meggie spun back toward the foal’s stall. “Ye came to tell me something?”

  “Aye.”

  “Out with it, then.”

  The duchess made nothing simple.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meggie feigned indifference. But as she picked up the brush she had thrown to the floor, her hands trembled. The look in Colm’s eyes, the timbre of his voice, warned of impending catastrophe. At once the stable air felt close and warm. The distant crack of lightning and the vibrating roll of thunder felt particularly ominous. She could not catch a full breath.

  He spoke softly as if offering an apology. “Meggie, it is time for me to leave Dochas.”

  “Ye cannot leave now,” she declared in cheerful defiance. Purposefully misunderstanding his meaning, she added, “It will soon be dark, and a storm threatens. You cannot travel in the dark through a storm.”

  “I will leave at first light. I shall be gone when you wake tomorrow.”

  Nay! Nay! Nay! The words echoed in Meggie’s head as if she had shouted them from the highest mountain.

  She could think of no way to make Colm stay but to throw her arms about his towering form and hold him tightly to her, to her heart. At the thought of waking to a day without the
handsome bard, Meggie’s chest filled with pain. ’Twas as if a steel mace had struck and crushed her heart.

  Nay, the bard was not a wealthy farmer, not a man who could restore Dochas to glory. But he was the man who had won her heart without a word, without a sonnet. Was he leaving because she had asked him to compose a poem, one that she could hear this eve? Had she coerced a man suffering without his muse?

  It mattered not. Nothing else mattered other than that she was losing Colm, losing another she loved.

  She took a step toward him. “I shall miss ye, Bard.”

  His deep brown gaze locked on hers. “And I will miss you.”

  Meggie could barely speak: the gates of her mind had closed; her throat felt as if it were lined with burning sand. “Is there nothing I can say to make you stay?”

  Colm gave a melancholy wag of his head and then shot her a wry smile. “You might shoot me. That would make me stay”

  “Ach! Will ye ne’er let me forget?”

  “Nay.” A golden light twinkled in the sweet chestnut depths of his eyes. “It gives me pleasure to see your cheeks grow as scarlet as wild berries.”

  Her lips quivered as Meggie bit back the words in her heart. It was all she could do not to cry out, “But I love you! I love you. I shall always love you.”

  Instead, she bit down hard on the inner fleshy part of her lower lip. She refused to show her weakness for him. Fitzgerald pride would not allow her to plead for the bard to stay. Meggie needed no one. Had she not proven so all these years? With her mother dead, her father off fighting the English, and her dear old grandfather weaving in and out of the fog beclouding his mind, she had managed well enough alone.

  But this would not be the same aloneness.

  Even though Meggie suspected that through the ages men and women had suffered for words not spoken, misunderstandings not resolved, love not acknowledged, she could not voice her own objections. How silly she would sound! She could not utter aloud the words tearing at her heart.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, the bard lowered his eyes. “I have stayed too long, Meggie.”

  “It does not seem so very long,” she replied in hushed tones.