Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  Fearing it might be the last time she saw him, Meggie could not tear her eyes from Colm’s magnificent form. His indigo tunic strained against the breadth of his shoulders. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow. And when he raised his head to throw her a crooked smile, the slight chip of his tooth seemed immensely enticing.

  “I must be on my way.”

  “Without your muse?”

  “When I least expect her, she will sit upon my shoulder once more and whisper inspiration. Perhaps she’s waiting for me on the road to Dublin.”

  “Will ye remember me after ye’ve gone?”

  “Ah, Meggie. Who could forget a woman like you?”

  She stiffened.

  “With hair the color of fire, silk fire.”

  It was her heart on fire at the moment.

  With a grim twist of his lips, Colm reached out to frame her cheek with one large, warm palm. “Who could forget this face? Not I. I’ll not soon forget the sparkle in your eyes, nor the magic of your smile. Ye are a bewitching woman.”

  Meggie ceased to breathe. Merciful Mary!

  His eyes darkened from deep brown to midnight black. He gazed at her lips as if he might kiss them.

  Her heart clamored against her chest. Aye. Kiss me. Kiss me, Bard!

  She would help. She leaned in toward him, tipped her head ever so slightly, parted her lips a wee, wee bit, and raised her gaze to his.

  A long moment passed in which she thought the roaring sound of her heart could be heard all the way to Dublin. Did Colm not wish to steal a kiss? Was he too much the gallant? Ah, that was it. But determined to have her way, Meggie inched closer to him.

  He moved closer to her. She breathed deeply of the faint leather and soap scent of him. Raw, masculine force shimmered from his muscular form, holding her transfixed. For an instant, Meggie worried that she might swoon from giddy anticipation. But then the bard dipped his head and put her fears to rest.

  His lips met hers. And the earth spun. Spun. Spun. Spun.

  Meggie whimpered softly as sparks of fire shot through her veins, followed by a rush of liquid heat, thick and ambrosia sweet.

  The soft caress of Colm’s lips deepened to a crushing demand. A demand she responded to with equal passion and shuddering awe. Wave after wave of heart-reeling emotion poured through her, over her, around her. Emotions new and overwhelming.

  No other man’s kiss had filled Meggie with such poignant aching. Desire that began with a soft glow but burst into the orange-red flame of a morning sunrise. No other man’s kiss left her unwilling for the moment to end. But of course, she had never loved before.

  She had barely known Declan before he went off to slay the invading Englishmen. He boasted the way young boys boasted of slaying dragons. Declan had been a boy.

  Niall was another matter. He had forced his attentions upon her. His kisses bruised her lips and left her feeling cold.

  She had never loved before.

  Meggie loved Colm!

  The bard kissed her fiercely, as if he meant to leave an impression of his lips upon hers, a mold of flesh and fire forever emblazoned.

  Saints above!

  This was what she was meant to feel. The drumming of her heart, the lightness of body, as if she could push off and fly like a swallow soaring to greet the first spring breeze.

  If he made love to her tonight, she would know the poetry of Colm’s touch before he left Dochas. And Meggie much preferred the touch of his lips to the mawkish words of a forced sonnet. But it must be tonight, for there might never be another time.

  The bard raised his mouth from hers and drew a ragged breath. He closed his eyes as if he were composing himself.

  “Meggie, I must leave you now before I do something we shall regret. I would not take advantage of you.”

  “But I would take advantage of you.”

  Sometimes a woman was forced to take matters into her own hands.

  His eyes widened. He took a step back.

  Undaunted, Meggie stepped forward. The startled poet appeared rooted to the spot. He did not move when she curled her arms around his neck.

  “Would you deny me what I want most in the world at this moment, Colm?”

  “What would that be?”

  “You.”

  “Think, Meggie.” The husky timbre of his voice sounded tortured. “If you still feel the same when I return to Dochas, I will make love to you until the foal runs his first race.”

  “And if you do not return to Dochas?” She slipped a hand beneath his tunic and slid her palm up along the hard-muscled wall of him. Leisurely, shamelessly, she stroked the crisp curls on his chest.

  The bard closed his eyes and exhaled with a shudder.

  “What then, Colm?”

  He looked down, looked deeply into her eyes. “You will be the loss of my life.”

  “Let us not talk of losing when we have all to gain. One more kiss,” she coaxed. Shamelessly.

  “One more kiss,” he agreed, repeating the words as if he were a man entranced.

  Meggie raised up to the tips of her toes, and as her lips met his, Colm moaned and gathered her into his arms.

  She barely noticed the sharp retort of lightning and the low rumble of thunder. Enfolded within the strong shelter of Colm’s arms, Meggie expected the earth might shatter with her joy.

  Too soon, he raised his mouth from her lips, sprinkling kisses along the long column of her throat and into the sensitive pulse of her neck. His trail of kisses sharpened the ache between Meggie’s thighs, heightened the fire flooding her being.

  She could not let him go.

  With a deep, rumbling groan, Colm lifted his head, grasped her forearms, and swallowed hard. “Meggie, there’s something you don’t know.”

  She knew all she needed to know. “Come.” Seizing his hand, Meggie pulled him toward the door.

  He dug in his heels, torment ravished his handsome face. “I should not confess ... but what I must tell ye will change your mind.”

  “Nothing will change my mind,” she assured him, inching her chin upward. “Besides, ’tis not the moment for confessions.”

  “Meggie, your emotions are ruling instead of your head.”

  “Aye, and it’s about time they did.” She pulled him outside and into a deluge of rain.

  “Nay,” he protested, more weakly than before.

  Alive with excitement, Meggie laughed as the needlelike raindrops stung her face and slid down her cheeks. “Come.”

  “Where are ye going?”

  “Here, in here.” Drenched and uncaring, she rugged at his hand. The rain seemed to only whet her anticipation.

  She pulled the door open, and Colm followed her into the one-room thatched cottage used to dry herbs and flowers for the castle.

  Small bouquets of lavender, rosemary, and saffron dangled from the ceiling, creating a heady aroma. There was another item stored here over the rush-strewn floor. A tapestry taken by her father from an English invader. Meggie had refused to hang it in the castle, owing to its previous owner. Nothing English entered Dochas! But now the green and gold hunting scene promised unforeseen possibilities.

  “I cannot see. What is this place?” Colm asked.

  “’Tis used for storage,” she replied. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Meggie reached out and gently touched his sleeve. “You’re wet.”

  “You are as well,” he answered. But he did not touch her.

  “Take the ribbon from my braid,” she whispered urgently, turning so that he might easily find the plait.

  She waited. One ... two ... three ... four.

  Would he not humor her? Would he resist what she desperately wished to offer?

  Five ... six ....

  And then Meggie felt Colm’s hands brush her neck. A cascade of delicious chills shot down her spine, swept to her core. In the next instant, he found her braid and began to slowly unwind the ribbon caught among strands of damp, silky hair.

  Meggie meant to take full delight
in each touch, each wondrous sensation. From this moment on, whenever she heard rain on a roof, she would recall Colm and this time together when they might have been the only man and woman in the world. She would remember the astonishing way he made her feel, a woman desired and cherished.

  His lips grazed the top of her head, then drifted down to her forehead. Meggie’s body hummed with love for him. He was the bread and ale of her life, the music and laughter. She might exist without him, but she would truly live only in her memories of this night.

  “Pull the laces from my gown,” she murmured. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and Colm stood close enough to see the outline of his rugged figure, the high planes and deep angles of his striking face, the shadowy stubble of beard.

  “Meggie ...” He said her name softly, a barely audible objection.

  “Or I shall.”

  “Nay...”

  His palm, warm and gentle, grazed her breasts as he reached out for her laces. She shivered. In deepening silence and in slow, deliberate motion, Colm removed the laces. Though she found it difficult to believe, Meggie thought his hands might be shaking. At last her gown fell in a puddle at her feet.

  The bard gazed upon her with unconcealed admiration, as if she were a beautiful faerie queen, not a lass with freckles and small breasts.

  Meggie’s body reacted in a startling manner. Her breasts swelled against her chemise, and her nipples grew taut. The effect the man had upon her with just one look was astonishing.

  To think she once feared he was a werewolf!

  “Your tunic is much too wet,” she said to him in an odd, strangled voice. “I think ye shall have to remove it.”

  “Nay, Meggie ...”

  Once again, she slid her hands beneath his tunic, felt the rumbling in his chest. “Aye, Colm.”

  He did not protest again. Without another word, he pulled the tunic over his head. She did the same with her chemise.

  “Ye must shed your damp trews as well,” she told him. Her voice trembled a wee bit, but not so that he would notice. She hoped.

  “Nay, Meggie...”

  “Oh, aye, Colm.”

  Despite his faint protests, the bard acquiesced in all that Meggie asked until he stood before her in bare magnificence. A body of pure muscle and power. Her heart pounded above the sound of the slicing rain. His startling manhood gave evidence that he desired her as much as she did him.

  Meggie stepped still closer until she could feel each warm breath he exhaled caress her face. Reaching out, she took one of his hands in hers and brought it to her heart, sliding it down ever so gently to cover her breast.

  “God’s bones, Meggie,” he said thickly, the words spilling from him on a ragged sigh.

  “Hold me,” she pleaded.

  Colm’s arms engulfed her, pulling Meggie against him as if he would take her into him. Body melded against body ... fire to fire in a frenzy of passion. He smothered her with kisses. She could barely catch her breath. He would devour her. He must. More than anything she hoped he would.

  The fire within Meggie burned too brightly, the ache between her thighs intensified too urgently.

  Caught up in a desire too overwhelming to be denied, she sank to the floor cradled in Colm’s arms. The old English carpet cushioned them. With no music but the rain, no experience in the art of lovemaking, Meggie surrendered to the bard’s lesson of love and tender guidance.

  His hands skimmed her body. Her heart thumped and thudded, started and stopped, quite unable to keep a steady beat.

  When her aching grew too much to bear without a cry for help, Colm nudged her legs apart. With a gentle thrust he became one with Meggie.

  Her soul soared. She gasped with pleasure, felt no pain.

  ’Tis a miracle! ’Tis bliss! Do all women know about this? She had had no mother to tell her but certainly this feeling wasn’t something one woman should keep secret from another!

  And when Colm began the dance of love, the rhythm of the ages, Meggie’s body fell in time as if she had known the motions all of her life. Arching her back, she rose up to meet him, and he carried her clear into the heavens above.

  Meggie cried out as her body splintered into shining shards, falling through the velvet night. The bard echoed her cry, and released his love with a shudder that rocked the earth beneath them.

  She knew she wore a silly smile, like one who has drunk too much mead. But it mattered not. A delicious warmth poured through Meggie, leaving her languid and spent. She fell back to Irish soil on a feather borne by the wee people.

  “Meggie?” Above her, Colm’s dark acorn eyes reflected concern.

  “Aye?”

  “Are ye ... Are ye all right?”

  “Aye. And I’m thinking if the muse hasn’t returned to ye now, she never will.”

  * * * *

  Meggie left Cameron as soon as the rain slowed.

  He lay on the tapestry in the dark cursing himself for being the worst scoundrel who ever lived. He had tried to tell her. He wanted to tell her the truth. If Meggie knew that he was a spy, she would not grieve over his leaving; she would be glad. He trusted her not to give him up to Barra or Niall. If nothing else, the duchess would not want others to know she had been fooled. Betrayed again. His betrayal was made far worse by remaining silent when he might have spoken.

  But Meggie had sealed his lips. She had stirred his passion to a point where he had been unable to turn her away. Cameron had wanted her so desperately that he would have given up his commission at that moment. Obviously, he had lost all reason.

  The freckled, blue-eyed beauty had given him the greatest gift a woman could give. And memories he would treasure forever. Even now the pleasure of cupping her breasts in the palms of his hands gave him goose bumps. Small and firm, Meggie’s creamy mounds were made for his hands to fondle and adore.

  She was made for him. Her excitement and eagerness captivated him.

  Cameron’s heart roared, just as it had when Meggie first curled her arms around him. When she disrobed, insisted he do the same, what could he do? Deny a beautiful woman? He wasn’t made of steel... though at the moment he felt that way. Hot and hard. That’s what the Irish vixen had done to him. Again. In recall. The memory of how her hips had undulated in teasing stimulation beneath him aroused Cameron to an unbelievable, unacceptable state. He must bide his time until his ardor cooled.

  God’s bones! The duchess had appeared to enjoy making love with him!

  Once again he asked himself how any man could have turned from the temptation Meggie presented. Cameron hadn’t had a woman in months. And he had grown fond of the spirited redhead during his time at Dochas. The strength in his leg had returned as proved this night, but it was plain he possessed no strength of will where Meggie Fitzgerald was concerned.

  Reluctant to leave this enchanted place and the afterglow of love, he dressed slowly. When there was nothing left but to return to the castle for his last night, he snapped a bit of lavender from one of the bouquets hanging from the ceiling. He tucked it beneath the band of his trews. Later, he would put the dried flower in his small leather traveling pouch to carry with him as a reminder of Meggie.

  But when Cameron stepped out of the drying cottage and into the night, he encountered fire of another sort. One the light rain could not put out.

  The stable was on fire! Fire was a constant hazard but not one he wished to combat this eve. The blaze, which was not yet full-blown, might have been started by the lightning or even sparks from the wall torch. Intent on saving the stable, Cameron sprung into action.

  “Fire!” he shouted, making his way to the well. “Fire!”

  The blacksmith heard his cries first and came running.

  Cameron barked his orders. “Send for help. Bring jugs, pots, pails - whatever will hold water.”

  As the blacksmith made haste toward the castle, Cameron ran to the stable. If Meggie lost her foal to fire, she would be devastated.

  He raced through thick smoke toward the
foal’s stall. The young colt and its mother whinnied and pranced, each edging toward the far wall to be near the open window. After a hurried search, Cameron located rope. By tying a knot, he made a loose collar and went for the frightened foal. After encountering much prancing, rearing, and snorting, he was finally able to loop the rope around the colt’s neck. The mare reared up and when her hooves came down, they narrowly missed him. He pulled at the rope. The terrified colt wouldn’t budge.

  Tense and frustrated, Cameron attempted to soothe the reluctant animal. “Come, boy, come.”

  To no avail. And then through choking smoke and leaping flames, Cameron smelled a whiff of sweet lavender and woman.

  “I’ll take Bard!” Meggie cried, tearing the rope from his hand. “You take Sorcha.”

  “Get out, Meggie!”

  “We’ll leave together,” she shouted.

  “A cloth. A rag. We need something to tie around their eyes.”

  Meggie dipped down and twice ripped the hem of her chemise. “Take this!” She shoved a torn piece of linen into his hand.

  “Now go save the foal!”

  She doubled over in a fit of coughing.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aye.” Nodding, she rapidly blinked her tearing eyes.

  “Then, go ... before the foal is hurt.” It was the only thing Cameron could think to say that would move and save the stubborn Irish lass.

  The stable boy along with several of the other men had run into the stable. Some threw water on the fire; others set to rescuing the remaining horses. Of the twelve stalls, all but one held fine Irish steeds.

  Struggling to still the mare long enough to wrap her eyes, Cameron was knocked to the ground. Spurred by a searing pain in his chest and a harsh cough, he pushed himself to his feet and looped another rope around her neck. Refusing to accept defeat, he pulled Sorcha from the stable, using every ounce of strength he possessed.

  Still holding the foal’s rope, Meggie stood outside the stable. In the midst of the mayhem, she was doubled over, coughing so hard it shook her body. Cameron took the foal’s rope and handed it over along with the mare’s to Gerald Fitzgerald. The old man stood watching, rubbing the wart on his nose and shaking his head.

  Wrapping an arm around Meggie, Cameron guided her toward the castle. They were caught in a fresh torrent of rain, one heavy enough to douse the fire.