Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  “We shall build a new and better stable on the morrow,” she declared, before taking a new fit of coughing.

  Cameron hoisted Meggie into his arms and carried her into the castle and to her chamber. Her breathing was heavy as he gently laid her down on the bed.

  “I feel... feel as if the mare is sitting on my chest,” she rasped before giving in to another bout of coughing.

  “Rest easy, all of the horses were saved.”

  She nodded weakly.

  He could not leave her like this.

  “Will ye dry my hair?” she asked.

  “Aye.” She who never asked for help had asked.

  After calling for warm water, Cameron sat on the edge of Meggie’s bed. Never in his life had he imagined that taking care of a woman would give him a feeling of contentment, a feeling of importance. Dipping a soft rag in warm lavender water, he bathed the traces of the fire away. He gently wiped the soot from Meggie’s blushing cheeks, her near regal cheekbones, and sweet, saucy freckles.

  Cameron took extra care, fearing his male clumsiness might seize him. He stroked the Irish beauty’s silky complexion from her smooth, ivory forehead to her impertinent chin. And when his rag reached her mouth, he experienced an overwhelming urge to run his tongue along the cherry fullness of her lips. If he could kiss away the smudges there, he would be a happy man. Instead, he fixed on subduing the burgeoning warmth in his loins and dabbed at the residue. Meggie’s lips parted in a soft, moist smile.

  His heart careened against his chest. Quickly turning away, he took a steadying breath before picking up her brush and in long strokes brushing ash from Meggie’s hair.

  When Cameron could think of no more to do to make her comfortable, he allowed himself a kiss. His lips quickly grazed the top her nose.

  He wanted to kiss much more of her. Every inch of her. Again.

  “I shall leave you to rest now,” he said, standing.

  She looked up at him, a heart-rending smile upon her lips, lips still swollen from his kisses. “My thanks to you. If you had not acted quickly, the foal would have died, and the others as well.”

  “Do not fashion me into a hero, Meggie.”

  “But ye are.”

  “Nay. I only wish I had something to give you.”

  “You shall give me a poem one day.”

  “Nay, Meggie, there is no poetry in my soul—

  “Aye, if only ye knew it. Poetry sings in the tips of your fingers, from your lips.”

  Cameron lowered his head. The golden ring he had worn ever since he could remember gleamed on his finger.

  Meggie watched silently as he twisted the band to and fro until he could remove it.

  Placing her left hand in his, Cameron slipped the ring onto the raspy duchess’s third finger. “It’s too large for ye,” he said with a puff of disappointment. “But my ring is all I have to give ye.”

  “’Tis a beautiful band.” She spoke in hushed tones, regarding the simple rose-and-crown ring with a reverence most women reserved for diamonds and rubies. “Is it an heirloom?”

  “Aye. My mother gave it to me. But that’s another story for another time,” he added hastily.

  “I shall cherish your ring, Bard, but...” She paused and raised her luminous eyes to his. “But you are wrong. There is something else you have to give, more precious than gold.”

  His love. She wanted his love.

  The devil.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colm raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Standing above her bed, he appeared as tall as the tower house and, sadly, just as impenetrable.

  “I know not what ye speak of, Meggie. Aye, but I have never been able to understand a woman.” He paused, waiting until the cough that scraped her chest passed. “I’m thinking the good Lord meant it that way. Certainly, if men and women possessed a true understanding of each other, ’twould be frightening.”

  But he did understand what she meant. Meggie felt it, knew it as well as she knew the flecks of gold softly glittering in his eyes. Clearly, he was not ready to give her his heart. But she sensed he wavered. He cared for her. She hadn’t imagined the grand passion that they had shared. Given a few more days and several nights of loving, Meggie felt certain she could persuade the bard to cease resisting his feelings. Once he did, it would only be a matter of time before he realized the advantages of making his home at Dochas. Colm was an intelligent man, after all. His sharp wit was one of the reasons she had come to admire him.

  If all else failed, she could always hold him manacled in the tower house as her love slave. Ah, but she had little time to dream. She must act at once to put his mind at ease. If he suspected Meggie wished to marry him, the lusty poet might balk. If she wasn’t mistaken, Colm would be happier believing that love, marriage and life at Dochas was his decision.

  Meggie lowered her eyes, twisted a curl that fell over her shoulder. “Colm, I would not have ye believe that because we made love that I have ... have feelings that demand ye ... ye remain with me,” she said in a faint, scratchy voice.

  “But I have taken your –”

  “Ye must forgive my curiosity,” she interrupted. “For I have long been curious as to what happens between a man and a woman in private. This eve I allowed my curiosity full rein. I hope I have not caused you undue distress.”

  A flicker of surprise lit his eyes, followed by a deep, disapproving frown. “Meggie, if your grandfather and father knew what passed between us…” his voice trailed off in a sigh.

  Raising her gaze to his, she spoke quietly, beseeching but not begging. “I would think kindly of ye, Bard, if ye never mention to another soul what happened between us.”

  Colm’s frown grew deeper still, his eyes darker. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight from his bad leg. “Aye. You, you need not fret. But—”

  Meggie lifted wide eyes to his. “Aye?”

  “I am a man of honor. I would not... I did not... I did not know ye were ...” His stumbling explanation trailed off into silence once again. Closing his eyes for a moment, he drew a deep breath and began anew. “Nay, I did not consider that ye had never known a man before.”

  Warming at the memory of the moment she became a woman, the wondrous moment that she became his, Meggie smiled. “Ye were the first.”

  And last.

  Grimacing, he rubbed his forehead. Rapidly. “A thousand pardons, I should have known. I am not altogether witless.”

  “Mine is a happy heart.” She gave him her sweetest, most saintly smile. “Do not vex yourself.”

  “I would not have hurt ye for the world, Meggie. I respect you. I, I --”

  Meggie cut him off, unable to allow the distraught bard to torture himself any longer. “I understand, Colm. Please believe me when I say that ye have not hurt me. You have answered all of my questions this eve, and more. Quite to my liking. I am at peace knowing at last exactly what happens between a man and a woman.”

  “But... But it is not always the way it was between us.”

  She smiled. “Ye have made me a happy woman, and I cannot ask more of ye than that.”

  He shook his head, as if the slight action might clear an apparently perplexed mind.

  “I must rest my throat now, and my eyes.” Meggie’s eyes stung, watering as if she were still in the burning stable. She attempted to blink the pain away as Colm turned from her.

  Only one candle burned, and that by her bedside. Her downcast lover busied himself, rolling out the pallet in the dim light. Seamus and Bernadette slept on the other side of Meggie’s bed, ignoring Colm’s presence. The man and the beasts had come far in recent weeks, from instant umbrage to silent tolerance.

  Colm lay on his side. He braced himself on one elbow, propping his head with his hand. “I shall sleep here this eve in case you should need me.”

  “My thanks.” She smiled. She would always need him but not quite in the way that he meant.

  ’Twas Deirdre’s place Colm occupied. If she had bee
n at Dochas, the impulsive girl would have spent the night with Meggie. But the morning after being attacked by Thomas, Deirdre had asked to leave, pleading to make a visit to her friend who kept house for Ballymore’s only priest. Meggie expected Deirdre to remain in the village until the English left Dochas.

  Owing to her youth, her fearful state and the intrusion of the randy English, Meggie thought it wise. She had sent Deirdre on her way under the protection of two old shepherds.

  Meggie had found her own protector in Colm. On this eve he had made love to her until her body hummed. Music her own harp would envy played in Meggie’s heart. The brave poet had fought and extinguished a raging fire. He had carried her to her bedchamber as if she weighed no more than one of the wispy wee people.

  She did not for a moment doubt Colm’s ability to chase off a wicked pooka, ward off werewolves and save her from evil curses.

  His gaze pierced the near darkness as he studied her, his eyes reflecting his concern. He reminded Meggie of a gardener regarding his finest rose, fearing the flower might wilt at any moment, watching and waiting in mounting agony for its head to drop off! In this instance, hers.

  On the chance that this was the hour that wishes came true, Meggie wished for Colm to be lying beside her. Impossible, considering that he had pulled cushions from every chamber to ensure that she slept in an upright position. No room remained on her bed. Prevailing theory taught that by remaining erect, any smoke inhaled would exit the chest. Meggie would sleep this eve in a sitting position, a far more favorable cure than resting with a dead pigeon over her lungs, as was another widely accepted remedy.

  “Would you like another cushion?” Colm asked.

  “Nay, I am fine. There is barely enough room left for me on my bed. But ye make a fine nurse,” she hastened to add in the strained, raspy voice she had acquired since the fire.

  “I learned from you,” he said, with a sheepish grin.

  As much as she longed to feel his arms around her and to make love through the night, Meggie’s lungs burned. Her throat felt so raw that when she coughed, she feared it would tear and bleed.

  But her soul whistled a merry tune. Her mind skipped like a child’s in lighthearted delight. Feelings she had never experienced previously and could only attribute to making love with Colm overwhelmed her. Feelings that prevailed despite the fire in the stable.

  Fires were common and this eve they had had the good fortune to save all of the horses. But Meggie’s body had never before smoldered with its own fire and smoke. She held the achy, edgy feeling to her, unwilling to let it go.

  “And I have learned from you, Colm. You and I each possess skills to share,” she assured him in a strained whisper. “We can learn from one another.”

  “Aye? My muse has not yet returned. What could you possibly learn from me?”

  “I could learn how to please you in—”

  Bolting upright, Colm interrupted Meggie. “Ye should not be dwelling upon—”

  “I cannot help but remember. I do not wish to forget.” She shot him a teasing smile before lowering her head. His mouth had fallen open.

  Meggie could feel his disbelieving eyes upon her.

  She played with the full sleeve of her chemise before meeting his gaze once again. “But you do possess another skill I require.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “I fear to ask.”

  “If you could help me on the morrow, I would forever be in your debt.” Meggie ignored the pain in her throat as the words poured from her. If she gave Colm the opportunity to interrupt again, she feared he would say nay. “Might I prevail upon you to remain at Dochas for one more day?”

  Except for the hard thudding of her heart, all was silent.

  The muscle in his jaw constricted. “One more day?”

  “’Tis all I ask,” she said, noting once again how strong the lines of his jaw were. Clenched or at ease, the square plane defined the bard’s powerful masculinity in some mysterious way.

  “Aye?” he asked in a definitely leery tone.

  She had lost her thought while contemplating his jaw. Whatever she had been about to say evaporated like morning mist. Dragging her gaze away, Meggie turned her attention to the gold band that she held on her finger with the tip of her thumb. Though Colm’s ring was much too large for her, she refused to remove it. She would wear it always.

  “I shall require help to rebuild the stable. Only hours ago, I witnessed your skills with the men. You have the natural instincts of a leader. They listened to you and responded without question.”

  “Ye flatter me, Meggie. But I am only a man without his muse. I doubt they will heed the orders of a bard again.”

  “Nay. You are so much more. And if ye would but organize the workers, I shall oversee the actual work myself, with grandfather, of course,” she told him with a firmness that precluded argument.

  Meggie believed she might scream if she heard about his lack of muse one more time. She also feared the uncertain poet’s refusal. The more she talked, the less opportunity he had to say nay.

  Colm let out a heavy sigh. “You give me too much credit.”

  “When Niall ran off, it was you who met with Thomas. And the next day you sent the British on their way,” Meggie pointed out before falling into a pitiful fit of coughing. Only partly feigned.

  Colm sprung to his feet. “Do ye need ale?”

  Meggie met his worried gaze. I need for ye to stay.

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  Lowering his head, he released another, longer sigh. One that might have been heard way down in Kerry.

  “Will... Will you stay, Colm?” she asked, lifting her chin, bracing for a negative reply.

  With vague discomfort, Meggie realized this was the closest she had ever come to pleading. But she knew him to be a compassionate man, and for that reason she swallowed a bit of pride. If her pathetic appeal resulted in Colm’s remaining at Dochas, she would not regret a small loss of pride.

  He pressed his lips together. Oh, my! What magic his lips wrought. Narrow lips, fine and firm with the power to transport her. Meggie’s eyes fixed on his lips; her heart skipped and fluttered about as she awaited his reply.

  “One more day?” The bard’s eyes locked on hers.

  “One more day,” she repeated flatly, purposefully suppressing the joy she felt from bubbling up into her voice.

  Obviously agitated, Colm began to pace, flinging his arms about like an excited orator. “Meggie, I do not want to give ye the false impression that I will remain at Dochas any longer.”

  “I understand. You shall remain only one more day in order to begin the rebuilding of the stable.” Meggie paused a moment before softly delivering the coup de grace. “Am I asking too much of ye?”

  Colm stopped pacing in mid-step. He regarded her over his shoulder.

  She shot him a quivering smile. Above the noise of her drumming heart, Meggie heard the candle sputter and felt the quickening spurt of her pulse.

  Releasing a sigh even heavier than the last, the bard turned to her. A golden flame flickered in the deep brown velvet of his eyes as they met hers. “One more day.”

  The soft surrender, the ragged timbre of his voice, sent a warm tingle skittering down Meggie’s spine. With the uttering of three small words, the weight in her chest lifted. She fell asleep confident that the light, happy pita-pat of her heart meant she would enjoy splendid dreams.

  * * * *

  Cameron lay awake. He had just promised to stay another day. He had lost all control of the situation. It now seemed that a better part of his life revolved around the desires of the duchess. The next thing he knew he would be promising Meggie Fitzgerald that he would return to Dochas.

  But he had taken her virginity. Nay, that was not quite right. She had given herself to him. He was no villain lusting after innocents. But certainly he had lost sight of his mission for more than a few heated moments.

  Grave danger lay in losing sight of what he had been sent to Irela
nd to accomplish. His wits must be sharp at all times. If not, Cameron put the life he had long dreamed of at stake,

  Meggie moaned softly in her sleep. The sweet sound was quite like one he had heard while making love to her. God’s bones!

  Cameron turned over, shifting so that his back was to Meggie and her bed. He shut her out in the only way he could. Almost.

  It was a matter of fact that since King Henry first planted Englishmen and women in Ireland, many marriages between Irish and English had resulted. In a twist of fate, the English disposed the Irish from their land but then were absorbed by the natives. English men wed Irish lasses; Irish men wed English women. Divided loyalties were not uncommon.

  But nay, Cameron could ill afford a wife. Until he became a captain, such a step was unthinkable. Impossible. To even consider such an outrageous idea signaled his mind had been damaged by smoke inhalation. Besides, Meggie often stated in plain terms and terrible curses that she hated the English. She would never marry him.

  Cameron had bedded and enjoyed a fair number of comely maidens in his past, but he had never considered marrying one of them. What man in his right mind would knowingly ask for the duchess’s hand in marriage? A redheaded, freckled vixen full of stubborn pride would be no submissive wife. What did Meggie offer other than a superstitious bent and an inclination to be ever ready with a musket?

  Passion. She offered unbridled passion. Meggie had come alive in his embrace. Each brush of his fingertips brought a rapturous response. She rose to meet him, to repeat after him. Her laughter, rich and strong, sprang from her core and enveloped Cameron with its music of uninhibited delight. Meggie’s laughter excited him, as well as her softer sounds. Even now he could hear her sensual murmurings as he had loved her, the astonished exclamations of, “Oh, my!”

  Cameron’s lips found heaven in the sweet taste of her, the lavender, slightly salty flavor of her willowy figure. Her body danced beneath his lips as he had sprinkled kisses the length of her; her breasts, her tight, flat belly, her silken thighs.