As the afternoon deepened to dusk, Meggie left the window to light a candle. Only one. Light too bright would hurt her eyes, eyes that stung from constant weeping, silent weeping, sobbing weeping. She had done it all. To her vast relief the tears had at last abated, leaving sore eyes, a raw throat, and a stuffy nose that forced her to breathe through her mouth.
When she returned to the window, Meggie faced an unexpected sight. A group of riders galloped through Dochas’s gate. Even in the dim light, she recognized the man and woman leading the group. Niall and Deirdre.
This time Meggie knew the truth at once. The orphan girl she had taken in and nurtured at Dochas hadn’t gone to the village at all. When Meggie refused to listen, Deirdre had ridden to Niall to report her suspicions about the bard.
Flailing her arm, Meggie shouted from the window, directing a curse on the dark-haired young woman she had taken under her wing. Knowing she would feel guilty later neither deterred her nor caused her to relish the casting less.
“Deirdre Kildare, from this day may your cheeks lose their bloom and your hair turn as white as an old woman’s. May crows nest in your cap, your tongue grow thick, and your gossipin’ mouth be filled with burning pebbles!”
No one but the hounds heard Meggie’s extemporaneous curse, but Niall, glancing up, spotted her in the window and waved. Apparently, in his arrogance, he thought she greeted him. Eagerly, at that. He would soon discover differently. Sailing toward the door, she issued an order to her trusted friends. “Come, hounds!”
But what to tell Niall? Had the Englishman left Dochas and fled to safety? Or did he remain in the castle, waiting until dawn to depart. She did not know.
Ach! If Meggie hadn’t insisted the bard stay another day to help with the rebuilding, he would be halfway to Dublin by now. But he had stayed. He had given her his help when he had no reason or allegiance. In hindsight, she would not have asked if she had known he was an Englishman. Certainly, she would not have fallen in love with him had she known.
’Twas said that every day had one hour in which a wish might be granted. Although she hadn’t been able to prove it in the past, Meggie hoped that this was the hour and her wish for Cohn’s safety would be granted. She wished it twice to make certain.
With her shaggy dogs at her heels, Meggie arrived at the bottom of the tower house stairs resolved to sending Niall on his way. Her one-eyed suitor strode toward her like a thundercloud, dark and forbidding. Collecting her breath, she nervously fingered the golden ring hidden just beneath the neckline of her chemise. The band the bard had given her, his only possession. She could think of nothing as invincible or as enduring as gold. Meggie took strength from its solid warmth.
“Meggie, me heart.” Niall scooped her up in his arms, smothering her against his chest. “Have ye been hurt?”
“Nay,” she said, wrenching out of his arms.
“I’ve been out of me mind with worry. Deirdre has told me all. How the English militia demanded lodging here and how the bard sent them away. He’s a spy, Meggie. A dangerous man. I knew it from the moment I saw him. I should not have left ye here alone with the man.”
“Pish!” Meggie kept her head lowered as she smoothed her skirts. “I know Deirdre believes Colm to be an English spy, but not I.”
Seizing her forearm, Niall shook Meggie impatiently. Her teeth clicked against one another; her heart pounded. “Why can ye not see? Has the treacherous enemy blinded yer eyes with sweet words?”
Meggie raised her gaze to Niall’s. “Nay.”
His dark brows gathered in a deep frown, wrinkling his patch and hooding his one good eye. “Have ye been crying?”
Meggie twisted away from him. “A cinder has lodged in my eye. ’Tis nothing.”
Deirdre came up beside Niall. “I shall wash it out for ye, Meggie.”
While she wanted to escape from both Niall and Deirdre, Meggie wasn’t certain where to go. She did not know where Colm might be and feared putting the bard in more danger. Even if, at the moment, she cared never to see or to speak to him again. Even if, in the back of her mind, she conjured the strongest, meanest curse for him. Still, she feared seeing Colm run through by Niall. If the poet were to die, it would be at her hands!
“’Tis my eye, and I can take care of it myself,” Meggie snapped, wheeling away from Deirdre.
She marched toward the kitchen with Seamus and Bernadette beside her.
Niall followed so closely he tread once on her heels. “We shall have an inquiry. We shall question the bard before all in the castle. But I know what the outcome will be.”
“How can ye?” she asked, without looking back.
“He is an English spy. Meggie, me heart, this is what comes of being left by yerself. Ye could have been killed. Ye are too innocent.”
“We might have been raped,” Deirdre added, stepping up to Niall’s side.
Meggie rounded on the girl. “Your memory is short, Deirdre. If I recall, the bard saved you from being raped.”
The girl gave a small gasp and reared back from Meggie’s blast.
“Do not deny it!” Meggie bristled.
“Ye are the most obstinate woman!” Niall raged at her. “Leave the poor lass alone. Do ye understand how fortunate ye are that the English did not take every beast ye owned when they left Dochas?”
“But they did not. They suffered from ... unsettled stomachs.” Lifting her chin in the most imperious manner she could muster, Meggie whirled about, marching toward the kitchen once again. “My father is on his way to Dochas. I expect him soon. We shall wait until he arrives to hold any inquiry.”
“Wait?” Niall roared. “Just as we have waited upon him all of these months in order to marry?”
Deirdre laid her hand on Meggie’s arm. “The bard is a well-favored man, but he is an English spy. Ye must not protect him.”
Meggie jerked her arm away. “I protect no one. What right had you to take my business to Niall?” she hissed.
“Because I was afraid.”
Meggie stopped in her tracks. “Afraid of what?”
Deirdre’s blue-gray eyes grew as dark as the sky. Her lower lip trembled.
“Oh, my,” Meggie sighed. “Why did I not see it before? I’ve been blind and a fool. Ye are in love with him. You love Niall, do you not?”
“Deirdre is a good Irish girl,” Niall said.
His condescending tone sounded as if he was giving her a pat on the head. Even in the fading light, Deirdre’s crestfallen expression could not be missed.
Niall did not notice. His stern gaze rested on Meggie. “My men will search the castle at once. In the morning they will take to the outlying hills.”
“Do not forget yourself,” Meggie ground out the words slowly and distinctly. Straightening her shoulders, she leveled her gaze, looking him straight in the eyes. Eye. “Dochas is my castle. I am the only one who gives orders here.”
“But you are not thinking as you should,” her black-bearded admirer barked. “Ye need me. Ye are but a woman.”
What Meggie needed was her musket.
Seamus growled, low and menacing.
As usual, no one paid attention to the ghostly animal.
But Niall, seemingly irked beyond measure, growled as well. “Stupid, cowardly dog. Yer wolfhounds don’t even protect ye!”
Meggie itched to slap the man.
Before she could think of a proper curse to cast upon him, Seamus did the unthinkable. He leapt forward and chomped down on Niall’s hand.
“Yeowww!”
She could barely believe her eyes. One of her fainthearted wolfhounds had actually jumped to her defense. Her faith was renewed. Miracles happened. Anything was possible in this world.
Clutching his hand, Niall howled and shouted obscenities. A white streak was all that could be seen of Seamus as he bolted behind the wash house.
Suppressing a smile, Meggie said in an even, mayhap slightly superior tone, “Think on it, Niall. You may be as wrong about the bard as you are a
bout my dogs.”
“Vile, treacherous animals,” he spat. “Vile!” “Deirdre will take care of your wound.”
* * * *
Cameron could not rid his mind of the picture. Meggie had run from him as if he carried the plague. As he slowly made his way back to his chamber he felt like the lowest of men, a scoundrel beyond compare. An earthworm. His heart ached for the duchess. If he lived to be one hundred years old or more, he would never forget the pain in her eyes when he had confessed to being English. A slash of silver light, like the blade of a knife, had sliced through the light crystal blue of her eyes. Her wounded soul had lain bare before him.
He would give his life to be able to take back the words that had cut her so deeply. Cameron took no solace in his own pain. He felt as if he were slowly suffocating, his chest, his entire body, crushed between two granite boulders. ’Twas only fitting for a man who had deceived an innocent young woman, even though in the line of duty. Meggie, proud, wild Meggie, had done nothing to earn the grief he had given.
Torn between running after her or staying his ground, in the end he chose not to follow. An apology would not answer. He could never make up for the distress he had caused her. He was what she most despised. Remaining at Dochas would accomplish nothing. Meggie would refuse to see him or listen to him—unless she sought him out with dagger and musket. The lives of untold Englishmen might depend upon his swift journey to Dublin. Cameron had no choice but to leave.
Back in his chamber, he tied his leather pouch to his girdle. Besides a few coins, the pouch contained sprigs of lavender. Their fragrance grew faint, but he would always carry the keepsake of the night he had made love to Meggie. The night she had loved him. It had not mattered on that night that they came from two different worlds. Not at all.
Cameron meant to take the walking stick with him as well. Although he no longer needed the stick to support his weight, he treasured the gift and the skill of the old man who had fashioned it for him.
“Bard.”
Cameron started at the sound of Gerald Fitzgerald’s flat, hushed greeting. His heart pumped at a rapid, thudding beat as he turned to the open passage of his chamber.
The old man stood on the threshold. One gnarled finger rubbed the wart on his nose. His milky blue eyes regarded Cameron intently,
“What is it, Gerald?”
“Niall has just ridden through the gates. He comes for ye.”
“Me?”
“Aye. He believes ye to be an English spy.”
Cameron’s body stiffened. His blood ran cold. Meggie had wasted no time in sending word to Niall. She obviously wished to rid Dochas of the Englishman, to see him strung from the highest tree. Cameron understood—in a fashion. But he had been under the impression that the blue-eyed vixen cared enough to give him time to flee.
The old man swiped a hand over his head. But the coarse white stuff sprang up again. His hair seemed always to stand on end. “Come with me,” he ordered with a flickering wave of his wrist.
“Where?”
“Do ye wish to escape or not?” Gerald grumbled. “Niall would like nothing better than to remove ye so that he can marry Meggie. He’s declaring ye a spy to suit his own purposes. He can rightly kill a spy, ye know.”
“Gerald…”
Meggie’s grandfather held up a shaky hand. “Do ye wish to die, or would ye rather come with me?”
“I would rather come with you.”
The old man shuffled off. Cameron could follow or not. He followed. Gerald led him down narrow, steep back stairs. They entered a dark corridor which did not slow the hunched old man. With a jerk of his snowy head, he motioned for Cameron to follow him into a small chamber. Filled with wood and carvings, there was hardly room for a bed. But if he did not mistake the matter, this was the ancient warrior’s chamber. It did have a bed. Curiously enough, it also had a baby’s cradle which sat on a small round table. By the fleeting glimpse Cameron had of it, the cradle appeared nearly finished. Odd, but Cameron asked no questions.
Gerald pushed against the far wall which gave way to reveal an opening large enough for a man to pass through.
“’Tis a secret tunnel I discovered,” he explained. “Methinks it served as a place to hide from the Normans long ago. What do ye think?”
Cameron thought Gerald Fitzgerald’s mind was working at a full and astonishing capacity. He had never witnessed Meggie’s grandfather as clear-witted and nimble.
“Perhaps so,” he replied.
“Follow me.”
“Aye, Gerald.” Perhaps the old man fancied himself back in Cork helping a fellow Irishman to escape from the English.
The tunnel was long, damp, and inhabited by rodents and insects. The hidden passageway wound under the bailey and ended deep in the copse. A stone slab covered with brush served as the exit.
Slightly baffled by this fast-moving orderly escape, Cameron followed Gerald out.
“Now, at the first ray of light, ye take that mare and follow the path to the east,” the old man instructed. “The path will lead ye to the Dublin road.”
The man with half a mind had seen to every detail. Cameron nearly gawked at the bay mare tied beneath a sheltering oak.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why does Niall suspect me of being a spy? Are ye certain?”
“Certain enough. He wants to be rid of ye. Sleep in that oak tonight.”
Cameron doubted he could sleep. His heart was too heavy and his mind more baffled than he could remember. Could a man who appeared to be in a perpetual fog have planned this escape in advance?
“Why are ye doing this for me, Gerald?”
Runny blue eyes met his. “Because ye’re a good man. And me Meggie loves ye.”
“And I...” Cameron stopped himself just in time.
Love her! I do. The devil -- ‘tis true! I love Meggie!
“Ye don’t have to tell me,” Gerald said. “I’ve seen the look in yer eye. I know.” The old man seemed embarrassed. He buried his fingers in his beard and scratched. “Aye. I know the look.”
“I’ll be back for Meggie one day. I promise ye that.”
If she’ll have me.
“Aye.” Gerald nodded. “An’ now I must go back before I’m missed. Not that anyone misses an old man much,” he muttered.
Cameron held up his walking stick in salute. “I shall miss ye.”
“Ach!”
“My thanks.”
“Take care,” Meggie’s wily grandfather warned before he disappeared into the ground. “Niall is crafty and Barra as well.”
From this moment until he reached Dublin, Cameron meant to be on his guard. The copse was black and cold; Niall’s men would not search this eve. And at first light, Cameron would leave Dochas behind.
* * * *
The Duke of Doneval arrived in Dublin by himself. He had not the heart to put Sally Pickering through another rigorous journey, especially one across the Irish Sea. Although she did not complain, Anne’s lady-in-waiting was old and sick. Besides, her services were not truly needed at this point.
Donald knew his son’s name and that the boy had been posted to Dublin. Armed with this information, he felt confident of finding Cameron swiftly.
Pressed to find lodging, the duke’s first order of business was to lease a small house not far from the new Trinity College on the south side of the Liffey River. Donald intended to invite his son to stay with him. He desired time alone with Cameron, time to get to know his son and convince the boy, if persuasion proved necessary, to return to Scotland with him.
Dublin was in most ways English. The British presence was felt heavily in the dress, manners, and social activities of the city. No Irish man or woman dared thwart the rules of Dublin, the seat of English power in Ireland. No Scotsman for that matter.
Donald’s first order of business took him to Cork Hill and Dublin Castle, the headquarters of British rule.
The Earl of Stanthorpe served as Her Majesty’s emissary in Dublin. T
he stout older man of average and undistinguished appearance wore several pounds of jewelry which dangled from his neck and from his girdle. He greeted Donald heartily.
“I bid you welcome to our fair city.”
Donald suppressed his surprise at the earl’s blatant declaration.
“My thanks for receiving me on short notice.”
“I am honored to be of service.” The pompous, rotund earl motioned to a chair. “Have you a thought to settling in Ireland?”
“Nay. I dinna come to stay,” Donald said, sitting, though he favored standing. “I came to find my son.”
The earl appeared puzzled. “Do you seek my help in some way?”
“Aye. While I dinna know his regiment, my son is in the service of your queen.”
“Extraordinary.” Stanthorpe drummed his fingers on his stomach. “A Scot serving in Ireland.”
“Well na, his name is Cameron Thatcher. And he doesna know he’s a Scotsman.”
“Cameron Thatcher? “ Tucking his chins into his chest, the earl repeated the name.
“Aye. And I ken your puzzlement. Through a series of mishaps, Cameron was raised by an English innkeeper and his wife,” Donald explained. “The Thatchers. I wish to find the lad and claim him as my own.”
“I see. Pray pardon.” The Earl of Stanthorpe, who possessed slightly protruding eyes, pushed himself from his chair. “I shall inquire.” With a curt nod, he left the room in a strange, rolling stride.
Moments later a servant bearing goblets of ale appeared. Donald took a goblet but did not drink. The excitement and sense of urgency that had been building since he had learned of his son’s whereabouts made each minute seem an hour. The duke let out a sigh of relief when at last the earl returned.
Donald stood. “Have you news of Cameron’s whereabouts?”
The earl stroked the tip of his mustache. “I regret to inform you that Cameron Thatcher is not in Dublin.”
“Nay.” The duke felt a sick roll in the pit of his stomach.
“Aye.”
“Well na, I was told my lad had been posted here.”
Seducing the Spy Page 19
