“He betrayed me,” she replied in a soft whisper.
A profound silence enveloped the chamber.
“A man has reasons for what he does. I do not believe Declan meant to betray ye.”
She should have known. No matter what had passed, a man always defended another. Even a poet who should possess a more sensitive soul.
Meggie stood up to look down upon the bard. “My heart is no longer broken. It has healed quite well.”
Adding a silent statement of pride, she raised her chin.
Chickens clucked in the bailey below. The melody from a distant whistle drifted on the summer breeze. But the sound of his breathing was all Cameron heard clearly. It was quite loud but steady, a favorable sign. He had obviously said the wrong thing and searched in vain for something acceptable to say.
The Duchess of Dochas saved him. And it struck Cameron that was what Meggie reminded him of with her chin-held-high, impervious manner. He stilled a grin. Henceforth, Meggie would be the duchess to him.
“I shall not lose my heart again,” the Irish duchess pronounced, “until a rich Irish lad comes calling at Dochas.”
Cameron did not think such a man existed. Although, he supposed, an Irishman might be rich in land and cattle. Still, her statement bothered him. “You would marry a man for his wealth?”
Meggie did not hesitate. “Aye! Dochas needs many repairs, and I wish to have more children than my arms will hold. If love cannot be trusted, then I must marry for sensible reasons.”
Cameron managed to overcome his shock. “These days it seems only the English enjoy prosperity.”
Unless they were lieutenants in the queen’s service, like him.
“Ach! I would rather pluck chicken feathers for the rest of my life, ’til my fingers are sore and bleedin’, than marry an Englishman.”
Pluck chicken feathers? The devil!
Stifling the surge of anger and a sharp rebuke that came to mind, Cameron smiled instead. “You’re a loyal, fine lass.”
While he should have felt a swell of relief as she walked away, hips undulating in a manner he found quite enticing, he felt a wave of disappointment—despite himself.
Left alone with naught to do but fend off his isolation, he swung his legs back up on the bed. The pain took his breath away. He was weaker than he cared to admit, but not weak enough to eat blood pudding. Cameron stared at the ceiling, contemplating the long road that had brought him to this place.
He had been raised as the only son of Cotswold innkeepers who had been blessed with five daughters but were desperate for a son. George and Bess Thatcher adored their boy.
Cameron thrived on the hard-working couple’s love and care, but he did not care to keep an inn. He felt strangely separate from his mother and father and five silly sisters. Although he desired to please his father, he craved a life of adventure. Ever since he could remember, Cameron longed to be a leader of men. What better way than to become a military man where he could rise in rank and stature? He would make his mark and earn the respect of all men. Something an innkeeper never knew.
It was only then, when he balked at the plans made for him, that Cameron learned he was not the Thatchers’ natural son. He’d been eighteen years old at the time he discovered the truth. When he was but an infant he had been given to the Thatchers. It was only then that Cameron understood, after years of wondering, why he had always felt different from the rest of the family— apart from being the only male save his father.
To his surprise and great satisfaction, he also discovered that rather than become a part of the trained band, he had the ability to purchase a commission in the queen’s army. Unlike most foundlings, Cameron had come to the Thatchers with funds for an education and a ring he had promised to wear at all times. He raised his right hand and regarded the band of gold wrapped with rose and crown.
Burning curiosity concerning the ring eluded him. He had always felt confident that some day, in its own time, the mystery would be solved. The truth of his birth would be revealed. Uppermost in his mind had always been the goal of achieving the highest rank he could aspire to and winning the admiration of nobles and peasants alike.
The success of this mission and the information he retrieved could bring Cameron the rank he currently sought: Captain Thatcher. With each accomplishment, he had steadily earned more authority and risen in the esteem of his fellow Englishmen.
He could not let his wound hold him back. He could not fail.
* * * *
The following day, Meggie’s grandfather once again sat in the corner carving on his stick.
“A redheaded woman bodes ill fortune, ye know.”
“But so many Irish women have red hair,” Cameron pointed out, thinking of Meggie’s glorious mass in particular, as no doubt her grandfather did.
“Aye,” the old man agreed.
Cameron’s chivalrous nature spurred him to add. “It’s only a minor wound your Meggie gave me.”
Gerald Fitzgerald’s manner of speaking no longer perplexed him. He went along with the old man, no matter what subject the craggy, ancient warrior chose or how abrupt the change in discussion. At least he had someone to talk with, and for that he was grateful.
“’Tis the shame of it,” the old man sighed.
The Irish were mired in superstition for which Cameron held little patience. “Well, I for one do not believe the color of a lass’s hair is a bad omen.”
Once again he perched on the edge of the bed, gingerly testing, attempting to put weight on his injured leg. Cameron slowly increased the pressure until a pain shot the length of his leg like a red-hot lance.
Gerald did not notice him wince. Bent over the stick, Meggie’s grandfather appeared absorbed in each stroke of his knife.
“Believe what ye like,” he said, pausing to run his thumb over the grain, gently wiping stubborn shavings away. “But I know this: ye are wounded.”
“Because she shot me.”
“And the only two men who have ever courted my Meggie have suffered for it. Declan is dead and Niall is blind in one eye.”
Who was Niall? Meggie had mentioned only one suitor. Cameron played a safe hunch. “They were fighting men. Blame the English, not the color of Meggie’s hair.”
“Aye, the English.” Gerald lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “They gather outside the castle gates waiting ’til nightfall to attack.”
“Nay, old man. There are no English outside the gates of Dochas.”
“Dochas? We have taken refuge in Blarney Castle. What’s wrong with ye, lad?”
Hell. Cameron felt as if he might be in hell, locked up with a crazy old man and a leg that burned with pain like a log aflame. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stand. The muscles in his calf constricted, a viselike tightening that caused the air to rush from his body as if a giant fist had delivered a blow to his midsection.
The old man concentrated on his stick. He never noticed Cameron’s pain. The knife in his hand made sure, swift swipes. Fitzgerald’s mind might be a muddle, but his carving skill could not be argued. A man half his age could do no better. “If ye don’t know where we are, the English will overrun us,” Gerald muttered.
“The pain from my injury must be affecting my head,” Cameron said, standing slowly, putting as much weight as possible on his left leg, gritting his teeth as the pain in his thigh soared. A great shaking began, and for a moment he feared his wounded leg would give way.
’Twas his grunt of determination that made the old man look up.
“What are ye doin’?”
“I’m strengthening my leg,” he said in clipped tones issued through his teeth.
“I knew a man who stood before his time. He was wounded in the battle of Kinsale, he was. As a result of standin’ too soon, he ne’er walked straight again. The man listed to the side like an old, cracked sailing mast ever after.”
“My thanks for your words of wisdom.”
Cameron sank back to the bed, unable to
bear the pain any longer. But he had made a start. Each hour he would stand; each hour he would be able to stand upright for a longer length of time. Soon he would walk— like or unlike the list of an old sail mast. And when he had mastered walking, he would run. He would run fast and far from Dochas.
“No one can heal ye more quickly than me Meggie. I doubt she would think ye are ready to stand. But do not worry, I won’t tell her what ye have done.”
“You are good to me, old man.”
“Because ye are my kind of man.”
Cameron shuddered to think what that might mean.
“Meggie’s da would take to ye as well.”
Cameron rubbed his forehead, making circles in his leathered, creviced flesh. Something else to worry over.
“Will he be returning to Dochas soon?”
“Nay. Humphrey sticks to O’Neill like a quill to parchment. They won’t stop until the English are driven from Ireland.”
The old man raved again. Cameron would never gain any intelligence worth passing on from Gerald.
“Meggie misses her da more than she’ll ever say,” Gerald continued. “And Dochas is too much for her, not that she’ll admit to it.”
Cameron recognized a glimmer of reason from the old man, who seemed intent on his carving. “Your granddaughter is ... spirited,” Cameron said in an effort to offer some sort of solace.
“Aye. But too oft she thinks with her heart.”
“Her heart? I was under the impression that Meggie thought with her musket.”
“She mistook ye for a werewolf, a natural mistake.”
“Has she seen many werewolves in the copse? Have ye?”
“When ye hear the banshees, ye know they are wailin’ over some poor soul who paid no mind to the legends.”
That will be me, Cameron thought. The banshees will wail for me.
“I would be joinin’ Humphrey if it weren’t for Meggie,” Gerald said in a sudden change of subject, not unusual for him. “I cannot leave me lassie all to herself in Dochas.”
The old man dreamed again.
“Unless a strong lad would come to her aid,” he added, raising his hazy gaze to Cameron.
Cameron responded with the first name that came to mind—that wasn’t his. “Like Niall?”
“Nay. Niall fancies Dochas more than he cares for Meggie.”
Cameron had a bad feeling. The old man meant him as a mate for Meggie! Gerald Fitzgerald’s mind had more cobwebs than an empty stable. Such thinking only proved it.
“Meggie has taken to ye,” Gerald said.
“’Tis only guilt.”
“Guilt does not return the sparkle to a lassie’s eye.”
Meggie did possess remarkable eyes. A love of life shone in her clear blue eyes—along with oceans of mischief.
Cameron doubted that it was he who put the gleam in the Irish duchess’s eyes. He had done nothing but scowl and grunt at Meggie since she’d insisted on undressing him and removing the ball in his leg. Genteel women with a sense of propriety did not brazenly thwart a man’s wishes.
“Ye could do worse than stay here and protect me Meggie.”
“It would take a bigger man than I to protect your granddaughter,” Cameron replied. A man with more patience, more strength.
“Ye could take up arms. This isn’t the time for a young, strapping Irishman to be roamin’ the hills from village to village reciting poetry.”
“It’s all I know how to do. To bring a smile and rid despair if only for the moment.”
But if the choice was protecting Meggie or fighting on Ireland’s rocky slopes, Cameron knew what his choice would be.
“Go forth and fight with Humphrey,” the wizened old man shouted. “He waits for ye in Kerry.”
It seemed whenever Cameron thought he was having a sensible discussion with Gerald, the old man would go off. Nevertheless, he promised with all honesty, “I shall go forth as soon as I can walk again.”
The old man stood up and sheathed his knife. He shuffled toward Cameron, his milky blue eyes twinkling through their haze. “Mayhap this walking stick will help ye.”
Cameron’s breath caught in his throat.
* * * *
On the fifth day, after straightening her skirts and smoothing back stray wisps of hair, Meggie picked up her basket and swept into Colm’s chamber, a basket over her arm, a bowl in one hand.
Braced by his walking stick, he stood at the narrow window gazing out. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and rustle of her skirts. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a frightened swan as she gazed upon him. Tall and broad, his solid, lusty figure made her insides melt like lard over an open fire.
“Meggie Fitzgerald.”
He flashed her a grin that nearly brought her swiftly beating heart to a halt. White teeth against dark skin presented a striking contrast. His right front tooth was slightly chipped. Rather than detracting from his appearance, the broken tooth curiously added to his appeal. Had he fought in hand-to-hand combat for a lady’s hand?
Colm’s broad smile both warmed and excited Meg, caused her hands to tremble. Water sloshed from the urn she carried within her basket.
“Ah, ye are up and about again, and I am glad to see it.”
“I was only testing my strength,” he replied. “Still weak, I fear.”
He offered a feeble smile.
“Pish! Ye are in fine ... condition. I mean--”
Meggie cut her sentence short. She hadn’t meant to sound so enthusiastic. “I mean, just look at ye! Young, robust... muscles I’ve never seen on a bard before. Ye should be mending quickly.”
She had said too much.
Wincing, as if each step was painful, he limped toward her. “Appearances are oft deceiving.”
“Aye.” She had heard that some poets possessed sensitive souls, akin to young girls’. Poets paled in the face of danger. Lily-livered, some said. They could die from mere disappointment. Heartbreak could send them into never-ending despair. “Sit ye down,” she urged softly.
“What is it you’ve brought?”
“Ye’ve been lying here much too long. I mean to make ye presentable.”
Not that she could improve on the dark good looks nature had bestowed upon Colm. But it was the finest excuse she could think of to skim her fingers along his jaw and weave her hands through his nut brown hair.
His eyes widened briefly before the familiar scowl settled upon his finely etched features. “Nay.”
Meggie removed shears from the basket.
“Nay,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing on the shears. “You’ve enough to do.”
He would look so much better without his scruffy beard. “Sit ye down.”
“What I need is a bath. Ye’ll not be clippin’ my hair. Have you not read what happened to Samson?”
“Do I look like the seductress Delilah?” she scoffed.
He grumbled low in his throat, something she could not make out. Ignoring his protest, Meggie ran her best tortoise comb through his hair.
“’Tis the first time I’ve ever heard a man request a bath. But I expect as ye are a poet, you’re more sensitive than the rest.”
“Aye, that I am.”
Meggie put down her comb and shears, poured water from the urn into a small bowl and removed the last item from her basket.
“What is that?” Colm snapped.
“A razor ... how else--”
“Do not be comin’ near me with a razor, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
“I shall shave ye and trim your hair. ’Tis a wee bit too long.”
“I cannot have you cuttin’ my hair and shaving my beard away.”
“I only mean to trim it.”
“Ye won’t come close to my throat with that razor?”
The bard appeared truly alarmed.
“Fear not.” Meggie offered what she hoped was a cheerful, comforting smile. “I shall start with your head.”
She brushed her fingers through the bard’s hair. ’Twas silky
and thick beneath her fingertips, falling in gentle waves. She thoroughly enjoyed the feel of it.
“Is something amiss?” he asked.
“Nay.” Meggie picked up her scissors and snipped.
And snipped, and snipped.
She stepped back to study her work. Her eyes met his. It was like stepping into the summer sun following a bleak winter. She smiled. He smiled.
“Have ye finished?” Hope rang in his voice.
“One moment.” She had made a slight misjudgment and trimmed his hair shorter on the left side than the right.
Snip. Snip. Meggie evened her work.
“Now, your beard.”
“I’ll trim it myself.”
“Why sap your strength?”
His dark brows dove deep.
“Do not look so troubled. I trim grandfather’s beard, and he has yet to complain.”
“Ye told me yourself the man has only half his mind left!” This time Colm made no attempt to conceal his sigh. “Do your best.”
Meggie kept her eyes on his left cheek and jaw as she started. She had learned by now that the poet’s dark brown eyes served to unsettle her in a most peculiar way. “Why is it ye have not married and settled in one place?” she asked, keeping her tone light, as if his answer did not really matter to her.
“I seek adventure. My travels provide me with endless stories that I use to entertain.”
“But what of love? Must not a poet know love in order to speak of it?”
“I love all ladies equally well,” the bard stated flatly.
Meggie had a terrible feeling he told the truth. “What is it about a lady that you favor most?”
Except for the scraping of her razor across Colm’s jaw, the room plunged into silence. “She must be comely ... like you,” he replied, at last - and so softly she almost did not hear.
“Ye do have a devil tongue.” Laughing, she wiped the razor clean and shaved his cheek. “What else?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
Meggie paused, regarding him skeptically. “Haven’t ye, now? Ye should. How else will ye know the woman of your heart when ye meet her?”
He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her questions.
Obviously uncomfortable that she held a razor in her hand.
Seducing the Spy Page 3