Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  Disarmed as well, by the crooked grin he shot her. Goose bumps prickled her flesh. “I think ye should be happy with a daughter as well.”

  “Mayhap.”

  As the bard’s intense gaze locked on hers, Meggie was suddenly at a loss for words. She said the safest thing that popped into her mind after her first thought: I will happily give you five sons and a daughter.

  “We are harvesting the last of the corn. Have ye ever helped with a harvest?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then, ye have not known a joy close to heaven.”

  He gave her a bemused smile. “On the contrary, I believe on at least one occasion I have been close to heaven.”

  But Meggie wouldn’t be put off. “Come,” she said, seizing his hand. “Ye shall spend the afternoon with me. Ye will savor the scent and the feel of ripe corn. Ye shall eat it straight from the husk, and if ye show any sign of pleasure, I shall show ye my field of praties.”

  “What would praties be?”

  “It’s a new sturdy crop, called potatoes by some. Come!”

  “But my muse—”

  “She’s hiding in the high, silken rows of corn. Ye’ll find her there.” Meggie tugged Colm’s hand to pull him along, brazenly allowing the bard no choice but to spend the afternoon with her.

  * * * *

  By dusk, Meggie had spent hours in the corn fields and devoted another hour or more to Sorcha and her new foal. Now, in order to avoid sitting with Niall and facing another argument, she busied herself serving the evening meal in the great hall.

  Only Niall, Deirdre, Colm and her grandfather had gathered for the supper of pigs’ feet, turnips, bread, salmon, and pudding. The torches had been lit, and the air was heavy with the aroma of fresh-strewn floor rushes.

  Because Niall meant to leave on the morrow, Meggie knew he would demand her answer to his proposal tonight. She had thought long and hard since his arrival at Dochas. He was everything a woman could want, and yet she felt nothing for him. Her heart did not leap when Niall entered the room, the way it did at the sight of the bard. Meggie felt no tingle when his gaze raked her with unconcealed desire. When he brushed against her, she experienced no curl of warmth, as she did at merely a glance from Colm.

  Meggie had come to the conclusion that the poet had been sent by the wee people to show her how she was meant to feel about the man she married, the sensations she would experience. She had amassed a list: a heart that thumped and raced, knees that trembled, a giddy light-headedness at unexpected times. She also experienced a sense of expectation rather than boredom whenever he entered a chamber and an overwhelming yearning to spend each minute of every day with him.

  Even though she might be sealing her fate as a spinster, Meggie knew she must refuse Niall. She could no longer play upon the excuse of her father’s absence.

  In her dotage, she would remember the precious time she had spent with Colm today. The bard had worked hard in the fields, and if she did not mistake the matter, he had enjoyed himself. She had watched him chomp down on more than one ear of fresh corn during the day.

  “Meggie, me heart, sit and sup,” Niall commanded as if he owned the castle and her as well.

  His high-handed manner offended her. Without thinking, her shoulders squared; her chin lifted. As rigid as a marble queen in a chess set, she sat beside him, only because she had nothing left to do. The meal had been served.

  Colm sat across from Meggie and beside her grandfather. She gave each man a small smile. The bard’s expression remained inscrutable. His eyes met hers, but they were unreadable. The old man scowled openly and lifted his tankard of mead.

  Conversation came in strained bursts. Eating proved impossible. Meggie tore bread and pushed the roasted salmon about. The tension within her increased with each scrape of a spoon until she felt as tightly stretched as a bowstring.

  At last, finished with his meal, Niall wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood. Meggie felt as if he might crush her when he rested his large hand on the top of her head.

  “I have bid Deirdre make the small greeting chamber ready with yer harp. We shall retire there with Gerald and the bard for a... for private moments.”

  Colm’s frown dove so deep, she worried for him. She shot him an encouraging smile as Niall offered her his hand.

  The greeting chamber adjoined the great hall. In many ways this small chamber was the most comfortable to be found in the castle. When the rest of Dochas was cold with winter, the greeting room remained warm and inviting.

  Unlike most chambers in the castle, a door provided privacy for the greeting room. Several benches faced the stone fireplace, and the limestone walls held blazing torches. In each corner, a candelabra rested on an iron stand, shedding as much light as possible in the growing darkness of eve. A gilt tapestry woven in a Munster convent, which Meggie particularly treasured, fell from the east wall above her harp. An oriental carpet rested over fresh rushes. The burgundy-and-gold rug had been a gift from Niall that her father insisted be prominently displayed.

  She sat down at the harp, feeling like an innocent victim about to be hanged. Her hounds dutifully came to rest at her feet.

  Niall aimed a grin at her that revealed a mouthful of solid, crowded teeth. “You will play, Meggie. The poet will recite to your music and I will—”

  “I shall get me whistle,” her grandfather interrupted.

  Niall waved a hand. “Nay, Gerald, This eve we shall listen to only the harp and the poet.”

  The old man glowered at him as they took their places on the bench facing Meggie.

  If the wee people would use their magic and transport Niall back to his estate, the next few minutes would be less difficult for all concerned. Meggie disliked hurting the man who had lost an eye to the English, but she could not become his wife.

  For the life of her, she could not remember why she had once thought a practical marriage to be superior to a love match!

  She raised her hands to the harp and her gaze to Colm. The poet sat alone on the bench facing the fireplace. He looked different, separate from the rest. His piercing eyes focused on the flames. His jaw was firmly set, his broad body rigid and as formidable as a granite cathedral. Strangely, he appeared more warrior than poet. Was it fear? Had the muse eluded him, leaving Colm to face Niall’s wrath without succor?

  Meggie gazed steadily at the bard, until with a flicker, he met her eyes. Could he see what she felt for him? It was all in her eyes, the message from her heart.

  Before he looked away, a shadow fell across his eyes, shifting the shade of his gaze from deep brown to blackest midnight.

  “Meggie, me heart, ye can play now.”

  “Aye, Niall.”

  She lightly plucked at the strings thinking to play a chord or two and then begin in earnest.

  But a loud rapping at the door drowned out the harp. Meggie started and looked up toward the door.

  “Ignore it,” Niall barked.

  The rapping became pounding.

  “I cannot ignore it, Niall.” Before he could stop her, Meggie rose and sailed to the door.

  “Riders approach,” Deirdre announced breathlessly.

  “How many?” Niall demanded, coming up behind Meggie.

  “The watch says ten, mayhap more.” The girl’s eyes were bright with fear.

  “Let them through the gates,” Meggie said.

  Niall growled. “Ye give passage to strangers?”

  “’Tis dark. Dochas must offer shelter.”

  “Nay.”

  Steeling herself, Meggie raised her chin and looked her suitor directly in the eye. “Niall, do ye forget yourself? Ye are not the Lord of Dochas.”

  “Yet.”

  Biting down on her lip, Meggie returned to the harp. It would not be wise to lose her temper at present. She lowered her head. Alone and one with her music, she played a soft, soothing composition of her own.

  Niall tapped his forefinger against his lips absent-mindedly, smiling as if he wer
e in some sort of spell.

  Colm’s dark visage gave him the look of a doomed man who counted the minutes until death. She did not think he heard the music.

  “’Twas lovely, me heart,” Niall declared after Meggie finished.

  “Only me whistle could improve yer music,” her grandfather added.

  Niall threw the old man a false-hearted smile. “The time has come to add to our entertainment... but not with a whistle,” he hastened to add. “Meggie, while ye play, the bard will recite a poem he has created especially for ye, from me.”

  Meggie’s already uneasy stomach somersaulted as she threw Colm a nervous glance. “What shall I play, Bard?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “A special tempo?”

  “A slow tempo.”

  She ran her fingers over the strings. Perhaps the bard’s muse had returned. If not, perhaps Meggie’s music would lure the elusive creature back.

  Colm stood, and the room seemed filled with him. In his unique gait, not quite a limp, not quite a swagger, he made his way to her side. Looking down upon Meggie, his mouth curved in a soft, lopsided smile. One she had never seen before. Her heart melted. The set of his broad shoulders, the steady gleam in his eyes, revealed no fear.

  “This eve is unlike any other,” Colm said quietly. “Meggie, me heart.”

  “Do not forget that every word the poet utters comes from me,” Niall interjected. “He is conveying my thoughts and feelings to you as only a poet can do.”

  Meggie nodded, impatient with his interruption, anxious for Colm to continue.

  The darkly handsome bard gazed up at the ceiling, seemingly studying the rafters. “For on this eve I will tell ye what is on my mind and in my heart.”

  Meggie’s heart hammered wildly within her chest. Would that the bard was truly speaking to her from his heart and not Niall’s!

  “Ye are the fire in my heart and the music in my soul.”

  “Make some sense, man!” Niall demanded in a low hiss.

  But the bard’s words made sense to her. Meggie met his eyes. She held her breath, not daring to believe his muse had returned, yet hoping against hope. Her fingers rested against the strings of the harp as she anticipated what he would say next. Words were suddenly as important and coveted as if they were her favorite sweets.

  Niall growled in irritation when Deirdre rapped again. He strode across the room and flung open the door.

  “Why have a door?” he bellowed.

  Deirdre trembled from head to toe. “The riders have entered the great hall... and they are English.”

  Meggie jumped up. “Merciful Mary!”

  Niall O’Donnell appeared dumbfounded. “English at Dochas?”

  “I’ve been tellin’ ye all, we must prepare,” the old man croaked.

  “What are the English doing at Dochas?” Meggie demanded of no one in particular. And then before anyone could answer, she let out a stream of curses. “May their tongues turn to feathers and their minds to mutton. May their bread grow mold, their bones brittle, and their eyes dim—”

  “Enough,” Niall bellowed. “Colm, go greet the fiends and make certain they are distracted while I slip from the castle and ride away. I dare not risk being captured by the English.”

  Colm did not answer. With a curt dip of his head, he strode out of the room.

  Meggie’s stomach churned with anger and she knew not what else when she spun on Niall, unduly vexed by his swift decision to flee. “Why? Why must ye run? What threat do ye pose to the English?”

  “I am ... I am a young, strong Irishman.”

  “And what is Colm?” Meggie demanded, hands on hips.

  Niall scowled. “A poet.”

  He spat out the epithet with scorn. Meggie drew in a deep breath. She dared not let loose her tongue. With her blood on the boil, she would scorch the Correal County farmer with her curses. And indeed, she yearned to do it.

  “The English will expect me to resist them, me heart,” Niall soothed with an apologetic smile. A smile that begged for understanding. “I must go.”

  “Be off with ye, then!” Gerald Fitzgerald declared, waving a gnarled finger in the air. “I shall drive the English away. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

  “Old man, leave it to the bard.” With that last stern order, Niall pulled Meggie into a darkened corner.

  “Niall, certainly the English must see that the loss of your eye prevents ye from engaging in battle,” she entreated him, in whispered protest.

  “The English are not that wise. I must take me leave.” Reaching out, he cupped her cheek with his large, rough hand. “’Tis not how I wished for this eve to end.”

  “You truly are leaving me?” Meggie could scarcely believe that the man who loved her more than life itself and wished to marry her as soon as possible prepared to leave her at the mercy of the English.

  “Ye are stronger and braver than any lad, me heart. The British will hang me if they capture me. They would like nothing better than to punish me for my past victories against them. But they will not harm a woman. Stay to your chamber.”

  Immobilized by an equal measure of astonishment and anger, Meggie offered no resistance when Niall pulled her into him and kissed her hard on the lips. ’Twas a bruising kiss that caused no tingling, no lightheaded sensation. Instead, a prickling cold indignation swept through her. Rather than melt away, the anger Meggie felt toward him intensified. At last he raised his mouth from hers, set her back from him, and spun on his heel.

  She watched him scurry from the room, down the back gallery, hauling himself up and through the first window. He never looked back. Like a rat scurrying from a sinking ship, he left the others to face the English. Meggie and her insensible grandfather regarded each other silently. Deirdre trembled. Seamus and Bernadette raised their heads and yawned.

  Meggie had escaped refusing Niall ‘s proposal only to face the dreaded English enemy. Neither was to her liking. She let out a heavy sigh. Dochas was her castle, her responsibility to protect and defend. She refused to put the bard in danger.

  “Come,” she said, lifting her chin to a regal angle. “Let us greet the blackguards.”

  * * * *

  Cameron recognized the dozen men gathered in the great hall as members of the trained band. Foot soldiers, in service to the queen, they received a minimum of training. Paid a small wage and outfitted with arms, joining the band was a matter of survival for the poor.

  With Gerald Fitzgerald on his heels, and Meggie steaming with anger beside him, Cameron could not say anything to his countrymen that might give him away.

  “Good eve. Who would ye be and what business have ye at Dochas?” he asked.

  A young man stepped forward. Cameron suspected the boy had yet to reach his twentieth year. A shock of blond hair fell from his cap across his forehead, and fuzz grew on his face where a beard should be. The angry red bumps of youth erupted like boils fighting for space on his cheeks and chin. But the boy’s hazel eyes were old.

  “My name is Thomas Cole,” he answered with the cocky confidence of the young. “My men and I serve good Queen Elizabeth of England and we require food and shelter for the night.”

  Bristling, Meggie started toward the callow boy with her eyes flashing fury. “Ye shall have what ye ask and nothing more!”

  Cameron held his arm out to hold her back. “Meggie, mind your manners. Me heart,” he added with a warning glance.

  Daggers shot from the comers of her eyes as she sent him a sidelong glare.

  Suppressing the urge to chuckle, he confronted the young Englishman, who studied the great hall.

  “Are ye from Yorkshire, Thomas Cole?” Cameron asked all Englishmen he met the same question. It was a fair question as accents varied from region to region, but few Irish would know the difference.

  Thomas nodded. “My heart yet lingers in Yorkshire.”

  The answer Cameron received to his next question would identify Thomas as his agent - or not. �
�What bird flies near?”

  “The jackdaw.”

  It was the reply Cameron had hoped for. He could pass on the information he had garnered this afternoon to Thomas and not have to rush away from Dochas, leaving Meggie to fend for herself.

  “I have been there and well understand,” Cameron said. His response ended the code greeting. Extending an arm, he gestured toward the hall. “Sit and you will be served.”

  “Ye’ll get nothing but poison here,” Gerald Fitzgerald spat.

  The men ignored him.

  But not Cameron. Never knowing what Gerald would say, he also never knew what the old man might do. “Old man, fetch Deirdre and have her bring whiskey to these men.”

  The milky veil over the elder’s eyes appeared to lift momentarily as he inclined his head in closer study of Cameron. “Would ye be a traitor to Dochas, Bard?”

  Cameron clapped a hand on Gerald’s shoulder. Lowering his voice and turning the old man away, he said, “I wish no one to be harmed. If we are wise, these men will be on their way at dawn.”

  After once more eyeing the group of men as if they were rodents, Meggie’s grandfather shuffled away. His steps echoed in the nearly empty hall.

  Cameron then turned to Meggie. “Will you make a place for Thomas and his men to sleep this eve?”

  Near to trembling with rage, Meggie leveled a withering gaze. For a moment, by the way she regarded him, Cameron felt even more repulsive than a rat. But the duchess made no protest. With a toss of her head, she spun on her heel and was gone.

  He withheld the sigh of relief that filled his body and turned to Thomas. “I shall walk in the bailey after the castle sleeps,” he said in hushed tones. “After you have supped, meet me there.”

  “We expected to meet you in Dublin.”

  “I met with an... accident.”

  “You say,” Cole scoffed, looking about him before his gaze settled on Deirdre. “Or were you simply enjoying some of the good life here, eh?”

  Cameron had no patience for a cocky boy this eve, English or Irish. He drew himself up, raised his walking stick in a manner which might be interpreted as threatening.

  “Would you like to see the scar?”

  The boy grew sullen. “Nay.”