Seducing the Spy

by Sandra Madden

  The devil! Cameron rolled over onto his back. His entire body throbbed, as hard and as hot as the blacksmith’s blade. But he had only himself to blame. Memories of making love to Meggie were still too fresh. She had given herself to him with such wanton abandon that even now his body reacted fiercely. Her willingness, her fervor, her... curiosity, amazed him. Curiosity? The world would be a better place if all women were curious in Meggie’s manner. But mayhap only Irish maidens possessed such carnal questions.

  She snored. The soft, soothing sound made Cameron smile.

  It seemed if the proud beauty had come to favor him. His body stiffened; his eyes widened. Could it be that Meggie had formed an attachment to him?

  ’Twas possible. Indeed, Cameron had come to feel what might be considered affection for Meggie. This despite having discovered, as most Irishmen knew from birth, that a red-haired woman bode ill fortune.

  It seemed all Cameron had done this eve was to sigh like a tired old woman. But he sighed yet again. If Meggie had, indeed, become infatuated with him, he had all the more reason not to betray her.

  Cameron resolved to tell her the truth about himself on the morrow and swiftly be gone. He might be risking his life by revealing his English roots, but it was the kindest thing he could do for Meggie. He did not believe she would shoot him for his heritage. The spirited redhead would banish him. Nay, Meggie would not despair to see an Englishman leave Dochas. She would not waste tears on a most despicable enemy. Him.

  * * * *

  Meggie had never felt better!

  She woke just after dawn the next day with only a mild sore throat. Her chest felt crowded, like a room with too many people that made breathing difficult. But her body glowed, and her spirit bucked and jumped like a frisky colt. She had gained another day with Colm.

  His pallet felt cold. He must have risen well before the sun. The hounds had not alerted her. In all likelihood Seamus and Bernadette hadn’t noticed the bard’s departure.

  Although the rain had passed, wide charcoal strips streaked across a bleak, gray sky. Glistening with morning moisture, the lustrous green hillsides promised hidden treasures along their paths.

  Meggie washed in the basin and donned a clean gown before slipping the ring Colm had given her onto the long chain holding her high cross. She seldom wore the cross as it was one of the few items of her mother’s she possessed. Her father had sold most of the jewelry to buy arms for his cause. Fearing she might lose or damage the memento, she kept it secreted away in the cupboard.

  The gold band fell neatly in the narrow valley between her breasts, appropriately close to Meggie’s heart. To think Colm claimed this ring was the only item of any value that he owned—and he had given it to her! Meggie’s heart made a soft leap. The delicately engraved rose-and-crown crest appeared almost regal.

  Placing a protective hand over her heart, she felt a brief stab of pain as the ring pressed into her flesh.

  Without the ring, she would have felt nothing. Without Colm, Meggie would feel nothing.

  She brushed her hair until the fiery mass shone, but she did not bother with a braid. The bard had made no secret of favoring her untamable mane falling freely about her shoulders. Determined to please him into staying, Meggie set off for the stable.

  The work had already begun. Colm directed the men with a sketch he had drawn. He had spread the parchment out before him, showing her grandfather his plans as if the old man could truly understand what they were about.

  “Good day,” she said, sidling up to the man she wished to wed. “May I see?”

  “Aye. Ye must approve before we continue,” Colm said. His serious expression held no hint of the warmth Meggie had felt in his arms the day before. His attitude bordered on indifference.

  “The lad has a head on his shoulders.” Her grandfather slapped the stable builder-bard on the shoulder. “Instead of half stone, half wood, he’s drawn up a stable made entirely of stone.”

  “It’s much like the stable at my father’s inn.”

  “Meggie, methinks we should build his stable,”

  “Aye, grandfather. My thanks, Colm.”

  Acknowledging her appreciation with a curt nod, he turned his attention back to the plans. Meggie’s gaze lingered. His muscular arms strained against his fresh, borrowed tunic. The dull shade of tan did not flatter him. At the same time, Colm’s lusty form could not be diminished by lack of color.

  Meggie knew and loved the bard’s colors, from the crimson passion of his soul, to the rugged, invincible masculinity that shone from him as golden as the sun.

  An unbidden urge to drag him off to the drying cottage seized her.

  “Ha... have ye had anything to eat this morn?” she asked.

  “Nay. I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ll bring ye a bite”

  Again, Colm responded with a curt nod.

  She made a mental note to order tunics especially made for him.

  The bard was still at work when Meggie returned later with lamb liver. “A special dish for ye,” she said, raising the pewter bowl in triumph. “Irishmen all over the isle put down swords for a wee bit of lamb liver.”

  Colm put down the bowl after one bite.

  Meggie peered into the bowl. “What’s wrong?”

  He forced a smile. “I’m not as hungry as I thought. Mead will do.”

  Odd. She had never met an Irishman, or woman for that matter, who did not enjoy a meal of lamb’s liver. ’Twas a fine delicacy to be certain. Since there was no accounting for taste, Meggie could do little but leave and see to the horses. But during the course of the day, she happened to pass by the building site often.

  While her grandfather stayed by the laboring bard’s side most of the day, Colm slowly delegated the stable rebuilding to the stable boy and blacksmith. By afternoon, he had become no more than an overseer. How would she convince him he was needed another day?

  Certainly, he could not say nay if she was making love to him. At day’s end, Meggie followed Colm to the stream where she watched him bathe from behind the trunk of a wide old oak. She felt both wicked and wonderful. Wicked for concealing herself in order to admire him. ’Twas as if in Colm, the wee people had sent her a god in the guise of a man. Uncommonly handsome of face with a body sculpted of steel, Colm could fill Meggie’s eyes all the day long and she still would not be satisfied.

  His broad shoulders and massive chest narrowed to a flat, hard belly and trim waist... to beyond, to his riveting manhood.

  It made no difference that she observed him from afar. Her body grew warm, rippling with arousal. Her heart pounded with excitement. When he climbed up to the bank, Meggie stepped out from her hiding place behind the tree.

  Obviously startled, his hands hastily moved to cover his manhood. “Meggie!”

  Unfortunately, he had large hands. Hunching forward, he glowered at her.

  She smiled as innocently as possible, reluctantly tearing her gaze from his hands.

  “What are ye doing here?” he demanded.

  “Forgive me but I followed you. We have such difficulty finding time alone, and I wanted to express my thanks for what ye have done this day, more than what I asked of ye.”

  Instead of graciously accepting her apology, Colm grew dangerously red. In an attempt to ease his anger, Meggie threw him his trews and tunic and turned away. If all went well, she would be removing them shortly. Sinking to the ground, she absentmindedly pulled the petals from one clover after another until Colm came to her.

  The musky, tantalizing scent of him gave her a lightheaded feeling. She was glad to be sitting.

  “’Tis well enough you sought me out,” he said, easing down beside her. “We do need to speak.”

  “I sensed you would feel the same.”

  “There is something I have to tell ye.”

  “But first...” Her voice faded as she lifted her head and planted her lips on his.

  The bard’s body stiffened. She parted her lips. He resisted at firs
t, but then his lips parted. Seconds later, his tongue plunged into her mouth, and he kissed Meggie as if the world were ending and this was their last kiss.

  Merciful Mary! ’Tis grand!

  And then he pulled away.

  Meggie leaned into him. “Whatever is on your mind can wait for one more wee kiss ...”

  “Meggie, nay I have tried to tell ye this before, and now you must let me speak. I --”

  Her mouth met his, cutting short his protests. Colm responded hungrily until it seemed he came to his senses once more. Raising his lips from hers, he seized Meggie’s forearms and set her back.

  “Let me speak.”

  His voice was husky. Her body was aflame. She cared not for conversation at the moment.

  Meggie nodded. “Aye.”

  Colm took both of her hands in his. An ominous shadow fell across his eyes. “It is difficult for me to tell you this ...”

  Once again, Meggie felt her chest collapse. This time it was worse than the pain she experienced in the burning stable. The dire expression on Colm’s face, the grim tone of his voice, told her she would dislike whatever he was about to say. She held her breath, waiting in painful silence.

  “I would not wound you for the world, Meggie. But...”

  But I am about to put a dagger through your heart. She silently finished the sentence for him.

  “But I must tell you the truth.”

  “You are married!” she exclaimed.

  The bard shook his head. “Nay, nay.”

  “What, then?” What could be worse? Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed between a blacksmith’s red-hot pincers.

  Frowning, his dark, troubled eyes met hers. “I am not what ye think I am, not who ye think I am.”

  “Ye ... ye are not a poet?” she stammered.

  The muscles constricted in his clenched jaw. “Nay. Neither am I an Irishman.”

  “But ye ... ye sound...” Meggie’s voice broke. Her mind blanked in confusion. At once, her mouth felt as dry as dust.

  His somber gaze never wavered. “I am English.”

  Meggie yanked her hands from his and jumped to her feet all in one jerky motion.

  “No!” she cried.

  Her heart crashed against her chest, howled like a wounded animal. A cry, a soft gagging sound, stuck in her throat.

  “Meggie, hear me out.”

  “Ye are not Colm?”

  His mouth tightened, the corners turned down. “Nay.”

  “Ach!” She spun on her heel and ran from him.

  In a blurry haze of unshed tears, she ran all the way back to the castle. Dashing into the great hall, she hurried along the gallery and up the stairs, intent on reaching her chamber before she bellowed in rage or fell into a fit of weeping.

  But she never cried. She could not cry.

  She threw herself upon her bed.

  An Englishman! Colm! But nay, Colm wasn’t an English name. Oh, but aye, it must be true or else why would he say it. He was an Englishman. She should have known. Only an Englishman would turn down lamb’s liver.

  Merciful Mary! She had made love to an Englishman! She had given her heart to an Englishman whose name she did not even know.

  And then Meggie cried. She sobbed. A torrent of tears that left her gasping for breath. Her body heaved as if it were being torn in two.

  What was an Englishman doing in the middle of Ireland claiming to be a bard and stealing hearts?

  A spy! He was a spy. The truth came to her as clearly as if it had been written in the sky. Meggie had made love to an English spy whose name she did not know!

  Why had he confessed to her? By doing so he’d put his life in her hands. Was he mad?

  Confused and in more pain than she could bear, Meggie pondered what to do. She could send the imposter on his way, turn him in to Barra or, or... shoot the scoundrel herself. Her aim had improved since she had last fired at him.

  But she could do nothing now. She could not seem to stem the sobs that wracked her body. Pent-up tears, some stored for years, spilled freely down her cheeks. There seemed no end to them. She cried for her mother and sister, her grandfather and father. She cried for Declan and for her country.

  Meggie who never cried could not stop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Merciful Mary! An Englishman!

  The tears poured from Meggie as if loosed from a bottomless well buried deep within her soul. A soundless stream, punctuated by ragged sobs, robbed her of any ability to reason. She did not know if she shed tears of anger or pain. Both emotions roiled in the pit of her stomach. There was no telling where one left off and the other began. Within her heart, rage and anguish intertwined like the thorny stems of wild-flowers.

  A noise in the passage, a squeak and scampering of a mouse, brought Meggie to her senses momentarily. Her pride had suffered an overwhelming blow. She could not bear it if her grandfather or any of the household came upon her in this state, in tears, unable to control her emotions. Until she was able to get a hold of herself, she must take refuge in a safe place, away from the world.

  Meggie dropped to her knees. Knees that felt as solid as runny pudding. Circling one arm about ever loyal Seamus, she curled the other around her devoted Bernadette. Was there anyone in the world other than her grandfather and hounds who had not abandoned or betrayed her? She thought not.

  Drying her cheeks in the softness of the dogs’ fur, Meggie made a decision. “Come, we shall go to the tower.”

  Sniffling, she kissed the wolfhounds on the tips of their wet noses before standing. “We do not need a man,” she announced in a quavering voice. “We do not require anyone.”

  Seamus and Bernadette trotted after Meggie as she hurried from her chamber. Dabbing at her eyes with the sleeves of her chemise, she stayed close to the shadows as she made her way from the castle out into the courtyard.

  A near paralyzing pain gripped her entire body; her weakened knees threatened to give way at any moment. This was what came of a broken heart. Unable to speak, to answer to those she passed, Meggie kept her head down. With limp waves of greeting, she tore toward the roundhouse and the tower where she could let the tears fall unnoticed.

  After a mad dash up the winding stone staircase, she slammed the door shut and fell back against it gasping for air. Seamus and Bernadette sniffed about the dank, round refuge as Meggie caught her breath.

  A defensive point for the castle, the tower chamber held little else other than weapons: scattered pieces of rusting armor, several old lances and crossbows, arrows without feathers. Although her grandfather came up to the tower often, Meggie rarely found reason to visit.

  Through her tears, she scrutinized the tower room more closely. Heavy, round-shaped stones were piled against one wall. An iron candelabra sat atop a crudely carved table along with several extra tapers and an earthenware jug, Meggie sniffed at the jug’s contents. She wrinkled her nose, stale mead.

  There was no fireplace to warm the chamber. Before long the chill of late afternoon air would seep through the cracks. But Meggie suspected she could not feel any colder than she did at the moment.

  The only place to sit in the tower was the wooden bench that had been pulled up to the table and draped with a faded saffron cloth. Meggie noticed the floor beneath one end of the bench held a considerable mound of fresh wood shavings.

  For some reason the sight triggered her tears again. Her grandfather, failing in mind and body, carved stools and toys for the retainers’ children and ... walking sticks here. Most likely he had fashioned the bard’s walking stick at this table.

  A shudder ripped through Meggie’s body. Two narrow, loophole windows allowed slim shards of light to enter the stark chamber. Especially now, late in the day, the chamber was quite dark—which matched her mood. Meggie went to one of the windows and gazed out onto the courtyard and bailey below.

  All appeared the same. Life at Dochas went on as usual. Smoke curled from the roof of the wash house, the hens squawked, pigs rooted
in the muddy far pen, and the icy-edged breeze carried the distant sound of sheep. Soon the sun would set over the hills to the west. Everything was the same as any other day.

  But nothing would ever be the same for Meggie.

  She had done the most witless thing in the world. She’d fallen in love with an Englishman. To make it all worse, she had learned what she had never wanted to know. She could cry. She could cry buckets full of tears. Before this afternoon, Meggie had not known a body could hold so many tears.

  She had not understood before now that a woman could survive, continue to live and breathe, despite a shattered heart.

  Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she turned to Seamus and Bernadette. “Do ye know what must be done? I do. I must take myself to the monastery and live the rest of my life in solitude and prayer. I shall become a nun and enter the nearest nunnery ... if they will have a sinner like me. I’ve shot a man. I’ve made love with a man. The same man but still ...”

  The dogs cocked their heads as if trying to understand the strange human who fed and protected them. Bernadette whined.

  “Aye, that’s what I must do.” Drawing a deep breath, Meggie nodded to herself, and to her hounds. Until another unhappy thought struck. “But if I should lock myself away in a nunnery, I don’t know what would happen to ye.”

  Unable to tell her canine friends that she might be forced to leave them, she turned back to once again gaze upon her beloved land below. Only, at the moment, she did not love it quite as much as she had before. She had grown used to sharing Dochas with the bard. Without him, the old castle, its fields, horses, and retainers would not be the same, certainly not the same as before he came.

  Meggie hadn’t wanted to believe Deirdre. She was just a girl. How could she know that Colm was an English spy? But she had known. While Meggie had been blinded by the bard’s great good looks and reticent charm, Deirdre had seen the truth clearly.

  With her gaze fixed on the rolling gray clouds racing across the sky, Meggie wondered what she could have done to prevent losing her heart to the Englishman. She could think of nothing, other than to have had her musket ball penetrate his heart instead of his thigh. If she had killed him at the start, she would never have come to this. A prisoner in her own tower.