“They are gifts for Mistress Meggie Fitzgerald.”
“Gifts?” Certainly she hadn’t heard the boy correctly.
“Aye. If ye are Mistress Fitzgerald, I must say to you that whoever ye sold them to is givin’ these back to ye.”
“Are you certain this is not a mistake?”
“Aye.” The lad smiled broadly and dipped his head. “Me name is Tad. An’ I’m carryin’ a message for ye as well.”
Meggie’s mind whirled in dizzying confusion, as if she had sipped a wee bit too much mead. “What message to you have for me?”
The boy handed her a sealed parchment as Meggie’s grandfather hobbled up beside her. A written message. The parchment burned in her hand. She longed to tear it open but managed to keep her composure.
“Follow me, if you please. Ye shall have food and shelter.”
“I’ll see to the colt and mare,” her grandfather said, taking up the reins. For a moment, Meggie thought she detected a secretive glimmer in his eyes.
“My thanks.”
Meggie found Deirdre in the kitchen. She instructed the girl to feed Tad and see him to a comfortable chamber. Upon meeting the young man, Deirdre’s eyes lit up for the first time in days. With Tad’s welcome assured, Meggie escaped to her chamber where she could read the message in private.
Her hands trembled as she broke the seal.
My Dear Meggie Fitzgerald,
Although we have not yet met, I would like to make myself known to you. My name is Donald Cameron, and I am the Duke of Doneval.
My son Cameron purchased these horses for you, an arrangement he made before we attended Wicklow’s ball. While an old man should not meddle in his son’s affairs, I fear I must. Although he might be angry with me if he learns I have contacted you, Cameron’s happiness is my only concern.
It has become apparent to me that my son is in love with you. Further, I believe circumstances have not been kind to either you or him. If by any chance you should return Cameron s affection, might you find it in your heart to send a message to him?
By month’s end my son will be residing at Doneval Manor, near Stirling just north of Edinburgh, Scotland.
Unable to see through the blur of her tears, Meggie could read no more. The Duke of Doneval himself had written to her.
He claimed Cameron loved her!
Merciful Mary!
A thousand curses on her foolish, foolish pride.
* * * *
On the morning Cameron left Dublin, he had stood on deck watching until he could no longer see the shores of the city. Long after the lush green isle disappeared and nothing but the wide, white-capped waters surrounded the ship, he stayed. It had been a painful crossing. Each hour he slipped farther away from Meggie.
Feeling as if he had spent too long a time from home, the duke chose not to linger in England after their ship docked in Southampton. Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, his father had taken advantage of several social invitations to make Cameron known to all as his son. And then, after less than a week of rest on solid earth, they began the journey north to Doneval Manor in the duke’s own coach. ’Twas a journey of discovery for Cameron.
Meggie traveled with him, for she was constantly on his mind. He stared from the window, appearing to contemplate the passing scenery. But it was the smiling face and sparkling eyes of the Irish lass he saw before him.
When the duke’s coach pulled into the long, winding drive of what obviously was a magnificent country estate, Cameron felt relieved to have his mind distracted from red-gold curls and blushing cheeks.
“Did I mention we had stops to make?” the duke asked.
“Nay.”
“Weel na, this is Rose Hall, the home of your sister Kate and her husband, Edmund Wydville, Earl of Stamford.”
It seemed only a matter of moments after their coach had pulled up before the massive estate that his amber-eyed sister greeted Cameron with unabashed joy and a welcoming embrace. “My brother! My only brother!”
“You must be Kate,” he replied in a droll aside.
“Look, Edmund! Look at how handsome my brother is,” she crowed to her husband.
After being raised with five females, to actually have only one blood sister proved bracing to Cameron. From the moment they met, his honey-haired sister showed an indomitable spirit and pleasing intelligence. Her husband plainly adored the beauty.
Before he knew it, Cameron had joined Kate on the floor to play with her twins.
“You have a way with babes,” she told him.
He forced a smile. If only he and Meggie might marry.
Baby fingers pulling at his ear drew his mind back to the twins and his attention to where it belonged.
Later, the family gathered for the last meal of the day in the small, intimate dining chamber of Rose Hall.
When finished with his venison, the duke leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps ye can help your brother, ye being a woman.”
Cameron frowned. What was this?
Kate straightened, eyes alight and eager. “ ‘Twould be my pleasure. How may I help, Cameron?”
He shot a warning glance at his father before giving a shrug and shaking his head. “I know not.”
“Weel na, dinna be bashful. ’Tis family gathered.”
“It’s of no consequence, Father.”
“Your brother’s lost his heart but must win the lass’s.”
“Father.” Cameron ground the word between his teeth. The duke had never embarrassed him before.
Kate looked from one to the other in puzzlement.
Edmund, her husband, lifted a goblet of ale.
Donald Cameron ignored his son’s warning. “Can you tell us, Kate, what might be the best way to a woman’s heart?”
“Ah, now this is something I know.” She threw them both a bit of a superior, but still dazzling smile. “Sweet words. Words from the heart.”
Cameron scowled. This was worse than he feared. “Words like a poet would use?”
“Aye.”
“Jewels will not do?” he asked.
“Nay. You shall win your lady forever with sweet words.”
He heaved a put-upon sigh. “Would you recommend the words of Shakespeare?”
“No, no, dear brother. You must use your own words.”
The devil. He had feared she was going to say that.
After three mostly festive days with his newly found sister and her family, Cameron and his father set forth once more on the road north. They next stopped at Buckthorn Inn to spend time with the man and woman Cameron had known most of his life as his mother and father.
While he assured George and Bess Thatcher of his continued love and devotion, he teased the sisters who had tormented his youth.
“You may address me, each and every one of you, as the Marquis of Doneval.”
The girls laughed. As did Cameron, to his surprise. A few short weeks ago, he thought he would never laugh again. If he could never think of Meggie again, he might recover.
As Cameron and his father pulled away from the inn following their visit, Donald settled back in his seat and grinned. “Weel na, I’m a fortunate fellow to have a growing family at my age.”
In a most generous gesture, the duke had invited all of the Thatchers to spend the upcoming holidays at Doneval Manor.
“I feel fortunate as well,” Cameron said. He had been blessed with all a man could wish for, save the love of his life.
They made one more stop on the long journey home, and that was at Downes Castle, south of Moffat. Although the ancient structure was in the midst of being restored, Sally Pickering still lived there.
Cameron visited his mother’s grave, and when he returned to the castle, Sally presented him with a small likeness of Anne painted by a passing limner. A knot the size of Scotland lodged in Cameron’s throat as he gazed at the picture of the woman who had given him life. The artist had captured a fragile quality, a wistful smile. While he favored their father, his sister K
ate’s eyes resembled their mother’s. He had inherited Anne’s high forehead.
“My thanks, Sally. I shall treasure this always.”
The old woman smiled and closed her eyes as if she had found peace in his words.
Almost a month after leaving Dublin, Cameron and the duke at last arrived at Doneval Manor. Awestruck, Cameron could not explore quickly enough. The duke’s country estate boasted acres of fields where large herds of Highland cattle and smaller flocks of sheep roamed freely. The manor itself boasted almost as many rooms as a castle, and most were tastefully appointed.
The duke gave Cameron the east wing of the estate to call his own. In hopes of distracting his aching heart, Cameron flung himself into a flurry of activity, reorganizing the wing to suit his taste. He added furnishings and ordered a harp. Meggie loved to play her harp. Perhaps he might learn to play it one day.
Contrary to his hopes, the work did nothing to stave off his thoughts of Meggie. Each night, and frequently during the day as well, Cameron dreamed of his duchess.
There were few estates within a day’s riding distance, and even fewer women living within their gates. But Cameron was thankful his social obligations were few. In the evenings, he retired early to his chamber. He wrote by candlelight, earnestly seeking his muse. Or for that matter, anyone’s muse.
* * * *
Meggie and her grandfather led the mare and her foal into their new stalls in the stable. A sharp chill seeped through the stone walls, but the fresh hay smelled of a summer’s day.
Spreading a blanket over the colt’s back, she said, “I think the Bard shall be happy here, Grandfather.”
“Aye, lass. Aye.”
Bussing a kiss on the foal’s forehead blaze, Meggie reluctantly left the stall. Beside her, Grandfather Fitzgerald leaned on his walking stick. She slowed her steps to accommodate his faltering pace as they made their way to the stable door. As she reached for the door, it swung open. Her father stood on the threshold of the bard’s stable. Humphrey Fitzgerald did not look like the sort of father who might have bounced his baby daughter on his knee. To Meggie’s knowledge, he never had. Her father’s formidable stature and mane of flowing hair gave him a kinglike appearance. But instead of a flowing train of royal velvet robes, his goatskin mantle trailed behind him.
“I thought I would find ye here, Meggie.”
Although he had not disguised his displeasure at having the mare and foal returned, Meggie was thankful he had not spoiled her happiness by voicing his feelings.
She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “What brings ye after me?”
He lowered his head. And she knew. ‘Twas like a blow to her belly with a battering ram.
“’Tis time for me to leave.” He raised his gaze to hers. His blue eyes, so like hers, pled for understanding.
Meggie had spent a lifetime understanding. “Aye?”
Her grandfather inched up so that his shoulder brushed hers.
“There is need for a force to bring supplies into Ulster immediately,” her father told them.
“Must it be you?” she asked.
“Aye. The English are determined to seize our last stronghold. We must muster our arms and provisions quickly. We shall fight to our last breath to save Ulster County.”
“Oh, Da. ’Tis too dangerous. Have ye not done enough? Can ye not stay with me and grandfather?”
Meggie slipped her arm through her grandfather’s. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he stop his son? Because he had lapsed, she thought wearily. He did not understand.
“Nay, I cannot stay, daughter. And neither can ye. Though it breaks me heart to say it, ’tis time for ye to leave Dochas, Meggie.”
“No!” she blurted.
“There will be more Englishmen out in the country as they prepare to invade Ulster,” her father said, softening his voice in an attempt to reason with her. “’Tis no longer safe to stay at Dochas. Niall will escort you and your grandfather to Ulster.”
“Nay!” Meggie cried again, her body one tight mass of icy anguish. Must she lose everything she loved? Even the roof over her head?
Her grandfather’s wispy brows met at the bridge of his nose. While she looked to him for help, he made a guttural sound, strange and unintelligible.
Meggie’s gaze returned to her father. His lips were pressed together in a pinched white line. “If ye do not slip into the county now, ye might never be able to do it. The English plan blockades.”
“Nay.” Meggie raised her chin in defiance. “Do not ask me to leave. Blockade or no, I cannot go. Grandfather, tell him.”
Her grandfather’s frown deepened into a scowl. He grunted.
She felt as if she were suffocating, unable to breathe in enough air. For the first time in memory, Meggie and her father stood apart from each other. Each unyielding. Divided. Her heart simply could not take more sorrow. She feared she might never see her father again, a man she hardly knew. Humphrey Fitzgerald had sworn to die rather than give up another square foot of land. If she lost her father in battle as she had dreaded most of her life, what good would come of her being in Ulster?
’Twas a nightmare that would never end.
Standing his ground, but softening his tone once more, her father, the rebel leader, beseeched her. “I’ll never ask ye to pick up roots again. I promise ye that, Meggie, me love. We can go no farther than Ulster. If we fail there, ‘tis the end.”
Meggie shook her head slowly. The numbness within her might have been caused by the cold, but she suspected otherwise. “Ask me anything but this, Father. I cannot... cannot leave Dochas.” She flung her arm out. “Look, we have just built a new stable.”
His eyes grew distant, his expression grim. Standing rigidly apart from her, Meggie’s father made no move to take her into his arms and comfort her, to neither cajole nor persuade her.
“Ye know I would give ye the world if I could, but I cannot give ye this. Dochas is no longer safe. Ye must go where I will not worry over ye. Prepare to leave by week’s end for Ulster.”
His command issued, he turned on his heel and stormed from the stable.
Meggie’s heart had slowed to a feather beat when she looked to her grandfather.
The old man wore an unreadable expression.
“What shall we do?”
Chapter Eighteen
Cameron spent the day supervising the construction of a new stable at his father’s country estate. He reasoned that the horse breeding and training process that he had witnessed at Dochas could be successful in Scotland as well. Working with the magnificent steeds also seemed to ease his sense of loss. The Irish horses he and the duke had purchased and brought with them from Ireland made Cameron somehow feel closer to Meggie. He especially treasured Dochas, the beautiful bay mare given to him by Gerald Fitzgerald.
Doneval Manor required a new stable in order to accommodate his new dream. Cameron’s days disappeared one into the other as he busied himself in the building. The same stable as he had designed for the wild Irish duchess at last began to take shape.
Too often, Cameron lost track of time. As on this day, by the time he left off and sought refuge in his private wing of the manor house, ‘twas a cold, bone-chilling night. Cameron strode into the low parlor chamber to warm himself by the fire. Later he would join his father for supper.
The small, comfortable parlor suited him. Flickering candles shed golden rays of light, enhancing the feeling of warmth. Dried sweet fennel sprinkled on the floor and collected in baskets provided a pleasing herbal aroma.
The Duke of Laird, favorably impressed by English town homes and manor houses, had seen to it that Doneval Manor boasted the same elegant refinements. Turkish carpets graced the stone floor; lull wainscoting covered the walls along with fine silk tapestries. Cameron could think of nothing he wished to change in this, his most private chamber. He retreated here to think, to dream, to remember.
Standing before the open hearth, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and
briskly rubbed his hands together. His wound had completely healed. Cameron had never told anyone he’d been shot by the Irish enemy in the line of duty. He could not think of Meggie as the enemy. And he had no desire to win a commendation for being mistaken for a werewolf. Military life was behind him. This prince no longer had anything to prove.
Cameron dismissed the first rustle he heard as the sounds of a mouse. But what followed immobilized him. His name. Whispered, strained, and ghostlike,
“Cameron.”
While he did not believe in ghosts, he also did not believe anyone could get by the army of servants who kept Doneval Manor clean and polished. Any visitor would be announced.
Tension curled a stranglehold grip around his throat. Not wishing for his breathing to interfere with hearing even the faintest of sounds, Cameron held his breath.
His heart thumped.
Meggie and her Irish superstitions had brought him to this. The duchess believed in werewolves, faeries, and all sorts of netherworld creatures.
“Cameron.”
The devil. ’Tis the voice of the devil disguised. The devil has come for me.
“I have come... come to…”
Clenching his jaw, Cameron whipped around from the fireplace to confront whatever evil lurked in his chamber, of this world or another. The apparition stood motionless but six feet away from him, a dark, cloaked figure shrouded in shadow.
“Step forward into the light where I may see you,” he commanded.
The specter slowly, shakily moved forward.
God’s bones. He hallucinated.
“Stop where you are.”
The figure stopped. Cameron’s heart seemed to stop as well. Was that a whiff of lavender he smelled?
In the light, the illusion bore an amazing resemblance to Meggie. She held her chin high and at a forward angle, like a majestic figurehead at the helm of a ship. But Meggie feared the sea. She would never board a ship, never make a crossing over the Irish Sea unless bound and kidnapped.
This could not be Meggie standing before him. ’Twas some sort of a cruel hoax.
“Who... Who are you?” he asked, not daring to believe it was the one he most longed for in life.
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