Seducing the Spy Page 5

  How could this radiant tousle of copper curls be unlucky? The top of her head reached his chin. Could he provide the knowledge she needed for protection from a regiment of Englishmen? Could he teach her what was necessary to save herself from a lone Englishman aroused by her soft, feminine curves? The fragility of her willowy figure brought out the protector in Cameron. Despite her protestations, Meggie was a woman who needed to be defended by a man.

  Her hand trembled beneath his. She lifted her chin a notch and inhaled in a stuttering fashion, as if his closeness called upon her to make extra effort simply to breathe.

  Her small frame tucked into his in a snug, titillating fit. Cameron’s senses buzzed to high alert, and his pain was forgotten in the comfort of her womanly body. With his body melded to hers, he felt as if he had come out of a harsh storm to the warmth of a winter hearth. And Cameron knew to feel so was to court disaster.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  Cameron dropped his arms and stepped back away from her. She turned, surprise written in her expression.

  “I think ye should take up a weapon more suitable to a woman’s strength,” he said by way of explanation.

  “What would that be? A dagger?”

  “Aye, a dagger.”

  Daggers, indeed. They glinted in her eyes. The menacing light served to quell anything else Cameron might add.

  “A dagger would not frighten away a wolf,” she declared.

  “Your dogs will do that.”

  “Not my wolfhounds.”

  “Are they not at your heel to protect you?”

  “Bernadette and Seamus are cowards. Even now they cower on the other side of the hawthorn. The sound of the musket frightens them. They have been known to run upon hearing a wolf howl.”

  Cameron was dumbfounded. She had no protection, and she lived miles from civilization with just her witless grandfather and the old men who tended the castle and the fields alongside the women. The young, strong Irishmen who might offer protection were away fighting the English with men like Barra.

  “You must have new hounds to protect you, Meggie.”

  “Nay. I would not insult Seamus and Bernadette when I am able to protect myself.”

  Stubborn woman.

  “Dogs cannot be insulted,” he said.

  She raised a brow and shot him a knowing glance. “Unless they are merely a form taken by the wee people.”

  No ready answer to her reasoning came to Cameron’s mind.

  Meggie sighed through a wistful smile. “Besides, by the time I learned my hounds were cowards, it was too late. I’d already grown attached.”

  He could understand such ties. One of his sisters held a tabby in great affection. But there was something else he did not comprehend. “Why is it that you call your dogs by names normally reserved for people?”

  “Because I have not much family,” she explained. “My mother and sister were lost at sea when I was a wee girl of only six years. The ship they traveled upon was caught in a storm crossing the Irish Sea. Since then it’s been only father, grandfather, and me. And my father has been away fighting ever since I can remember.

  “Seamus and Bernadette are the brother and sister I ne’er had as a girl and sorely missed.” Her eyes twinkled as she raised them to his. “Handsome siblings, don’t ye think?”

  Cameron understood then. He knew too well the empty spot within, the need to fill the hollow pit in one’s soul. While he had grown up surrounded by family, they were not his family. His mother and father had given him away, much as one would give an apple from the orchard to a passing stranger. In his heart, he dwelled alone in the world in much the same manner as Meggie. When Cameron didn’t respond immediately, Meggie’s chin inched up to a defiant angle. “I jest,” she said with the haughtiness of a ... duchess.

  The Duchess of Dochas. Indeed, the title fit. Cameron allowed himself a wry smile as he regarded her. As if daring him to say another critical word about her hounds, she held her head high, with her lips slightly pursed, prepared for the next round of verbal jousting.

  “I understand,” he said, lifting his gaze to where her freckles danced a merry path across her narrow nose. Unlikely as it seemed, he found the flurry of tiny dark spots against Meggie’s ivory complexion endearing. What some might consider an imperfection, Cameron regarded as a gift that saved the Irish vixen from the blandness of perfection, like a nod from God.

  “Ye are a formidable woman,” he agreed, realizing agreeing with Meggie was the only way to end this argument. Silently, he vowed to keep an eye on her as much as possible while he remained at Dochas. She would be under his protection, like it or not. Realize it or not. “And your dogs most fortunate.”

  The cowards!

  She whirled about, lifting the musket again. Cameron leaned heavily on his walking stick as she took aim.

  Carrom! Meggie fired the musket, and the impact immediately knocked her back and down. She landed on her bottom. Smoke billowed from the muzzle as she gave out a squeal of frustration.

  Unable to hold back, Cameron chuckled softly as he made his way to the stump of a fallen holly tree. He could not remember the last time he had truly laughed. But to do so now would only stoke the redhead’s already simmering anger.

  “Are ye mockin’ me?”

  “Not I. Never.”

  “Ach! Ye scoundrel! May the devil find ye before ye cross into heaven. May he walk with you into the fire. May snakes burrow in the thatches of your roof and fleas infest the rushes on your floor. May the wee people turn ye to stone and curse ye with a twenty-year itch behind your ear.”

  She had left nothing out.

  Cameron fully expected to feel an itch behind his ear before long. “I shall rest here until you are ready to return to Dochas,” he said, brushing dried leaves from the tree stump. He clamped down hard on his lip to prevent the escape of even a twitter of the belly laugh he felt building.

  “Now!” Meggie pushed herself up and brushed her skirts with vigor, as if furious with the dirt, grass, and clover clinging to the folds of the saffron fabric. “I am ready to return now.”

  The duchess ended target practice.

  * * * *

  Meggie held a candle as she climbed the steps to her bedchamber later that eve. She felt tired through and through. For the past two days Barra’s small band demanded food, mead, whiskey, and music. They told long, contrived stories of their bravery against the English traveling the roads in Westmeath. They made it plain that only featherbeds would do. Barra boasted of the risks they took and the rewards they should rightfully claim. Meggie grew weary of their blarney long before she was able to bid them good eve and escape.

  She paused at the threshold of the bard’s chamber. There was nothing so revered in Ireland as a poet, especially one who possessed the magnificent body and fine chiseled features of an immortal as Colm did. Meggie likened him to one of the legendary figures in Irish folklore, half man, half god. But the bard was complete and compelling in every way.

  The demands of Barra and his men had forced her to neglect the bard for several days. In her stead, Meggie had dispatched her grandfather to serve as companionship for Colm and Deirdre to carry the compelling poet his meals. The young girl always returned with a glazed look in her eyes and a soft smile upon her lips.

  A beeswax candle burned low on the stool beside his featherbed. The bard appeared to sleep soundly. Without a thought to it, Meggie lingered. She listened to the steady beat of Colm’s breathing. She inhaled with him, exhaled with him, in perfect rhythm. He did not snore or make strange noises. A hank of disheveled dark brown hair fell across his forehead. One arm was flung up above his head. Inhale. Exhale. Breathing. Breathing as one. One.

  His mouth parted slightly, and the small jagged scar that ran from his lower lip beckoned to her. Here. Let your lips touch mine here.

  A fluttering warmth floated through her, like a feather on the wind. Resisting the temptation to crawl into the bed beside him, Meggie simply watc
hed as he slept. Her mind took flight. How would it feel to be loved by a poet? In particular the poet with one name, the man called Colm? A man skilled in whispering words of sweet arousal.

  She had thought to swoon when he held her in the valley, demonstrating the correct way to level her musket. But as her body warmed and melted into his, he had stepped away. Meggie thought she might weep. What had put him off from her?

  Ah, ’twas no longer any doubt about it; she was a wicked woman, shameless in every way. But she could not recall ever entertaining such wanton thoughts about a man, nor feeling a need for him. Not even for Declan, a winning lad in every way, but never a full-grown man. Nor Niall.

  Meggie turned away, upset with herself for allowing sinful thoughts to creep into her mind.

  A stumble and fall on the steps not far below brought her to a halt in the dimly lit corridor. A torch on the wall shed the only light over the stony walls and rush-covered floor.

  She held her candle toward the sound, peering through the shadows to the curving steps. “Who’s there?”

  “’Tis only me, Meggie.”

  She did not mistake the voice. “Barra?”

  His head appeared around the bend. “Aye.”

  He gave her a foolish smile.

  The wispy hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was an odd, instinctive reaction. She had never feared Barra before. She drew a shallow breath.

  “Are ye lost, then?” Meggie demanded in a fearless tone.

  Shaking his head, he stumbled and lunged up the stairs toward her. The candle he held flickered as it wobbled from side to side in his hand. Spittle caught at the corner of his mouth.

  “Your bed’s laid out in the great hall,” she reminded him.

  He had reached her side. And in a whisper the dead could hear, Barra hissed, “I’ve come to lie with ye.”

  Chapter Four

  “Merciful Mary!” ’Twas all she could say ... and it was but a whisper beneath her breath.

  Stunned by Barra’s audacity, Meggie remained rooted to the spot, unable to move as she felt the blood drain from her head.

  He belched.

  Certainly, she must have misunderstood. “What say ye?”

  Her mouth had gone dry, tasting quite like she had just swallowed a bushel of straw. And while her body might be immobilized, her brain was not. A jumble of scenarios passed through her mind. None of them good.

  Setting down her candle, Meggie squared her shoulders and hitched up her chin. There was nothing to it but to confront him, here in the corridor between her chamber and the poet’s. Barra stood less than six feet away. With one arm he braced himself against the wall. Drunken desire glazed his eyes.

  Meggie chose her words carefully, seeking to soothe him, the wild beast. “You’ve had too much to drink this night, Barra.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye,” she said, advancing on him, attempting to conceal her trepidation.

  Barra appeared to be in a trance, sleeping with his eyes wide open. He regarded her without so much as a blink. Forcing a smile, Meggie gently turned the rugged rebel by his shoulders so that he faced the stairs. He complied with a silly grin, until he pitched forward, coming dangerously close to falling over face first. Meggie caught him, staggering beneath his weight.

  “I tripped.” He burped.

  “Go on with ye now” she coaxed, pushing the lecherous warrior upright.

  But Barra was in no mood for gentle prodding. He swung back unsteadily. An angry frown replaced what he evidently had mistaken for a seductive grin. “I’ll be givin’ ye what many a woman would have.”

  “I do not want what you’re offerin’, and you’re gonna feel bad in the morning for this,” Meggie warned quietly.

  Paying no heed, the rebel leader grabbed her wrist roughly. Apparently, he had broken through his trance-like state and had done all the wooing he meant to do. His flinty gray eyes narrowed to menacing crevices. He smelled like a keg of stale mead.

  Meggie jerked her head from his foul breath. A shiver of fear trickled down her spine. She had left her dogs with Deirdre, afraid the girl might need guarding. There was nothing so amorous as a drunken Irishman, and a great deal of mead had been consumed this eve. Meggie never thought of herself requiring protection. In the past, no one had dared lay so much as a finger on the daughter of Fitzgerald, the lady of the castle, the mistress of Dochas.

  Until now. Barra had lost all ability to reason. He had forgotten who she was; from the looks of him, most likely he didn’t know who he was.

  “What are ye savin’ yerself for?” he sneered. “’Tis yer duty to comfort the men defendin’ ye from the English bastards.”

  Barra stood six feet tall, built in the shape of a brick turret, round and solid. Meggie feared she might be unable to fend him off if it came to a struggle. She could not look to the bard to come to her rescue even if the fracas woke him. Colm was not strong enough to engage in a fight. His wounded leg would not hold him.

  A shudder of revulsion swept through her at the thought of Barra forcing himself upon her. And then her blood began to boil. Her hands curled into fists, fists she raised to her hips.

  “I’m feeding and shelterin’ ye, and that’s enough!” She bristled.

  Barra must have found her objection amusing. Chuckling, he dragged her into what he thought to be her chamber. “Ye’re gonna give me more, fair lassie.”

  So intent was he on ravishing her, the burly rebel did not realize he had spirited her into the bard’s chamber. Barra did not see Colm asleep in his bed.

  “Shush!” she said. “Or you will wake the sleeping poet.”

  “Who?” Barra turned away to look where she pointed.

  In that unguarded moment, Meggie wrenched free. But as she turned to run, Barra pounced with surprising agility. He snatched her upper arm and clasped it tightly. He pulled her out into the corridor. In the darkness, Meggie kicked and flailed, fighting off Barra’s brute power as he sought to capture her lips.

  Was the bard truly sleeping through this?

  “Let me go!” Meggie hissed, beating her fist against Barra’s chest.

  The drunken rebel appeared to enjoy the fight. He threw his head back and laughed. In a desperate effort, Meggie flung her body to the side with enough force to cause her attacker to lose his grip on her once more.

  Pulling free, Meggie ran to her chamber. Pulse pounding, she dashed to her wooden chest. Flinging back the lid, she plunged her hands deep into the linens and clothing. Rummaging furiously through the contents, she searched for her dagger.

  “Ye can’t run from me, Meggie.” Barra’s hulking form loomed above her, swaying. “Ye’re meant to be mine.”

  She found her weapon. Her hand clasped the ivory handle. Holding the dagger behind her back, she rose slowly. “Be gone, Barra.”

  “Ye’re playin’ with me.”

  “I shall not warn you again. Go away or ... or I will have to kill ye.”

  “And she means what she says.”

  Barra’s bulk of a body jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.

  “She’s shot a man for less,” the deep baritone voice assured the drunken rebel. “Trust me.”

  It was Colm. Barra appeared frozen. He swayed not the slightest.

  Meggie took the first deep breath she could remember since being confronted by the foolish man. She quickly lit another candle from the one burning by her bedside.

  Colm stood behind Barra, towering over the suddenly quiet brawler. In the flickering light, the poet’s scowl appeared more menacing than Barra’s drunken passion. Slashes of dark brows met above the bridge of his nose. His lips were pressed tightly together in two narrow bands of anger. A muscle pulsed in his squared jaw. Even though he leaned upon the blackthorn walking stick for support, the bard appeared quite fearsome.

  But ruled by his mad dog instincts, Barra quickly recovered from his surprise and spun on Colm. Ah, but the spin proved too much for the mead-sotted man. He wobbled, flappin
g his arms like a highly strung chicken while trying to maintain his balance.

  The bard took advantage of the rebel’s uncertain state. Dropping the walking stick, he curled his large hand into a giant fist. With one well-directed punch to Barra’s jaw, Colm knocked Meggie’s attacker to the ground. The Irish rebel thumped to the floor like a sack of rotting praties.

  Meggie’s relief was short lived. One fright gave way to another.

  Colm swayed unsteadily. In one motion, she rushed to his side, scooped up his walking stick, and slipped an arm about his waist.

  “Lean on me.”

  “That’s not necessary.” But even as he protested, he did as she bid.

  The heat of his body warmed her through the linen tunic he wore. For whatever reasons, the poet insisted on sleeping in restrictive clothing. One thickly muscled arm wrapped around her shoulder. The innocent movement sent a series of warm shivers sweeping through Meggie. Just moments ago, she had been cold with fear; now she melted from heat.

  She longed to walk with his arm wrapped around her forever, at once sheltered and excited by the intense maleness of him. The bard generated a raw, animal potency that seeped through Meggie’s skin, settled and burned beneath her flesh.

  Oh, she surely was a shameless woman, lusting after an ailing man.

  “Come, now ...” she coaxed softly.

  “What about him?” The bard dipped his head toward the unconscious man folded on the floor.

  “We’ll leave Barra to sleep it off.”

  “But where will you sleep?”

  “With you.”

  He frowned as if she had said something to perplex him. “Aye?”

  She did not take offense. The effort it took to defend her had obviously caused him to grow light-headed. In all of the castle tonight, Colm was the only man safe to sleep with.

  Seeking to support the poet, Meggie circled his waist and found it to be a narrowed band of steel. She clasped the hand of his arm looped over her shoulder. “We’ll move slowly,” she said.