Seducing the Spy (12 page)

“Ye like me,” he repeated. “’Tis a good thing. I’m thinkin’ I’d be dead now if ye didn’t.”

Apparently, the duchess chose to ignore his barb and continue with yet another question. “Were ye a farm boy who discovered he had a gift for storytelling?”

Cameron had erred by confiding in Meggie. Now he must stay as close to the truth as possible or become tangled in a hopeless web of lies. Even though realizing inns were few and far between in Ireland, he risked an honest reply. “No. I was raised by innkeepers. My sisters and I helped care for the inn.”

“And ye did not like it?”

“Nay. Too dull. I take my pleasure in the adventure of the road.”

The sun, the closeness of Meggie, the brushing of her hair had all conspired against Cameron. He had begun to sweat beneath his mantle. He itched as well. And the craving for Meggie’s lips had begun again with a tingling in his own lips. A dusky simmering settled deep in his loins.

“Do you think ye might settle down one day?” she asked, obviously unmindful of her effect upon him.

“Nay.”

“I have found adventure in farming. We planted praties last spring. ’Tis a new crop, a hardy root that grows without much tending. And there is nothing more satisfyin’ than watchin’ a herd of cattle grow, or training a fine Irish steed. My favorite mare will foal soon, and I cannot think of anything more exciting than watchin’ a new life come into the world.”

The lilting tone of Meggie’s voice evidenced her love of farming and raising horses. But Cameron could never be satisfied with so little. He sought to be recognized as a leader of men. Achieving rank and privilege was how he meant to make his worth clear to the world.

How could he explain his feelings to an innocent Irish lass? How could she understand the hollow within him that he strived to fill almost every day? The curious duchess was full of herself and he suspected she always had been.

“I wish to be respected by my countrymen,” Cameron said. “I want to ... to stand apart for my accomplishments. Do not ask me why. I cannot explain this need.

“But as a bard, I am applauded and admired. Who would applaud me if I were a farmer?”

She turned then, her astonishing eyes wide with wonder. “Ye want the world to love ye?”

“Aye.”

“’Tis impossible. All a man truly requires is the love of one excellent woman. Think of it, Colm. There will always be another bard on your heels lookin’ to win the same people who applaud ye now. Ye’ll never find happiness if ye must constantly be keeping one step ahead of the men following behind ye.”

Meggie offered forthright wisdom, Cameron knew to be true. There would always be a young lieutenant with more intelligence, one more physically fit than he, nipping at his heels. When Cameron finally achieved the rank he desired, he would spend a lifetime working to keep it.

The brash Irish lass expected him to believe one remarkable woman could bring him happiness. A woman like Meggie would most certainly be remarkable. But she would not have him. She was Irish. The daughter of an Irish rebel. If the freckle-faced mistress of Dochas ever discovered his true identity, she would shoot him on the spot. And she would aim for the heart. Of that, Cameron had no doubt.

“I cannot deny the truth of what ye say,” he agreed in a vague fashion. “I must always watch for competitors.”

“What of the ring you wear?” she asked, jumping to a new topic. Her gaze fixed on the only jewelry he owned. “Is there a story behind your band of rose and crown?”

He had never told anyone about his ring. Cameron met her eyes. The amazing pools of blue shone with a bright intelligence, rare among females he had met, both English and Irish.

“No story. ’Tis connected with my birth. My ring came with me as a babe, and I am sworn never to remove it.”

“Have ye not considered the crown engraved upon it might mean ye are the offspring off a nobleman.” Meggie’s beguiling eyes grew wider as she allowed full rein to her imagination. “Perhaps the forbidden union between an Irish woman and an English nobleman, one of the settlers. There are many such marriages throughout Ireland, ye know, though not approved by all. Certainly not approved by the Fitzgeralds.”

Of course not the Fitzgeralds. Cameron shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“It looks to be true gold.”

He smiled. “I fear my ring is the only thing of value that I own.” Which sadly, was the truth.

“Have ye ever thought to search for your true mother and father?”

“Nay. Likely, such a discovery would only cause trouble. The man and woman who raised me loved me well. I need no others.”

“If it were me, I would need to know.”

“Ye have more curiosity than is good for a woman,” he declared.

“Ye are not the first to mention it.” She sighed, adding with a wistful smile, “’Tis time to return to Dochas.”

“Aye. I shall walk awhile,” he said, rising carefully so that the folds of his mantle did not open. “Walking does my leg good. It shall be healed ’ere long.”

“Aye.” She expressed no joy at his news.

“My thanks to you for stitching my wound.”

She acknowledged his compliment with only the shadow of a smile.

“Stroll in the corn fields,” she suggested. “Ye may eat the corn fresh from the stalk, but you won’t come close to feelin’ the joy a farmer does when a healthy crop is harvested.”

“And a farmer will never feel the joy of the muse,” he retorted.

Meggie laughed, a sweet melody of sound. “Help me up now.”

Cameron pulled her to her feet but did not readily let go of her hands, soft and small in his. Without meaning to be, he was held captive in the sky blue loveliness of her eyes.

’Twas a whistle that caused Meggie to jump and break the connection between them. It was a tug of unbidden and confusing emotions that Cameron experienced. What had startled her? He wanted to know, could not ask.

“It’s Niall,” she whispered, before calling out to her one-eyed suitor. “Niall, over here!”

The wealthy farmer strode from the copse and into the clearing. He stopped short. As his glance darted from Meggie to Cameron and back, his lips tightened. And then he cast a grand smile at his intended. “What are ye doin’, Meggie, me heart?”

“Talkin’ with the bard, I am. We met at the river by chance.”

“By chance?” he repeated, scowling at Cameron.

Cameron drew his mantle more tightly around him. He could not think what Niall would might do if he knew there was nothing beneath but bare flesh.

But the big Irishman did not dwell upon Cameron. Turning to Meggie, his harsh, dark features softened. “Your grandfather sent me to fetch ye.”

“Then, I shall be off.” She bestowed a smile upon Cameron and then turned her light briefly upon Niall before dashing away. Escaping, more likely. Her ghostly wolfhounds rose from their resting place and scampered after her.

Alone, Cameron faced the jealous suitor. Would the torture never end? He had endured nothing but one dilemma after another since setting foot on Fitzgerald land.

“What were ye discussin’ with me heart?” Niall demanded as soon as Meggie disappeared into the copse.

“The weather.” Cameron forced a smile. “Is it not a pleasant summer day?”

Niall rolled his shoulders as a man might do before lashing out. His one good eye narrowed on Cameron in all-encompassing scrutiny. “Too warm to be wearin’ a mantle,” he said. His forefinger tapped against his lips.

“I have suffered from chills in all sorts of weather since my unfortunate... accident,” Cameron fabricated.

“Aye?” Meggie’s doubtful suitor inclined his head in study. “Interesting.”

Cameron’s instincts warned him to be on guard. “Life has been exceedingly interesting ever since I arrived at Dochas.”

“Were you about last eve, celebratin’ Lughnasa?”

“I was indeed, until the whiskey put me to sleep and I took to my bed.”

Niall regarded Cameron coldly. “Where were ye headed before the lassie nicked ye?”

“To Dublin.”

“Do ye plan to leave soon?”

“In a matter of days.”

Niall nodded. Unsmiling, he hooked his thumb into the girdle of his tunic. “I worry about me Meggie, if ye mind me meaning. She shouldn’t be taking strangers into Dochas.”

“I did not intend to stop at Dochas.”

Niall grunted. “I may have only one eye, but it’s all I need,” he warned. “My sword hand is deadly and my musket is at the ready.”

“Your Meggie also keeps a musket at the ready.”

The sturdy Irishman grinned for the first time, but it was a dark, mirthless twist of his lips. “Shot ye, she did?”

“Aye.” Cameron wished to end this uncomfortable conversation and be on his way. Instinct told him that Niall was more dangerous than Barra and all of his rebels put together.

Meggie’s suitor took a menacing step closer to Cameron. “Ye look well to me, Bard. Best be on your way.”

Cameron stood his ground. “Aye. I am eager to reach Dublin.”

Tapping his lips, Niall nodded. “There’s somethin’ else.”

Cameron inwardly winced. Had he done or said something to give himself away? “Aye?”

“Ye will recite a poem of love to me Meggie. I shall be askin’ her to play the harp, and when she does, ye will recite words that will win her heart for me.”

The devil he said!

“Is Mistress Meggie’s heart not already yours?” Cameron inquired in as mild a manner as he could muster.

Niall scratched his beard. “’Tis uncertain, I am. Ye must convince her with your words to marry me.”

“I do not know if --”

“Ye will prove your worth as a poet. Ye will put Meggie in the mood so that she cannot say nay to me when I ask her again to be mine, as I will do tomorrow eve.”

Cameron’s throat had gone as dry as bone. “I do not know if I am able to do what you ask. My muse fled when I was wounded.”

Niall shot him an ominous frown. “Yer muse had better return by nightfall.”

Cameron would rather engage in hand-to-hand combat with Niall than compose a love poem. He had never composed a poem of love. Worse, to recite words of love to Meggie for the lip-tapping hulk of a man set Cameron’s teeth on edge.

The scowling Irishman turned on his heel and strode away.

Cameron watched him disappear into the copse. Niall had left him little choice about what he must do next.

* * * *

Donald Cameron, the Duke of Doneval, traveled by coach over treacherous English country roads with Sally Pickering at his side. The two were en route to Cotswold on a mission of utmost importance to Donald. The old woman who accompanied him had served as lady’s maid to his English lover for most of Anne’s life.

Anne had died four months before. Just before her death, however, she had revealed a terrible secret that she had kept from Donald for over twenty years. He had fathered her children. Anne had given birth to a girl and a boy during their long, odd relationship without Donald ever knowing.

In retrospect, her deceit had not been difficult. Often, months went by between Donald’s visits to the lovely recluse. And then there had been times when he came to call that Anne refused to see him. At the time, he owed it to the English woman’s eccentricities. But since he had learned of his children, Donald blamed himself for not demanding that Anne receive him upon every occasion. How easily he had been duped.

How eager he was to find his children. He had discovered Kate first, now happily wed to Edmund Wydville, the Earl of Stamford. Now he searched for his second born, a son.

Sally was the key to his search as she had placed both of the children as foundlings at her mistress’s bidding. In fear for their lives if their true identity was known, Anne made certain each child was placed with couples desiring a babe but unable to have one of their own. Couples of ordinary birth.

“My son is an innkeeper. You are certain, Sally?”

“Aye. Cameron Thatcher is his name.”

Chapter Seven

It was time to depart Dochas. The sooner Cameron left hope behind, the safer he would be. The throbbing in his thigh had been reduced to a dull ache. The piercing shards of pain that shot through his leg occurred with less frequency. Although not yet up to full strength, he persuaded himself that he could sit astride a horse for a full day. To that end, Cameron set out for the stable at dawn on the following morn, bent on “borrowing” a mount.

He had come across no finer horseflesh in his travels through Ireland than the ponies bred in the Fitzgerald stables. If he were truly a poet who could cease his wandering and make Dochas his home, Cameron would be sorely tempted to stay. He believed Meggie. Breeding and training the magnificent steeds would provide challenge and satisfaction as well as a profitable reward.

Meggie.

Niall had charged Cameron with writing a love poem for the duchess that would melt her heart and persuade her to marry the humorless man. As if Cameron, or any other man, could compose a sonnet she could not resist. Impossible! The willful Irish lass could resist anything if she had a mind to. She could resist the great god Apollo reciting a sonnet composed by Cupid.

Last eve, as he lay sleepless, Cameron considered continuing the pretense and employing a bit of guile. That was what a spy did after all. He thought of using words directly from the pen of Shakespeare to woo the blue-eyed, freckled vixen for Niall. But by the first gray ribbons of muted light, his basic nature, an honest one, refused to allow even one more small deception.

Cameron wondered if Niall knew what he was asking for in taking Meggie as his bride. Feeling sympathy for the man did not come easily. Nevertheless, Cameron experienced a moment.

But not a long one, after remembering something Gerald Fitzgerald had said. Meggie’s grandfather believed Niall wanted Dochas more than Meggie. Yet another Pandora’s box that Cameron could not open. Would not. He had not been charged with saving Meggie from Niall.

Immediate flight was the more prudent course. In a matter of minutes, he would show his heels to Dochas.

Aided by his walking stick, Cameron limped down the winding stone stair case from his chamber. A jumble of unwanted emotions dogged his every step.