He felt angry that Niall, the one-eyed Irish hero, had forced Cameron’s hand and perhaps a premature departure. Worse was the physical disturbance afflicting his innards. His stomach had felt like a churning sea ever since Meggie’s kiss. White caps danced in the pit of his belly, causing undue distress and a disturbing confusion at the memory.
Recalling the sweet taste of her lips on his continued to cause a lusty warming in Cameron’s lower masculine regions. He found it draining after a time to suppress the unbidden recall. Lastly, he felt a very real fear. The danger that he might be discovered in the midst of stealing away set his pulse to racing and his heart to a slow, unnatural beat. He moved stiffly, the muscles in his body constricted tightly as if braced for a shower of blows.
As Cameron approached the great hall and the first door to freedom, he heard the soft, melodic strains of a harp. He paused, allowing the music to wash over him, soothing the raw edges of his nerves. But he could not linger. As stealthily as possible, for a man in his condition, he made his way behind a thick pillar from which he could see who played the harp like an angel.
Meggie.
No angel.
Her ever-present hounds slept at her side.
As he listened to the music of the strings, Cameron regretted that he was not a poet, not the man who could recite beautiful words to accompany Meggie’s music.
But then he quickly reminded himself that although the redhead
might play
the harp like an angel, even
look
like an innocent angel, in truth, she was the devil’s own daughter.
Cameron turned away from the source of his misery. And she had given him a fair share of misery. He thought by keeping to the outer edges of the hall he might make his getaway without being detected. While he felt bad for not biding Meggie farewell, he knew such a leave-taking would be far too difficult.
She would meet his gaze directly as she was wont to do. Her eyes sparkling, the smile playing upon her lips at once teasing and provocative. And he would be transfixed, enchanted, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to go.
If Cameron survived service in the queen’s army and grew old, white-haired, and withered, he would never forget the wild Irish woman. Should her beauty fade from his memory, he would still remember her disquieting, candid manner, the surprising gentleness of her touch, and her boisterous laugh.
Oh, nay. She did not hold back. Unlike English ladies, Meggie never twittered behind a fan. She showed her pleasure in all things by laughing often and loudly.
Cameron was only a few feet from the door when the dogs barked. They had at last detected him. If he had come to rape and pillage, they would be dead by now and Meggie his.
The wolfhounds’ nails tapped on the stone floor as they gave chase.
The music stopped.
The great snowy dogs found him.
Cowards that they were, Seamus and Bernadette paced several feet in front of him, howling and barking in turn.
Cameron attempted to scold. “Sssssh.”
The hounds howled louder.
As he promised beneath his breath to end their lives at the earliest opportunity, Meggie poked her head around a pillar.
“Colm!”
He started, then forced a wide smile. “Good morrow, Mistress Meggie. Pray forgive me, I did not mean to set the dogs to barking.”
“Go! You naughty beasts,” she scolded, before turning to Cameron with an apologetic quirk of her mouth. “They overprotect me in the only way they know ... with a great deal of noise.”
“You can never be overprotected.”
A mischievous light gleamed in her eyes, a bright faerie light that caused Cameron’s heart to lurch out of rhythm. A peculiar response to the redheaded omen of ill fortune. And one which occurred with increasing frequency of late. He feared for the state of his heart.
“The tongue of a true poet,” she pronounced.
Rather than leave, Seamus and Bernadette slithered to their usual position behind their mistress.
If Cameron hesitated, he would be lost. He must leave. The longer he lingered, the greater the danger from the Irish and from himself. He had begun to entertain traitorous thoughts. Each day, bit by bit, his protective detachment had melted away. He felt at home here. He had even begun to favor Meggie’s company.
“I’ll be taking a walk now.”
“Do ye seek your muse in the meadows?”
“Aye. Aye, that I do.”
“Niall has requested that I play the harp for him tonight,” she said, then smiled as she added, “’Tis his last night at Dochas.”
“I heard ye. You play the harp like ... like an angel.”
“Would ye bring a blush to my cheeks with your flattery now?”
Before Cameron’s eyes the soft pink of Meggie’s cheeks deepened to a crimson stain, a reaction he found exceedingly charming. “I only speak the truth.”
Which for once was not a lie.
“Think how much more entertaining it would be if you recited a poem tonight while I play.”
“Aye. If only I might find my muse in time.”
“She will come upon ye when ye least expect it, like love.”
Love? What had caused her to think of love? Cameron’s skin prickled with apprehension. “Aye. Perhaps.”
“’Tis true,” she insisted. “I have read that love blossoms when least expected.”
“Do you read?” he asked, taken aback by the revelation that Meggie read. Very few Irish men were capable of reading and he had yet to encounter an Irish lass who could make out more than a few words. But he should have expected as much from Meggie. The duchess was different.
“Aye. I like to read. Especially if I feel lonely. I am not lonely when I read.”
Cameron had read all his life for the same reason.
She cast one of her blinding smiles.
He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He rued the day - Which day? When had it happened? -that Meggie’s smiles had become so powerful as to render him immobile.
“As do I,” he admitted, lowering his gaze, sliding from the warmth of her bewitching eyes.
Her smile faded. He had come to recognize that if Meggie said something she regretted, something that would make her vulnerable like admitting to loneliness, she used a smile to hint that she only jested.
“I shall bring a book to your chamber before dusk,” she said.
“If you’re not careful you’ll be winnin’ my heart,” Cameron replied without thinking. And once again he had spoken the truth. But a spy who spoke without thinking, and worse, spoke the truth, was surely doomed.
“Go on with ye now!” Meggie gently shoved Cameron toward the door. The unexpected blush of her cheeks captivated him. “If ye wouldn’t mind, stop by the stable and look in on Sorcha for me. She’s not due to foal for another fortnight, but she’s been behaving in an unnatural way these past few days.”
“A faerie curse, perhaps?”
Meggie leveled her gaze and hiked a brow. The simple gesture conveyed more meaning than words. He had vexed her. She dared him to say another word. “Would ye mind?”
“I shall be glad to look in upon your mare.”
“And I shall be askin’ the saints to help ye find your muse while ye walk.”
“I fear my muse may have been stolen by the werewolves.”
She ignored his barb, choosing to caution him instead. “The sky is overcast. Take care it does not rain on ye.”
“’Tis good of you to fret over my health ever since you shot me,” he teased, attempting to stifle a grin.
“Pish!” she scoffed, with a roll of her Irish blue eyes.
All at once Cameron felt as if he were standing in lead boots. He could not move, and could not explain his reluctance to leave. “Despite all you’ve done, perhaps because of all you’ve done, I shall never forget ye, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
Inclining her head to a puzzled tilt, she cast him a fey smile. “And I shall never forget you.” Her questioning glance gave way to a grin. “At least not during the time you’ve gone walking. Ye’ll be back before sundown?”
“I’ll be back.”
Someday he might return to Dochas. When all was settled and under English control, Cameron would like to come back to see how Meggie fared. But now he silently renewed his determination to leave Dochas with utmost speed.
* * * *
Meggie stood at the open door and watched the bard limp away. Even though he walked with an uneven gait, each day his steps grew stronger. Soon he would be strong enough to leave Dochas, and the knowledge made her heart heavy. But she did not cry. She would not cry.
The poet had dressed in the garments he wore upon his arrival. Weeks ago, she had made certain each article had been cleaned and repaired. Colm looked so fine and proud in his long green tunic with its high-standing collar. The patch in his snug brown hose was barely visible, especially when the eye was drawn to the hard curves of his muscular legs.
Meggie longed to take Bernadette and Seamus and stroll through the meadows with Colm. Although she wasn’t quite certain how it was done, she wished to help him restore his muse. Certainly such a thing must be possible! She would never forgive herself if she had destroyed the poet’s muse. Meggie hadn’t realized that a musket ball might damage more than flesh and bone. What could a poet without a muse do? How would Colm make his way in the world if she had murdered his muse?
If his muse did not return, she must offer the bard work at Dochas. Perhaps, he might serve as shepherd to the sheep. No skill was required. But would he accept such a task? And if he agreed, would his constant presence divert Meggie from the course she had set upon?
She was drawn to the compelling bard as surely as a wild swan was drawn to the deep indigo waters of the lake. For days now, Meggie had been unable to think of anyone else when Colm entered a room. In his company, she was unable to still the pounding of her heart and the trembling of her hands.
Troubled by her reverie, even the beloved hounds who trailed at her heels served to irritate Meggie. While she dreamed of children, dogs played at the hem of her skirt. While she dreamed of peace in the land, skirmishes waged about her castle. And while she dreamed of having the wealth to restore Dochas, she possessed only the promise of unborn ponies—and marriage to Niall.
There must be a secret curse upon her.
Meggie sank to the stool and plucked idly at the strings of her harp, willing the music to soothe away her discontent. She had played for only a few moments when her grandfather shuffled into the hall.
“Where is he?” the old man demanded, his gaze darting about the hall.
“Who, Grandfather?”
“Colm.”
“The bard has gone walking. He seeks to strengthen his leg.”
“Nay! He must come with me. I have had word the people are starving in Munster. We must bring food to them.”
Meggie rose and went to him. The old man’s confusion tore at her heart. “No, Grandfather. The Munster misfortune happened over fifteen years ago.”
It had been the most terrible of tragedies. Thirty thousand Irish, or more, died of starvation in Munster. Their farmland and grazing meadows had been taken and given to English settlers without recompense of any kind.
As Meggie circled her arm around his shoulders, the crevices in her grandfather’s leathered face deepened. Dark furrows of distress lined the face she loved. His sparse brows drew together. “Aye?”
“Aye,” Meggie reassured him softly. Her heart ached for the old man. She felt so helpless witnessing his bouts of confusion, quite unable to lift the fog befuddling his mind. She could only offer him her love. “Would ye like to sit with me while I play?”
Still frowning, her grandfather glanced at the harp and then shook his head, shook it sharply as if he might clear his jumbled thoughts.
“The bard might enjoy yer company if ye care to walk with him,” Meggie suggested gently.
Once more her grandfather responded with a shake of his head. The wiry white hairs barely moved. Stubborn, sweet old man.
Gerald started toward the door in his hunched, shuffling fashion but stopped after just a few steps. He looked back at Meggie. His hazy blue eyes narrowed on hers. “Do ye like the lad, the bard?” he asked.
Taken aback, she gaped.
Did he realize what he asked? Meggie never could be certain her grandfather understood what he was saying. Rather than risk wounding him, she answered honestly. “Of course I do. Do you?”
“Aye. Ye best be makin’ him stay.”
Where was his mind? What had prompted her grandfather to suggest such a thing?
Meggie shot him a teasing smile. “Shall I hold the poet prisoner? Should I lock him up in the furthest tower?”
The old warrior scratched his chest absentmindedly, scrunching the dove-colored tunic he wore. “Women have their ways.”
“Ways?”
“You know what I mean.”
He could not mean…nay. More than likely he did not know what he meant. Meggie could never imagine her grandfather suggesting that she seduce the bard. “I’ll... I’ll think on it.”
“See that ye do. I’ll be gettin’ back to me carvin’.”
“What are you making, Grandfather?”
“A cradle for your babe,” he snapped, as if she had asked a foolish question.
“My babe! But I am --” The words stuck in Meggie’s throat.
The breath caught in her lungs. Unmindful of her distress, her white-haired grandfather hurried away. She should know better, she chastised herself. Each time she allowed herself to believe her grandfather might be in his right mind, she met with disappointment.
Without meaning to, he had touched on a sensitive spot. Oh, how Meggie longed to have a babe, to start a family. She knew not when her father would return to stay at Dochas. Perhaps never. Neither would her grandfather live forever.
Niall offered her marriage and children ... as many as her arms could hold. Only months ago that would have been enough. Now, it was not.
* * * *
The dogs neither barked nor followed Cameron as he left the great hall of Dochas and made for the stables. They were too afraid to leave their mistress’s side.
Although taking a horse from the pasture would be less complicated, he had promised Meggie to look in on Sorcha. He meant to keep his word to her. Besides, in his condition, a saddled mount would prove less difficult on the ride to Dublin. Surely he would find a satisfactory steed and saddle in the stable.