Luck was not with Cameron.
As he neared the stable, he heard Niall’s voice. The one-eyed farmer was speaking in hushed tones with another man. A voice Cameron soon recognized as Barra’s. Apparently the rebel’s departure had been a ruse. The men were deep in conversation. Their voices seemed to come from just out of sight on the west side of the stable. His chance discovery aroused Cameron’s curiosity. Why did the men feel the need to conceal their meeting? And what did a farmer have to say to a rebel fighter?
Cameron quietly made his way inside the stable and to the west wall. He was right. Niall and Barra were on the opposite side. Cameron pressed his ear to the wooden slabs.
“Where are the English now?” Niall asked.
“There’s at least a hundred or more getting ready to move north,” Barra replied. “Likely to set up camps along the border of Ulster to keep us from enterin’ or leavin’.”
“We’ve got to stop them before they have the chance to make camp.”
“Aye.”
“Is there anything else?” Meggie’s one-eyed suitor asked.
“They know of Dochas. They discussed stoppin’ here to rest, take on fresh supplies and animals before movin’ on north.”
The devil take them!
A dozen musket balls formed to lodge one great lead fist in Cameron’s stomach. His own people were set to steal from Meggie ... perhaps do her harm.
But Niall would keep her safe. Would he not?
Cameron’s answer came with Niall’s next breath. “Meggie will agree to be me bride tonight. I will send her to me farm before week’s end. She cannot refuse, for I shall tell her that is where we will be wed.”
“Aye.”
“Stay in camp. Keep watch. I will come as soon as I can.”
“Aye,” Barra repeated.
Cameron clenched his jaw as the spiny edges of cold anger spiraled through him. Niall hadn’t given up the fight at all. He gave orders to the rebels.
And now he issued his final command. “Be gone.”
“Aye.” Barra obeyed quickly. The crunch on gravel signaled his departure.
Stunned by what he had heard, Cameron hurriedly made his way to the dapple gray gelding that pawed at the floor of its stall. He would use the gelding to ride to Dublin. No one had contacted him as yet, and he had discovered important information. The kind that could earn him a double promotion. ’Twas an exciting thought.
But his excitement soon ebbed, followed by more troubling thoughts. A tumble of thoughts Cameron could not stop. What would Meggie do? Why was Niall so certain she would leave Dochas? And once removed from the home she loved, how would the brave Irish lass fare?
To have Dochas commandeered by her enemies, to watch as her horses, cattle, and crops were taken by the English without so much as a by-your-leave, would inflict terrible pain upon Meggie. Cameron was not at all certain she could endure having all she loved stolen from her.
Considering the depth of what he knew would be Meggie’s grief stopped Cameron in his tracks. Fully concentrated on the risks of saving her from such a calamity, he was lost to the sounds and sights and scents around him. He stared at the dappled gray but did not truly see the horse. He did not hear Niall’s approach until the scoundrel spoke.
“Takin’ a ride this morning, are ye, Bard?”
The hearty greeting startled Cameron. Yet again, he silently cursed the stars and questioned his skill as a spy.
“Aye,” he replied, masking his discomfit as he turned to face the blackguard Irishman. “’Tis time to ride again.”
Cameron concealed his anger even while his stomach churned with contempt. He could forgive Niall for fighting for his country, such was a man’s duty. But he could never forgive the Irishman for betraying Meggie.
“I’ll be ridin’ with ye,” Niall said.
The devil! What evil Irish curse has been leveled against me? And by whom?
The answer came easily. Her smiling face danced before him. Her bountiful laugh poured through him. This was the work of one superstitious, titian-haired wench.
So much for departing Dochas at great speed.
“Your company is welcome,” he said to Niall, forcing a smile.
“Have ye prepared a poem for me Meggie?” the bearded man asked as they rode out through the open castle gates to the lush meadows.
“I thought to do that while riding. The muse often strikes while I am riding... alone.”
“Aye? Curious.” Niall tapped his forefinger against his lips. He did not seem to notice Cameron’s discomfort.
Stretched in the saddle at an angle he had been careful to avoid until now, Cameron’s leg reached a new plateau of pain. The constant rubbing caused by the motion of the horse did not help matters. He feared this ride, a ride to nowhere now, might result in a lengthy setback to his mending limb.
He might have to walk to Dublin when the time came that he could actually make good his escape.
“Ye have not much time. Remember, I wish ye to recite Meggie’s poem this eve.”
“The muse visits me in solitude.”
But Niall either ignored or did not understand the implication. “Do ye consider yerself a loyal Irishman, Bard?”
“Aye.” The least said on that subject, the better.
“Would ye be willing to do most anything for yer country?”
The hair on Cameron’s nape stood on end. A deep sense of foreboding made his flesh tingle. “Would not any Irishman?” he replied. “I do what I can by bringing my stories and sonnets and the like into the homes and hearts of my countrymen.”
“Ye could do more.”
“What do ye have in mind?”
“Ye might be on the lookout for English movement in the countryside and report what ye see back to me. There are rumors that the English are preparing to move on Ulster, our last stronghold.”
Cameron could hardly believe his ears. He attempted to sound concerned. “Ye don’t say?”
“It would be a blow for every Irish man, woman, and child. Once the English infiltrate Ulster, they will have all of Ireland. The Brits will be in control.”
“Ach!”
“Aye. ’Tis a horrid thought, is it not?”
“I have seen no English in my travels,” Cameron said. His pulse raced as if he were being chased by one of Meggie’s fearsome werewolves. He tread dangerous ground with Niall. One wrong word and Cameron’s dreams would end. His very life would come to an end.
The one-eyed rebel would not hesitate to hang an English spy from the highest tree.
“As a bard ye are on the move constantly. Ye travel without suspicion. If ye were to see any unusual movement or suspect English movement and report it to me, ye would be more than a poet; ye would be a hero.”
Cameron inhaled deeply, intent on keeping his tone steady. “Are ye asking me to spy?”
Niall shot him a sly grin. “Aye. I may not take part in the actual fighting, but Barra and his men act under orders from me. I protect Westmeath County,” he boasted. “I am the man responsible for ridding our area of the English.”
“I had not guessed,” Cameron replied in a hushed and, hopefully, awed tone.
“Not many have. And if ye breathe a word, ye will be killed. Meggie especially must never know. She believes I have laid down my arms. If she knew the truth of it, ye might compose the most wondrous poem, and she still would refuse to have me as her husband.”
Cameron inwardly raged at the man’s perfidy, but he rushed to assure the scoundrel. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Will ye be me spy?”
“Aye.” What else could he say?
“Then, it is settled,” Niall declared, smugness resplendent in his smile.
“Settled,” Cameron echoed, feeling exceedingly unsettled.
What was he to do? He felt as if he were being torn in two. His heart had splintered, and each half caught in a vice that slowly tightened.
Should he return to Dochas and warn Meggie that the man she would marry had betrayed her? Should he be the one to tell her that Niall still schemed and fought the English just as her father and Declan? Should he warn Meggie that Niall was not who he appeared to be?
But then, neither was Cameron.
He owed no such honesty to the incorrigible duchess. On the other hand, she was an innocent and had done nothing to earn heartbreak again.
“And now, Bard, I will leave ye to compose the verse that will win me Meggie’s hand this eve.”
With a curt salute, Niall rode away, leaving Cameron at war with himself.
Meggie’s impending heartbreak was none of his concern. Nay. Clearly, Cameron’s duty was to warn his English comrades who might be in jeopardy of ambush.
He must also consider his own future. Delivering the information he had gained from Niall during the past hour would win him the long sought after promotion to captain.
In the end, Cameron decided he would return to Dochas and warn Meggie before leaving for Dublin to inform his commander about what was afoot in Westmeath County.
Sucking up the pain caused by the dappled gray in motion, he galloped back to the castle. He had just returned the gelding to its stall and started out of the stable when he heard Sorcha whinny.
One glance in her stall told him the mare had gone into labor. “’Tis all right, girl. I’ll fetch the stable boy for ye ... and Meggie. She’ll help you through this.”
Cameron planned to be on his way to Dublin by the time Sorcha gave birth.
A yell did not bring results. He searched the stable, calling for the stable boy. Cameron knew how to birth a foal if there was trouble, but would a true bard?
He could ill afford to give himself away at this juncture.
He found the boy behind the stable thrashing in the hay with a girl in the first blush of her youth.
“Go to Sorcha at once,” Cameron ordered angrily. “And you, girl, fetch Mistress Meggie!”
God’s bones’.
He should be on his way to Dublin as fast as the gray could carry him. And as well as he knew what he
should
do, Cameron knew what he
would do.
He would stay and help Meggie bring a new Irish foal into the world.
Chapter Eight
Meggie ran to the stable. Oft times, delivery came quickly, and she did not want to miss witnessing a new foal come into the world. The miracle of birth had not yet ceased to amaze her.
She did not know how Colm could help should Sorcha need assistance, but the bard stood silently beside her just outside of the mare’s stall. Standing in the shelter of his towering shadow, Meggie knew all would be well. His being there made it so.
The foal’s forefeet and then its head emerged first, as was natural. Breathless with anticipation, Meggie admired the wide blaze on the foal’s short face.
“Will it be a filly or a colt?” Colm asked in hushed, almost reverent anticipation.
“It makes no matter to me,” she replied with the same reverence.
Lying on her bed of straw, Sorcha watched her foal’s body emerge. If she was in pain, the mare gave no indication.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Meggie crooned as the birth was completed.
“He is, indeed,” Colm agreed.
She could not tear her eyes from the beautiful bay colt which would someday be a mighty stallion. Sorcha pushed to her legs in order to lick her newborn foal clean.
Without warning, Meggie felt a stab of envy for the new mother. “If you had not been in the stable,” she said to Colm, “I would have missed his birth.”
“I would not have you so deprived,” he said with a rueful curve of his mouth.
“And you?”
“It was worth the delay.”
“Delay?”
‘‘Niall charged me with composing a poem, which I have not accomplished as yet.”
“Niall?”
“Aye. He bade me ride out with him to make his request.”
“How odd.” She shrugged her shoulders. While Meggie wondered what Niall was about, her concern for Colm took precedence. “Has your muse returned?”
The bard pursed his lips in a doleful fashion. “Nay. Not that I have noticed.”
“Perhaps this birth will prove inspiring,” she suggested.
“Perhaps.” He did not look confident as he gazed at mother and foal. “What will you call the colt?”
“I shall call him... the bard!” she declared, bubbling with laughter.
He gave her a crooked smile. “No one has ever named a horse after me. “’Tis better than calling him Colm, I suppose.”
“That name is reserved. Your first son shall be named Colm.”
The poet’s head jerked back, and his deep-set brown eyes widened. Flecks of gold burned deep in the irises. Meggie thought his eyes rich and warm, as pleasing as the subtle heat of summer earth sifting through her fingers.
“My son?” he said at length.
“Have you given no thought to having children of your own one day?” she asked.
Colm shook his head. One corner of his mouth turned up in a hapless smile. “Nay.”
“But you will,” Meggie assured him. Her gaze rested on the small scar at the corner of his mouth. Would he mind if she brushed her lips against the insignia of past pain?
“Aye,” he agreed. “I would like to have a son, no, five sons.”
She laughed. “Justice for a man raised with five sisters.”
“Ye are quick, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
Disarmed as well, by the crooked grin he shot her. Goose bumps prickled her flesh. “I think ye should be happy with a daughter as well.”
“Mayhap.”
As the bard’s intense gaze locked on hers, Meggie was suddenly at a loss for words. She said the safest thing that popped into her mind after her first thought:
I
will happily give you five sons and a daughter.
“We are harvesting the last of the corn. Have ye ever helped with a harvest?”
“Nay.”
“Then, ye have not known a joy close to heaven.”
He gave her a bemused smile. “On the contrary, I believe on at least one occasion I have been close to heaven.”
But Meggie wouldn’t be put off. “Come,” she said, seizing his hand. “Ye shall spend the afternoon with me. Ye will savor the scent and the feel of ripe corn. Ye shall eat it straight from the husk, and if ye show any sign of pleasure, I shall show ye my field of praties.”
“What would praties be?”
“It’s a new sturdy crop, called potatoes by some. Come!”
“But my muse—”