Seducing the Spy (16 page)

Daggers shot from the comers of her eyes as she sent him a sidelong glare.

Suppressing the urge to chuckle, he confronted the young Englishman, who studied the great hall.

“Are ye from Yorkshire, Thomas Cole?” Cameron asked all Englishmen he met the same question. It was a fair question as accents varied from region to region, but few Irish would know the difference.

Thomas nodded. “My heart yet lingers in Yorkshire.”

The answer Cameron received to his next question would identify Thomas as his agent - or not. “What bird flies near?”

“The jackdaw.”

It was the reply Cameron had hoped for. He could pass on the information he had garnered this afternoon to Thomas and not have to rush away from Dochas, leaving Meggie to fend for herself.

“I have been there and well understand,” Cameron said. His response ended the code greeting. Extending an arm, he gestured toward the hall. “Sit and you will be served.”

“Ye’ll get nothing but poison here,” Gerald Fitzgerald spat.

The men ignored him.

But not Cameron. Never knowing what Gerald would say, he also never knew what the old man might do. “Old man, fetch Deirdre and have her bring whiskey to these men.”

The milky veil over the elder’s eyes appeared to lift momentarily as he inclined his head in closer study of Cameron. “Would ye be a traitor to Dochas, Bard?”

Cameron clapped a hand on Gerald’s shoulder. Lowering his voice and turning the old man away, he said, “I wish no one to be harmed. If we are wise, these men will be on their way at dawn.”

After once more eyeing the group of men as if they were rodents, Meggie’s grandfather shuffled away. His steps echoed in the nearly empty hall.

Cameron then turned to Meggie. “Will you make a place for Thomas and his men to sleep this eve?”

Near to trembling with rage, Meggie leveled a withering gaze. For a moment, by the way she regarded him, Cameron felt even more repulsive than a rat. But the duchess made no protest. With a toss of her head, she spun on her heel and was gone.

He withheld the sigh of relief that filled his body and turned to Thomas. “I shall walk in the bailey after the castle sleeps,” he said in hushed tones. “After you have supped, meet me there.”

“We expected to meet you in Dublin.”

“I met with an... accident.”

“You say,” Cole scoffed, looking about him before his gaze settled on Deirdre. “Or were you simply enjoying some of the good life here, eh?”

Cameron had no patience for a cocky boy this eve, English or Irish. He drew himself up, raised his walking stick in a manner which might be interpreted as threatening.

“Would you like to see the scar?”

The boy grew sullen. “Nay.”

“Meet me in the bailey by the stable,” Cameron ordered.

“I’ll be there.”

* * * *

In the kitchen, after dismissing the cook and her helpers, Meggie prepared a special supper for the Englishmen. She would worry about a sleeping chamber later. It might not prove necessary.

“Deirdre, we do not want the English to stay any longer than necessary ... but of course we must demonstrate Irish hospitality.”

“I do not see why we
must.”

“Ah, but you will as we add a little of this and a dash of that to their meal.”

“There are no more than a dozen of them. With Niall’s help we could – -”

Meggie clicked her tongue, feigning distress. “Is that any way to treat guests?”

“If they’re English, aye.”

“Niall is gone.” Meggie’s clipped reply did not conceal her newly awakened contempt for the wealthy farmer O’Donnell. Turning to Deirdre, she forced a smile. “There are other ways of hastening the English on their way.”

“Aye?”

“We shall sprinkle their pigeon pie with copious amounts of garlic, perhaps a bit of grass and straw.” The more creative she became, the better she felt.

“Ye are a better cook than Cook,” Deirdre declared gleefully.

Maggie grinned. “I think we shall also add a cup of dishwater to the mead. And then we might garnish the pudding with shavings of mold from the bread. What do you think?”

“Aye!” Deirdre giggled as she helped prepare the meal with newly found enthusiasm and creative additions of her own.

“While the Englishmen remain at Dochas, stay out of their sight,” Meggie cautioned. “We do not know how long they have been without a woman.”

“But what about ye?”

“The bard shall protect me,” Meggie said without hesitation.

“Aye. He favors you methinks.”

“Favors me?”

“Have ye not noticed how his eyes follow ye? Or, how they soften when he regards ye?”

“No.”

Deirdre shrugged and went about her business. But Meggie only stared at the tray she readied. At once she savored and marveled at the warm glow spiraling through her, a gentle toe-curling, delicious heat.

A short while later, Meggie and Deirdre served supper with a smile for each of the Englishmen, Meggie could hardly wait for them to down the meal and mead. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to see the Englishmen with bellyaches.

Ignoring Deirdre and Meggie, Thomas issued an imperative invitation to Colm. “By your leave, Bard, come join us.”

Saints above!
Meggie did not mean for the poet to eat grass and garlic.

Colm rubbed his forehead as if weighing the invitation. “I have supped, but I could eat more,” he said at last. “I’m recuperating, rebuilding my strength.”

Meggie sucked in her breath, staring immobilized as Colm took a bowl from Deirdre’s tray and sat at the table with Thomas. She could not warn him without alerting the others. The bard was stronger than he knew, she consoled herself. He would recover quickly.

She inched her chin up a notch. “Come, Deirdre. Gentlemen, I shall leave you now to prepare a chamber.”

But she did not leave. She hid behind a far passage with Deirdre and watched.

After the first bite, Colm stared at his spoon. Grimacing, he grabbed for a tankard of mead which he spewed following the first gulp. But only he knew the difference. The others, while they frowned and considered their food as if the Irish truly had no taste, ate on. The bard said naught.

“Will the bard be sick?” Deirdre asked.

Colm regarded the men about him and took another bite. At supper earlier he had hardly eaten. Now he pushed his bowl away.

“I don’t think so. He does not seem to like it.”

Deirdre giggled.

Meggie clapped a hand over the young girl’s mouth.

“The poet thinks he is the only one who finds the food distasteful. The others are gulping like pigs at the trough.”

“I wish Niall were here to see this.”

“Niall made his choice, Deirdre. Come now.” Seizing the girl with one hand, and hoisting a torch with the other, Meggie pulled her along dark, barren stone corridors until they reached the north corner of the castle. Here the cold still lurked from winter.

“This is where our English guests will sleep tonight. We shall throw some hay from the stable upon these old rushes.”

“But there will likely be fleas.”

Meggie smiled. “’Tis a pity the English must sleep in Ireland tonight... especially to seek slumber in Dochas.”

Deirdre’s laughter filled the room. Along with Meggie’s.

Chapter Nine

“We’ve downed some terrible Irish meals while we’ve been on this godforsaken soil,” Thomas complained to his men, “but this is by far the worst of the lot.”

Meggie could not help but take great delight in watching the English ruffians turn a sickly shade of green. For the life of her, she could not consider the English intruders as seasoned soldiers. Tall street urchins with muskets, perhaps. In under two hours, the boys were rendered quite helpless. They could barely lift their heads to groan. With the exception of one.

While his men staggered toward their sleeping quarters moaning and cursing, Thomas trudged toward the door of the great hall as if he meant to leave. The impudent young man appeared oblivious to the fact that his men were headed in the opposite direction.

Was he in his cups? Meggie wondered. She glanced at his men to see if any had turned to follow Thomas. No one seemed to notice or care that he was not with them. Meggie was further amazed to see her grandfather’s customary shuffling gait had been replaced with a lively step as he led the Englishmen from the great hall. She even thought she heard him chuckling as he directed them to the privy. Her gaze fell on the bard, who followed behind the group to make certain no one strayed.

Colm towered above the others, a daunting, grim-faced presence. He did not need to smile. The force of his masculinity could be felt miles away, a warming, tingling force. Meggie’s heart fluttered as if he had cast one of his pulse-stopping, lopsided grins her way. Fleetingly, she wondered what the poet must think of Niall O’Donnell now. Did Colm question her choice in men without knowing how she yearned for him? Little could the alluring bard know that he was the object of her desire. Meggie released a small, wistful sigh. This was no time to be drifting off to contemplate matters of the heart.

No one appeared to notice Thomas, holding his stomach and belching repeatedly, slip out the door.

Except Meggie and Deirdre. Their girlish giggles faded to quiet puzzlement.

“Where is he going?” Deirdre asked.

“I am not certain,” Meggie replied, clenching her teeth.

The idea of the boil-faced English boy inspecting Dochas, perhaps deciding what to steal from her stores and stable, filled her with an ample dose of Irish anger. The silky hairs on her nape stood on end, her belly constricted, and her spine stiffened.

“May the werewolves find ye and send ye home in another shape,” she hissed beneath her breath. “May your sons be—

Before Meggie could add more to her curse, which she fully intended to do, Deirdre interrupted.

“Do ye think Niall has escaped?”

“Ach! Of that I am certain.” At the moment Meggie cared not what happened to the coward, but he seemed to possess a steady stream of good fortune.

“What shall we do?” Deirdre’s gray-blue eyes had darkened to ash. Frowning deeply, her brows became angry slashes.

“Follow the English boy,” Meggie said. “You go ahead while I fetch my musket, but be careful not to be seen. Stay close to the buildings in the darkest of shadows. Watch where he goes and what he does. But do nothing. I shall find you.”

* * * *

Cameron could not remember having such a putrid meal since he had arrived at Dochas. But, of course, Meggie believed him to be Irish and apparently only unleashed the cook’s mistakes on the English. Unless she had especially prepared the meal with spoiled ingredients. Of course she had. He knew the wild Irish woman capable of far worse!

Giving a frustrated shake of his head, Cameron resigned himself. There was nothing he could do now. There might never be anything anyone could do about Meggie. Except to keep her otherwise occupied from mischief. Bestowing kiss after kiss upon those rich rosy lips might divert her from trouble. Unleashing the plait of red-gold silk and sifting the soft mane through his fingers also might give her pause. But now was not the time for such thoughts.

After herding the sick men to the Jakes and then to their chamber, Cameron bid good eve to Gerald Fitzgerald. The chuckling old man appeared quite merry, deriving much pleasure from the massive case of bad bellies endured by the small trained band. With grudging admiration for what Meggie had wrought - and he had no doubt the Englishmen had been laid low by the duchess - Cameron retired to his chamber. He waited there, confident Thomas’s boys were in no condition to do more than roll about on their straw mattresses.

Time moved slowly, a sense enhanced by the silence of the night. Cameron bided his time until his bedside candle had melted to a stub. While he did not depend upon his walking stick as before, he dared not leave it behind. The handsomely carved stick had become a part of him, like a limb to a tree. Slowly, using utmost caution, he made his way out of the dark castle and into the dark night to meet Thomas.

Identifying Thomas as his contact made Cameron ever more wary. Now there were two in Dochas who could give him away. And Meggie would kill him for certain if she discovered he was a spy. On the other hand, if all went well, Cameron would leave without her ever knowing who he really was. She would remember him as a wandering bard and not feel the pain of betrayal by yet another man.

Cameron had seen how round her crystal blue eyes had grown when Niall made known his intentions to flee, how they had flared with bright white anger and darkened with disappointment. During the past weeks, he had learned to read her emotions. Meggie’s eyes reflected her feelings more dramatically than words. Tonight Cameron had witnessed her shock, disbelief, disappointment, and anger. It was one thing for Niall to be the cause; it was another for Cameron to do the same. The thought of it pricked at his heart like darts piercing a bull’s-eye. Meggie must never know.

He would do everything in his power to protect her from the truth, from his deception. Cameron had no doubt that if she ever learned who he was, Meggie would curse him clear across the Irish Sea. He did not wish to hurt her, nor disappoint. And he certainly did not care to have her place a plague on his house forever.

Cameron had eaten only enough of the second meal to give him an aching belly. He hoped as he kept his rendezvous with Thomas that the night air might steady his stomach and make him feel better.

Upon leaving the castle, the first thing he saw was the light in the stable. He wondered if Meggie might be there visiting the foal. She had not yet returned to her bedchamber and doted on the one she called the Bard. As well, did he. It was a handsome foal—and the first living thing to be named after him, in a manner.

Cameron hastened toward the stable. While he shared the redheaded vixen’s fascination with the colt, Meggie should not be out alone while the English remained at Dochas.

Hampered by clouds, the half moon and sky full of stars shed only a hazy blur of light. A raw dampness clung to the air and seeped beneath his flesh. In the stillness, the ground crunched under his feet. Cameron had gone only a few yards when he heard Thomas’s voice coming from inside the stable.