“Did ye try to poison me, Irish Jezebel?”
“No, sir. I... I do not know what ye mean.”
“Yer eyes are big and dark as the North Sea, but they don’t fool me,” Thomas spat in a menacing tone.
“Please, sir, I’m not meanin’ to fool ye.”
From where he stood, Cameron detected the trembling in Deirdre’s voice. His heart went out to the frightened young Irish lass.
He reached the stable in time to see the boy dragging Deirdre toward the wooden ladder that reached up into the loft. Thomas, barely older than the girl, clasped her upper arm firmly. Lust burned in his eyes.
“Please, leave me,” she begged.
The boy snorted. “In my own good time.”
Deirdre attempted to wrench away, but she was not strong enough.
“Unhand the lass.”
Thomas’s head snapped toward Cameron.
“Let her go, Thomas.”
“Mind your own business, Bard,” the churlish boy retorted.
“The people of Dochas are my business.”
The ill-favored boy raised his head and shot Cameron a smug grin. “Have you not heard that the stronger may claim the spoils of conflict? I am English; the girl is Irish. If she were to offer herself to me, I might forget the meal of rotten food and tainted ale. But since she hasn’t had the foresight to offer herself, I will take her nonetheless and never forget the vile supper.”
Cameron gritted his teeth. “Let her go.”
The cocky youth did not know when to stop. “Do you want her for yourself?” he taunted, narrowing his eyes. “Is that it?”
“She is not part of this ... conflict.”
“If you want the girl, you will have to fight me for her.”
“No!” She wrenched free.
Cameron took advantage of Thomas’s surprise by seizing his elbow and propelling the boy away from Deirdre. Thomas stumbled and cursed as the terrorized Irish maiden stood rooted to the spot.
“Go now.” Cameron jerked his head toward the castle. “Run to Meggie.”
After hearing Deirdre take flight, he turned his full, wrathful attention on Thomas. Furious with the stupid boy, Cameron could only think of boxing Thomas’s ears, or at the very least giving him a set down that he would never forget.
Instead, he issued a warning through gritted teeth. “Leave the people of Dochas alone, Thomas, or you will answer to me.”
“To you? Have you become an Irish lover, then?”
Cameron released Thomas’s arm with such force, the boy lurched backward. “We are not in the business of warring against women and children. No good comes of badgering innocent women and children be they English or Irish. Are you too young or too dull-witted to know that?”
With his eyes fixed on the ground, Thomas ran a hand through his stringy, blond hair. “I liked the looks of that one, I did.”
“Leave Deirdre alone. I shall not warn you again. There are English ladies aplenty waiting for your return.”
“Who gave you the right to issue me orders?”
“I outrank you and I outsmart you. I have earned the right.”
The crook of the boy’s mouth turned up in a mirthless smile as once again his eyes narrowed on Cameron. “Have you lived too long with the dirty Irish that you would turn against your own kind?”
Stifling the urge to beat the boy until he begged for mercy, Cameron took a deep breath. Straightening to his full height, he glared at the boy. He had been told by more than one man that he owned a fierce glare.
“Thomas, I have information you must take to Dublin. If you had not arrived this eve, I would have ridden out on the morrow, myself. You must leave Dochas early in the morning and carry what I have learned to the officers at Dublin. It is of dire importance that Lord Ensley receive my message at once.”
The boy snickered. “What could you have learned in a place such as this? There is nothing, no one around for miles.”
“Again, you are wrong.”
Shooting Cameron a dagger-filled glance, Thomas folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
“The Irish are building defenses about Ulster. They expect us. Ambush will be certain.”
“And what would you be doin’ while I’m delivering this bit of information?”
“Doing what I was sent to do, collecting more information. Niall O’Donnell, who claims to be a farmer, but who stirs and leads the rebels in this part of the country, has taken me into his confidence. I will learn more by remaining at Dochas.”
Thomas at once became a sulky young boy kicking at pebbles and straw beneath his feet. “My men are sick. We need to rest.”
“There is no time to rest. The information I have just passed on to you must be relayed to Dublin as quickly as possible. You must leave at dawn.”
The churlish boy actually pouted, “I don’t trust you.”
“You have no choice, Thomas. Best get some sleep. I shall meet you at the stable in the morning with all that I have told you in writing. Lest you forget.”
“I shall not forget.”
Roughly grasping the collar of the boy’s ragged jacket, Cameron pulled Thomas up and off the ground, until the insolent young man was inches from his face. “Can you see my anger now, boy?”
“Un... unhand me.”
“You have precious few hours left at Dochas. If I find you threatening anyone, man, woman, or child, you will find yourself at the bruising end of my fist.”
Thomas did not speak again until Cameron set him down. “What do you care what happens to these savages?” With a disgruntled frown, the boy lifted and rotated his shoulders to straighten his shirt.
“The Irish are not savages.”
“Bloody well blind, you are. You’ve been in this god-awful isle too long is all I can say.”
“And all I can say is that you shall be woeful, indeed, if you should disregard my warning.”
“I won’t forget this.”
“Neither shall I. I shall accompany you to your chamber.”
* * * *
Someone had tampered with Meggie’s musket. Her only weapon, save the dagger, wasn’t in the corner of her chamber where she kept it. After a frantic search, she finally found it beneath her bed. With musket in arms and hounds at her heels, Meggie reached the great hall just as Deirdre dashed through the darkness and into the hall.
“Meggie!” Out of breath and panting heavily, Deirdre took hold of Meggie’s arm. “Meggie, the bard is a spy.”
“What?” Stunned, Meggie swiftly surveyed the disheveled girl from head to toe. “What has happened to ye?”
“Thomas attacked me.” Deirdre’s tousled black waves bounced about her shoulders. Her left cheek bore a smudge of dirt, and one sleeve of her lovely blue gown had been ripped.
“Merciful Mary!”
“He heard me. When I followed him into the stable, I tripped over the handle of a pitch fork left lying on the floor,” she explained breathlessly.
“Did he hurt ye?”
“Nay. Nay.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Meggie wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Come, you shall drink some mead and calm yourself.”
But Deirdre refused to move. Wild-eyed, her gaze met Meggie’s. “Did ye not hear me? The bard is in league with the awful boy.”
“Nay. ’Tis impossible.” Meggie felt certain that Deirdre’s experience had frightened the wits from her, The girl simply did not know what she was saying. After such an alarming encounter, it was understandable that she made no sense.
“I saw them whispering together” Deirdre insisted. “I lingered behind a stall after they thought I had left.”
Meggie flicked a dismissive wrist. “That does not mean anything. Did you hear what they said?”
“Nay. But why would they whisper?”
“Deirdre, do not ask me why a man does anything,” Meggie replied, ignoring the chill of foreboding, the icy needles and pins that crawled beneath her skin. “How did you escape?”
“The bard forced Thomas to release me.”
Meggie heaved a sigh of relief. “You see. Why would Colm free you if he were in league with the English?”
For a moment, Deirdre appeared at a loss. “To pull the wool over our eyes,” she said at last.
“Deirdre, when we are agitated, our imaginations often run amuck. I understand, truly.”
“Why should they whisper if they had nothing to hide?”
Deirdre asked a reasonable question. Meggie answered with the first explanation that came to mind. Not necessarily an acceptable answer. “Perhaps the bard was gently inquiring about the boy’s health.”
“Meggie!” Deirdre wailed in frustration.
Meggie smiled. “The English are not feeling well, you know.”
“They were talking so softly no one could hear them. I tried.”
“I expect the bard warned the boy to stay away from ye.”
Midnight waves whipped into her face as Deirdre shook her head. “I think your feeling for the bard clouds your mind.”
“I have no feelings for Colm,” Meggie said coolly. Certainly none that she would share with her young helper.
“I have seen how ye look at him, how your gaze follows him. You may deny your feelings, but you cannot hide them from another woman.”
“Deirdre, ye are still a girl; your eyes deceive you. As I have already noted, your imagination runs amuck.”
“I am a girl in age only ... In my heart I am a woman.”
“Let us take your womanly self to my chamber. Ye will stay with me this night. Seamus and Bernadette will guard us. Along with my musket, dagger, and the bard sleeping across the corridor, I am certain we will not be in any further danger this eve.”
“The bard will not protect us from the English. He is one of them.”
Obviously, the girl had taken leave of her senses. Meggie refused to consider Deirdre’s groundless accusations. She pushed them out of her mind. “If that is so, never fear,” she soothed. “I shall keep my musket at the ready.”
But Meggie did not sleep. She listened for the footsteps of the bard. They came soon after she blew out the candles. His steps were strong now. Although he carried the walking stick, he no longer needed the support of the staff.
Unbidden, Deirdre’s fears crept into Meggie’s ruminations. This time she could not push them away; they weighed heavily on her mind. Colm could not be a spy for the English. An Irishman would never resort to spying for the English. But was it possible…could Colm actually be an Englishman?
Nay! ’Twas a ridiculous thought. The poet spoke as she did, enjoyed her grandfather’s stories, even going so far as to encourage them. He relished the plain Irish meals served at Dochas and dressed like every Irishman, appearing comfortable and more attractive than most in his garments. Oh, so much more attractive than most.
Of late, when his dark eyes looked into hers, Meggie felt as if he were touching her innermost soul, reading what was in her mind and understanding what was written in her heart. Her knees would suddenly feel only as firm as the moss Cook used to thicken soup. She could not hold a thought, riveted to wherever she stood as a numbing warmth swirled through her. With one long look, the bard could set her body to tingling.
Colm had been about to recite a poem before the English arrived. With or without the aid of his muse, only an Irish bard could compose wondrous stories and sonnets. Although he had fretted that the muse had left him as the result of his wound, he had composed a poem for Niall to woo Meggie. If only she could have heard it!
If Meggie was the sort of women who cried, she would have reason to shed a thousand tears on this night. Dochas could be in danger if she allowed her attraction for Colm to blind her. She would want to die if she lost Dochas. With a heavy heart, Meggie resolved to watch more carefully and be on guard. The truth struck with a mighty force. If she discovered Colm was, indeed, an English spy, she would want to die. But she would not cry.
In the dark came a whisper. “Meggie, we must find Niall and share our suspicions about the bard.”
Chapter Ten
The arduous journey from the Duke of Doneval’s Highland castle to the Thatchers’ Inn in Cotswold came to an end on the twenty-fifth day of September in the Year of Our Lord 1598. None too soon.
Donald’s traveling companion, Sally Pickering, arrived at their destination in a fair state of exhaustion. Her age, well over six and sixty years, and her weight, quite a bit over two hundred pounds, made the long journey especially difficult for the older woman.
While the duke was tired, restless excitement roiled in his belly and poured through his veins like bubbling cider.
As his coach pulled into the courtyard of the quaint stone inn known as Buckthorn, Donald peered through the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one he had traveled all this way to see. But it was the innkeeper, his wife, and a young girl who ran to greet Donald’s coach.
The innkeeper was a middle-aged man with a glistening bald dome and a thick-barreled middle. In contrast, his legs were no wider than the spindles of a spinning wheel. The unfortunate shape caused the man’s tights to sag. But his smile was wide and his cheeks rosy.
He swept a deft bow as he opened the coach door. “Welcome to Buckthorn Inn, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Donald smiled and nodded to the woman and girl as he stepped down from the coach.
“I am George Thatcher, and I will do my best to see that you enjoy your time at Buckthorn. May I inquire as to how long will you be staying?”
“At the moment I am not certain.”
The duke looked over his shoulder to be certain that Sally was being helped. What he assumed to be the innkeeper’s wife and daughter assisted Sally from the coach.
“We shall make you comfortable as long as you like.”
Donald surveyed his surroundings, grateful to find the land and property, where his son was raised, well taken care of and pleasant. Nestled in foothills north of York, the rolling countryside presented a canvas of resplendent greenery. Constructed of local stone, the neat, two-storied inn boasted window boxes below every window, blooming with bright red primrose and poppies.
But Donald was too impatient to be taken with the scenery or the inn for that matter. “My name is Donald Cameron, Duke of Doneval. This is Sally Pickering, who is in my employ.”
George Thatcher bowed; his wife and the young girl dropped into a polite curtsy.
“Your Grace, my wife Bess and Mary, the youngest of our daughters. We are not often privileged to lodge guests from the Highlands. We shall prepare our finest rooms while my wife serves refreshments.”