Meggie could feel his disbelieving eyes upon her.
She played with the full sleeve of her chemise before meeting his gaze once again. “But you do possess another skill I require.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “I fear to ask.”
“If you could help me on the morrow, I would forever be in your debt.” Meggie ignored the pain in her throat as the words poured from her. If she gave Colm the opportunity to interrupt again, she feared he would say nay. “Might I prevail upon you to remain at Dochas for one more day?”
Except for the hard thudding of her heart, all was silent.
The muscle in his jaw constricted. “One more day?”
“’Tis all I ask,” she said, noting once again how strong the lines of his jaw were. Clenched or at ease, the square plane defined the bard’s powerful masculinity in some mysterious way.
“Aye?” he asked in a definitely leery tone.
She had lost her thought while contemplating his jaw. Whatever she had been about to say evaporated like morning mist. Dragging her gaze away, Meggie turned her attention to the gold band that she held on her finger with the tip of her thumb. Though Colm’s ring was much too large for her, she refused to remove it. She would wear it always.
“I shall require help to rebuild the stable. Only hours ago, I witnessed your skills with the men. You have the natural instincts of a leader. They listened to you and responded without question.”
“Ye flatter me, Meggie. But I am only a man without his muse. I doubt they will heed the orders of a bard again.”
“Nay. You are so much more. And if ye would but organize the workers, I shall oversee the actual work myself, with grandfather, of course,” she told him with a firmness that precluded argument.
Meggie believed she might scream if she heard about his lack of muse one more time. She also feared the uncertain poet’s refusal. The more she talked, the less opportunity he had to say nay.
Colm let out a heavy sigh. “You give me too much credit.”
“When Niall ran off, it was you who met with Thomas. And the next day you sent the British on their way,” Meggie pointed out before falling into a pitiful fit of coughing. Only partly feigned.
Colm sprung to his feet. “Do ye need ale?”
Meggie met his worried gaze.
I need for ye to stay.
“Nay,” she whispered.
Lowering his head, he released another, longer sigh. One that might have been heard way down in Kerry.
“Will... Will you stay, Colm?” she asked, lifting her chin, bracing for a negative reply.
With vague discomfort, Meggie realized this was the closest she had ever come to pleading. But she knew him to be a compassionate man, and for that reason she swallowed a bit of pride. If her pathetic appeal resulted in Colm’s remaining at Dochas, she would not regret a small loss of pride.
He pressed his lips together.
Oh, my!
What magic his lips wrought. Narrow lips, fine and firm with the power to transport her. Meggie’s eyes fixed on his lips; her heart skipped and fluttered about as she awaited his reply.
“One more day?” The bard’s eyes locked on hers.
“One more day,” she repeated flatly, purposefully suppressing the joy she felt from bubbling up into her voice.
Obviously agitated, Colm began to pace, flinging his arms about like an excited orator. “Meggie, I do not want to give ye the false impression that I will remain at Dochas any longer.”
“I understand. You shall remain only one more day in order to begin the rebuilding of the stable.” Meggie paused a moment before softly delivering the coup de grace. “Am I asking too much of ye?”
Colm stopped pacing in mid-step. He regarded her over his shoulder.
She shot him a quivering smile. Above the noise of her drumming heart, Meggie heard the candle sputter and felt the quickening spurt of her pulse.
Releasing a sigh even heavier than the last, the bard turned to her. A golden flame flickered in the deep brown velvet of his eyes as they met hers. “One more day.”
The soft surrender, the ragged timbre of his voice, sent a warm tingle skittering down Meggie’s spine. With the uttering of three small words, the weight in her chest lifted. She fell asleep confident that the light, happy pita-pat of her heart meant she would enjoy splendid dreams.
* * * *
Cameron lay awake. He had just promised to stay another day. He had lost all control of the situation. It now seemed that a better part of his life revolved around the desires of the duchess. The next thing he knew he would be promising Meggie Fitzgerald that he would return to Dochas.
But he had taken her virginity. Nay, that was not quite right. She had given herself to him. He was no villain lusting after innocents. But certainly he had lost sight of his mission for more than a few heated moments.
Grave danger lay in losing sight of what he had been sent to Ireland to accomplish. His wits must be sharp at all times. If not, Cameron put the life he had long dreamed of at stake,
Meggie moaned softly in her sleep. The sweet sound was quite like one he had heard while making love to her.
God’s bones!
Cameron turned over, shifting so that his back was to Meggie and her bed. He shut her out in the only way he could. Almost.
It was a matter of fact that since King Henry first planted Englishmen and women in Ireland, many marriages between Irish and English had resulted. In a twist of fate, the English disposed the Irish from their land but then were absorbed by the natives. English men wed Irish lasses; Irish men wed English women. Divided loyalties were not uncommon.
But nay, Cameron could ill afford a wife. Until he became a captain, such a step was unthinkable. Impossible. To even consider such an outrageous idea signaled his mind had been damaged by smoke inhalation. Besides, Meggie often stated in plain terms and terrible curses that she hated the English. She would never marry him.
Cameron had bedded and enjoyed a fair number of comely maidens in his past, but he had never considered marrying one of them. What man in his right mind would knowingly ask for the duchess’s hand in marriage? A redheaded, freckled vixen full of stubborn pride would be no submissive wife. What did Meggie offer other than a superstitious bent and an inclination to be ever ready with a musket?
Passion. She offered unbridled passion. Meggie had come alive in his embrace. Each brush of his fingertips brought a rapturous response. She rose to meet him, to repeat after him. Her laughter, rich and strong, sprang from her core and enveloped Cameron with its music of uninhibited delight. Meggie’s laughter excited him, as well as her softer sounds. Even now he could hear her sensual murmurings as he had loved her, the astonished exclamations of, “Oh, my!”
Cameron’s lips found heaven in the sweet taste of her, the lavender, slightly salty flavor of her willowy figure. Her body danced beneath his lips as he had sprinkled kisses the length of her; her breasts, her tight, flat belly, her silken thighs.
The devil!
Cameron rolled over onto his back. His entire body throbbed, as hard and as hot as the blacksmith’s blade. But he had only himself to blame. Memories of making love to Meggie were still too fresh. She had given herself to him with such wanton abandon that even now his body reacted fiercely. Her willingness, her fervor, her... curiosity, amazed him. Curiosity? The world would be a better place if all women were curious in Meggie’s manner. But mayhap only Irish maidens possessed such carnal questions.
She snored. The soft, soothing sound made Cameron smile.
It seemed if the proud beauty had come to favor him. His body stiffened; his eyes widened. Could it be that Meggie had formed an attachment to him?
’Twas possible. Indeed, Cameron had come to feel what might be considered
affection
for Meggie. This despite having discovered, as most Irishmen knew from birth, that a red-haired woman bode ill fortune.
It seemed all Cameron had done this eve was to sigh like a tired old woman. But he sighed yet again. If Meggie had, indeed, become infatuated with him, he had all the more reason not to betray her.
Cameron resolved to tell her the truth about himself on the morrow and swiftly be gone. He might be risking his life by revealing his English roots, but it was the kindest thing he could do for Meggie. He did not believe she would shoot him for his heritage. The spirited redhead would banish him. Nay, Meggie would not despair to see an Englishman leave Dochas. She would not waste tears on a most despicable enemy. Him.
* * * *
Meggie had never felt better!
She woke just after dawn the next day with only a mild sore throat. Her chest felt crowded, like a room with too many people that made breathing difficult. But her body glowed, and her spirit bucked and jumped like a frisky colt. She had gained another day with Colm.
His pallet felt cold. He must have risen well before the sun. The hounds had not alerted her. In all likelihood Seamus and Bernadette hadn’t noticed the bard’s departure.
Although the rain had passed, wide charcoal strips streaked across a bleak, gray sky. Glistening with morning moisture, the lustrous green hillsides promised hidden treasures along their paths.
Meggie washed in the basin and donned a clean gown before slipping the ring Colm had given her onto the long chain holding her high cross. She seldom wore the cross as it was one of the few items of her mother’s she possessed. Her father had sold most of the jewelry to buy arms for his cause. Fearing she might lose or damage the memento, she kept it secreted away in the cupboard.
The gold band fell neatly in the narrow valley between her breasts, appropriately close to Meggie’s heart. To think Colm claimed this ring was the only item of any value that he owned—and he had given it to her! Meggie’s heart made a soft leap. The delicately engraved rose-and-crown crest appeared almost regal.
Placing a protective hand over her heart, she felt a brief stab of pain as the ring pressed into her flesh.
Without the ring, she would have felt nothing. Without Colm, Meggie would feel nothing.
She brushed her hair until the fiery mass shone, but she did not bother with a braid. The bard had made no secret of favoring her untamable mane falling freely about her shoulders. Determined to please him into staying, Meggie set off for the stable.
The work had already begun. Colm directed the men with a sketch he had drawn. He had spread the parchment out before him, showing her grandfather his plans as if the old man could truly understand what they were about.
“Good day,” she said, sidling up to the man she wished to wed. “May I see?”
“Aye. Ye must approve before we continue,” Colm said. His serious expression held no hint of the warmth Meggie had felt in his arms the day before. His attitude bordered on indifference.
“The lad has a head on his shoulders.” Her grandfather slapped the stable builder-bard on the shoulder. “Instead of half stone, half wood, he’s drawn up a stable made entirely of stone.”
“It’s much like the stable at my father’s inn.”
“Meggie, methinks we should build his stable,”
“Aye, grandfather. My thanks, Colm.”
Acknowledging her appreciation with a curt nod, he turned his attention back to the plans. Meggie’s gaze lingered. His muscular arms strained against his fresh, borrowed tunic. The dull shade of tan did not flatter him. At the same time, Colm’s lusty form could not be diminished by lack of color.
Meggie knew and loved the bard’s colors, from the crimson passion of his soul, to the rugged, invincible masculinity that shone from him as golden as the sun.
An unbidden urge to drag him off to the drying cottage seized her.
“Ha... have ye had anything to eat this morn?” she asked.
“Nay. I’ve been busy.”
“I’ll bring ye a bite”
Again, Colm responded with a curt nod.
She made a mental note to order tunics especially made for him.
The bard was still at work when Meggie returned later with lamb liver. “A special dish for ye,” she said, raising the pewter bowl in triumph. “Irishmen all over the isle put down swords for a wee bit of lamb liver.”
Colm put down the bowl after one bite.
Meggie peered into the bowl. “What’s wrong?”
He forced a smile. “I’m not as hungry as I thought. Mead will do.”
Odd. She had never met an Irishman, or woman for that matter, who did not enjoy a meal of lamb’s liver. ’Twas a fine delicacy to be certain. Since there was no accounting for taste, Meggie could do little but leave and see to the horses. But during the course of the day, she happened to pass by the building site often.
While her grandfather stayed by the laboring bard’s side most of the day, Colm slowly delegated the stable rebuilding to the stable boy and blacksmith. By afternoon, he had become no more than an overseer. How would she convince him he was needed another day?
Certainly, he could not say nay if she was making love to him. At day’s end, Meggie followed Colm to the stream where she watched him bathe from behind the trunk of a wide old oak. She felt both wicked and wonderful. Wicked for concealing herself in order to admire him. ’Twas as if in Colm, the wee people had sent her a god in the guise of a man. Uncommonly handsome of face with a body sculpted of steel, Colm could fill Meggie’s eyes all the day long and she still would not be satisfied.
His broad shoulders and massive chest narrowed to a flat, hard belly and trim waist... to beyond, to his riveting manhood.
It made no difference that she observed him from afar. Her body grew warm, rippling with arousal. Her heart pounded with excitement. When he climbed up to the bank, Meggie stepped out from her hiding place behind the tree.
Obviously startled, his hands hastily moved to cover his manhood. “Meggie!”
Unfortunately, he had large hands. Hunching forward, he glowered at her.
She smiled as innocently as possible, reluctantly tearing her gaze from his hands.
“What are ye doing here?” he demanded.
“Forgive me but I followed you. We have such difficulty finding time alone, and I wanted to express my thanks for what ye have done this day, more than what I asked of ye.”