Seducing the Spy (25 page)

Donald stood. “Have you news of Cameron’s whereabouts?”

The earl stroked the tip of his mustache. “I regret to inform you that Cameron Thatcher is not in Dublin.”

“Nay.” The duke felt a sick roll in the pit of his stomach.

“Aye.”

“Well na, I was told my lad had been posted here.”

“He is in Ireland, but out in the country. Pretending to be an Irish bard, he spies for us.”

“My boy is a spy?” Donald did not want to think what this news meant.

The earl smiled broadly. “Evidently, your son is quite clever.”

“And in constant danger.”

“Had we known Thatcher was the son of a duke—”

“And my heir.”

“We should never have agreed to allow him to spy.”

Donald leveled an angry gaze at the hapless earl. “Weel na, I expect ye to find Cameron and return him to Dublin at once.”

“But he, he roams the countryside,” Stanthorpe stammered.

“Find him ... or I shall,” Donald warned.

“We shall do our best but, but it may take time.”

“I have a good deal of time. I’m not leavin’ Ireland until my son is found and returned to me.”

Chapter Fourteen

“Stay, Meggie.”

But Meggie ignored Niall’s thunderous demand. Head held high, she continued her march toward the castle. While her mind recoiled from what she was about to do, her rapidly beating heart urged her to find the bard and hide him.

Refusing to be dismissed, Niall strode to her side and seized Meggie’s arm. He took her with such force that she stumbled. If Niall’s hand had not clutched her arm, she would have fallen.

“Where do ye go?” he bellowed in rage. “Ye nursed the English spy and ye neglect me, one of yer own?”

Meggie replied in a soft and level tone. “Deirdre is a skilled nurse, for I have taught her everything known to me. I go to prepare a chamber for you and for your men.”

“Or do ye go to warn the filthy spy?” he snarled.

She raised her eyes to his, knowing he would see the truth in them. “I know not where Colm is at present.”

Niall regarded her suspiciously. A sudden breeze swept strands of his long black hair across his ruddy face, some catching in his dark beard. With his black patch slung low over his eye and onto his cheek, the man who would make Meggie his wife appeared even more fearful—uncannily like a werewolf. The very beast she had always dreaded.

“One of my men will go with ye, just to make certain ye are safe.” His one good eye narrowed on her. “It would be unfortunate if the Englishman should take ye as a hostage.”

“He would not.”

“I shall send Peadar with ye.”

Meggie pulled away from his grasp. “Do not be bothered.”

“For yer own protection.”

“I do not require protection.”

The corner of his mouth curled in a one-sided smile devoid of warmth. “Nonetheless, ye shall have it Meggie, me heart.”

Meggie could barely suppress her anger. She gulped short, deep breaths of air and exhaled in the same manner. Niall either did not notice, or did not care.

“The rest of my men will search the castle stone by stone. At dawn we shall cover the bailey inch by inch. We will look in every cottage, question all who live within Dochas’s walls.”

“And what shall ye do when ye find him?”

“Hang him.”

Merciful Mary.

“’Tis a fitting end for an enemy spy,” Niall added, with the same evil smile. Meggie could not remember ever having seen this wicked smile, this dark side of Niall.

“Ye take as truth a young girl’s conjecture? Deirdre has no proof that the bard is a spy, or even that he is English.”

“Deirdre’s word is good enough for me to question the foot-licking poet ... closely. I know how to persuade a man to tell the truth.”

By torture? Meggie’s mouth went dry. “I should like to be there when you question the bard.”

“Women have no place in such matters.”

“On Dochas soil, I have a right to be anywhere I please. Never make the mistake of forgetting that, Niall.” Elevating her chin to new heights, in what she hoped was a regal, unarguable manner, Meggie spun on her heel and strode away.

Seamus bounded out of his hiding place to run before her; Bernadette leapt at her side. But Meggie’s thoughts were not with her hounds.

Her mind raced, seeking a hiding place where the bard might be, or where she might conceal him until the danger had passed. No matter who or what he was, Meggie was determined to find him first. She would not allow Niall to capture the man she knew as Colm.

Peadar, chosen by Niall to guard Meggie, had the aspect of a dark leprechaun. The bowlegged man possessed a wiry body, smacked his lips constantly, and desperately needed to cleanse himself in the river. The sooner she was able to slip away from him, the happier she would be. Meggie led Peadar down a flare-lit gallery to the same chamber where she had housed the English band, away from the family chambers. For all she knew, Colm might be resting in his chamber, unaware he had become prey for Niall.

The visitors’ chamber had not been cleaned since the British departed. The same rushes and fleas remained. In fact, the fleas more than likely had multiplied. Meggie was satisfied.

“This is where ye will pass the night,” she told Peadar.

“’Tis a large chamber,” he said. And then smacked his lips.

“How many men travel with you?” she asked.

“Eight of us, not countin’ Niall O’Donnell.”

Eight. She could not take them on all at once. But perhaps with the help of her grandfather, Niall’s men could be eliminated one by one. Beginning with Peadar.

Meggie nodded. “Eight will be comfortable in this chamber.”

She eyed the dagger and sword at her smelly guard’s girdle, wondering if she could somehow disarm him. The outrageous thought brought her up short. Was she mad, scheming to help a man who only hours before had confessed to her that he was English? A man who in all probability was a spy just as Deirdre and Niall suspected?

But, dear Mother in heaven, I love him.

Meggie loved Colm, and it mattered not who or what he was. He had never promised to return her love. Yet, he had supported her in every way, putting his life in danger to save the foal and her horses, sending the English away before they could harm anyone in the castle or steal from the fields and livestock. The man who pretended to be a bard had come to Meggie’s aid when she needed him. And now, she would come to his.

Lost his muse? Pish! He had never had one.

Leaving the chamber, she hurried down the gallery, leaving Peadar behind smacking his lips.

“Where are ye going?” her guard demanded as he sidled up alongside of her, breathing heavily.

“To the brewery. Your throat must be parched.”

He grinned then, revealing a mouth of yellowed teeth. “Aye. And that it is.”

Shuddering, Meggie increased her pace, heading toward the kitchen. The large cooking area was separate from the rest of the castle and reached by a stone passageway. Just outside of the kitchen lay three fingers of protected passageways; each one led in turn to the pantry, the buttery, and the brew house.

The pantry and the brew house were the only chambers kept under lock. Meggie hid the key to both under one of the churns in the buttery.

‘Turn your back,” she tersely ordered Peadar.

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” Meggie snapped.

Obviously alarmed by her unladylike brusqueness, he obeyed without further objection.

Meggie swiftly retrieved the key and marched to the brew house, with Peadar now trailing a respectful distance behind her. The brew house was a small cellar, with one high barred window and a dirt floor. Enough ale and mead were made here to provide for the castle workers and those who lived within the bailey. Peadar sniffed, loudly enjoying the aroma of hops and yeast as he followed Meggie to where the kegs were stored against the far wall.

“I believe we shall require at least one keg, don’t you?” she asked him.

“Aye. Mayhap two.”

“Can ye carry two?”

His brow became a map of deep crevices as he frowned. “I’m thinkin’... aye.”

Meggie gave him an encouraging smile. “Certainly a big, strong lad like you can carry two small kegs.”

“Aye,” he declared in a firm, resolute tone.

“I’ll hold your weapons.”

He hesitated.
“
Nay, Niall will have me head if I give up me dagger and sword to ye.”

“Do not fret. I am a mere woman who has never learned how to use a sword,” she assured him. “Imagine a woman in a sword fight!”

A dagger, however, was another matter.

“Aye.” His head bobbed up and down vigorously. “Women have no skill with sword or dagger.”

Meggie hung her head in mock despair. “’Tis our misfortune.”

With a yellow smile of sympathy for her plight, Peadar handed over his sword and dagger. And as soon as he stooped to pick up the first keg, Meggie ran from the brew house and slammed the door behind her.

“Mistress!” Hoisting a keg, Peadar looked over his shoulder in bewilderment. “The door has ...”

Meggie locked the door, thick and solid save for one small slit.

“What have ye done?” Peadar yelled.

I have eliminated one man from the chase.

Furious, he dashed to the door as fast as a bowlegged man could.

“Ye’ll stay where ye are, swag-bellied barnacle.” Under her breath she added a wee, but malevolent, curse. “May ye be washed in lavender water three times a day. An’ may your yellowed teeth fall out of your witless head and ... and ... and may tremors beset your hands so badly ye’ll never hold a dagger again!”

Meggie hurried away with Seamus and Bernadette fast on her heels. Peadar cursed and shouted after her, but he would not be heard unless Niall or one of his men searched the kitchen. In the meantime, she hoped the fellow might drink himself into a stupor. He was in the right place.

Midway between the kitchen and the castle, Meggie threw Peadar’s sword into the bushes but retained the dagger. Tension clutched her body, knotting her stomach and settling tightly within her chest. Her heart hammered as, still unchallenged, she rushed to the bard’s chamber.

The empty chamber, across from her own, bore no evidence of use. He was gone. But where? Had he returned to the stable?

Back in her own chamber, Meggie stashed Peadar’s dagger in the cupboard and retrieved her own, concealing her weapon in the pouch of the low-slung girdle she donned. Blood pounding, pulse racing, she turned to find her grandfather braced against the passageway. Startled, her heart leapt against her chest.

“Grandfather! Ye took me by surprise. What is it? Are ye ill?”

“Nay.” His milky blue eyes met hers as he shuffled closer until only Meggie could hear. “The bard has left Dochas,” he whispered.

“Left?” She wasn’t certain if her grandfather understood what he was telling her.

“Ye’ll not be seein’ him for some time.”

He did understand. Meggie understood. But the relief she felt was short lived as an overwhelming sadness descended upon her.

* * * *

Cameron Thatcher reached Dublin in three days’ time. He credited his journey to the swift mare provided to him by Gerald Fitzgerald. He owed his escape, his very life, to the old man. A fact which puzzled Cameron. At first he had been bewildered at why the old man should help him, but then he decided Gerald did not like Niall. He had helped Cameron out of stubborn spite because his beclouded mind could not grasp that Cameron was English and in all probability a spy. More than likely, Fitzgerald thought he aided a fellow fighter fleeing from a long-ago siege in Cork. The theory held with one exception. Gerald had appeared quite clear witted as he guided Cameron through the tunnel to the waiting mare. ’Twas as if the old man had previously planned the escape. Impossible. Improbable. And yet...

Perhaps one day Cameron would solve the mystery; he would know what actually happened on that night. When the Irish and English resolved their differences, he would return to Dochas and Gerald Fitzgerald. And to Meggie.

Within hours of his arrival in Dublin, Cameron had supplied the information he had gathered. Subsequently, he had been questioned at length by his commander and been duly praised by his fellow officers. Two days later in the Dublin Castle headquarters, he had received his long sought-after promotion and a curious assignment. Captain Thatcher was to proceed to the home of a Scotsman, one Donald Cameron, Duke of Doneval.

Cameron never questioned an order. He did, however, question his feelings. The promotion he had sought for months yielded little joy. His heart felt as heavy as it had been when Meggie had run from him. When he’d confessed to being English, she’d run from him as if he were the werewolf she had imagined. Indeed, he felt like a monster even now. His heart felt like a fist of steel within his chest. Cold and unable to feel, it beat with the same numbness he had experienced when looking back upon Dochas for the last time. Viewing the castle from a safe distance, Cameron had realized the happiest moments of his life had been spent there with Meggie. He’d realized too late. It always came back to her.

Meggie. Blue-eyed, freckled, copper-curled Meggie had given him more joy than he had ever dreamed. He smiled, recalling her selfless devotion to her old grandfather and her delightful duchess airs. The Irish lass would haunt him for the rest of his life. She was all Cameron could think of; she was all that he wished for in life.

Since arriving in Dublin, he had regained control of his life. Once more, he had no one to answer to but himself. But in the stillness of the night, Cameron knew he would gladly relinquish being the master of his fate just to hold Meggie in his arms once again. He would gladly submit to her willful prodding if he could but hear her boisterous, infectious laugh once more. Meggie laughed from her heart. Her love of life shone in her eyes.

But he never would look into the duchess’s extraordinary eyes again, nor hear her delicious laughter. She loathed him. She had given him up to Niall. The strong-willed woman with the soft, slender body and wide smile would just as soon see him hanged.