“Aye?” He raised his head in seeming surprise. The old man’s once bright blue eyes had become milky. For months now he had viewed the world from behind a gossamer curtain. As much as she prided herself on her nursing skills, Meggie had no cure for it.
Gerald’s thick silver hair shot out in all directions, as if he had been struck by lightning. But when Meggie bent to straighten the coarse strands, he jerked back from her touch.
“Deirdre’s waitin’ to take porridge with ye down in the hall,” she told him.
At the mention of food, her grandfather raised his knife and stood. It was a slow process, and once up on his feet, Gerald did not stand straight but hunched at a forward angle. He leaned like an ancient yew.
“I’ll see ye again when we advance on the bridge,” he said to Colm as he slipped his carving tool into a low-slung rawhide girdle. “We’ll take the English by surprise, we will. An’ we’ll turn ’em back ’fore darkness falls. They don’t know what they’re dealin’ with when they war against the Fitzgeralds.”
Pleased with his plan, Gerald made his way from the chamber chuckling to himself.
Meggie walked her grandfather to the door to make certain he did not forget that he was leaving. “Deirdre’s waitin’ on ye,” she reminded him.
“Aye. Aye.” After giving the poet one last look, he shuffled out of sight.
“Ah, what a glorious day we have,” Meggie declared cheerfully as she turned back to Colm. “The sun is shinin’, and the earth is rich.”
The poet glowered at her. She paid no mind. Oh, he looked so fine in his clean white lawn tunic that her heart near forgot to beat. The white of his garment contrasted against his sun-darkened skin in a most heart agitating manner.
Though she knew Colm must be in pain, he sat on the edge of his bed. Up until now, she had seen to it that he lay flat upon his bed with his left leg elevated. Fearing his movement might have broken the stitches she’d sewn so carefully, her gaze flitted to his bandage. But there were no telltale stains.
“Your grandfather said there was an English regiment camped at a bridge nearby. Is that true?”
“No. More often than not, my grandfather’s mind dwells in a time long since past.”
“I suspected as much.” The poet gave a sharp nod of his head and unleashed a deep sigh.
She wondered at his sigh. Was he unhappy to tarry at Dochas? Did he yet harbor ill will toward her for the... misfortunate incident?
From the first, Meggie had taken pleasure in the bard’s presence, in his face and form. Like a master limner, she had painted a portrait of him to fix upon her mind. At the slightest notion, she could close her eyes and see the broad expanse of his chest, the crisp mat of curls. She could dwell for hours upon the cynical curve of his lips and a certain, undefinable wariness reflected in his sooty, brown-black eyes.
“I have brought you a fine meal. You’ll be havin’ your strength back in no time.”
He stared into the bowl. “And what would this be?”
“Blood pudding, of course.”
“’Tis not one of my favorites.”
“Ye must eat it just the same, before the lard congeals.”
He swallowed hard. She did not miss the movement.
“What sort of Irishman are ye?” she chided.
He raised his gaze to hers. “The sort who never eats pigs’ blood.”
Meggie could not wrest away from his gaze, captured in the deep brown depths of his eyes and the wee, faint gold light that glimmered there. Moments passed before she remembered to breathe.
Saints above!
She pushed the bowl at him. “Ye need the blood to strengthen your own.”
He refused to take it. His lips pressed firmly together. She understood his unspoken message. She would have to pry his lips apart in order for him to partake of the blood pudding. A dozen means of parting the bard’s lips flashed before her, causing Meggie to grow exceedingly warm.
She abruptly wheeled on her heel. In a swirl of skirts, she sought to distance herself from the source of her discomfort. Meggie made for the window and hopefully a cooling breeze.
“Aye, bard, ye know the way of it. There’s no need for you to recover in haste. No need for you to eat the pudding which will help make you well.”
She threw the blood pudding out of the window, bowl and all.
The poet’s eyes grew round; his jaw dropped open.
Meggie smiled sweetly. “Dochas has no bard, and sore we need one. I feel honored ye will stay with us—”
His glower returned. “I am expected in Dublin.”
“Does a fair lassie await ye in Dublin?”
“Nay. No lassie awaits me anywhere.”
Meggie’s heart responded with a leap. She ambled back toward him. “Ye are alone in the world, then?” she asked, attempting to restrain the joy she felt from injecting itself into her tone.
“As you are? Who protects you and your castle?”
“Dochas is under grandfather’s protection.”
“Your grandfather offers little protection,” the bard hooted. “He lives in the past.”
“When my father left, he could not know the old man would lose his mind.”
“You mean there is no one to protect you?”
Meggie sank to the bedside stool, close enough to Colm to breathe in the virile male scent of him. ’Twas finer than any of the English perfumes her father had brought to her.
“Oh, aye! I am well protected if ye consider the servants and retainers. But we have never been threatened. As far as the English are concerned, Dochas is too distant to bother.”
“But would you not feel safer in Ulster?”
“If I remain at Dochas, I have the opportunity to see my father. He has fought alongside Hugh O’Neill for what seems like forever. But Da and Hugh do travel to Dublin from time to time.” She paused to give the bard a wry smile. “For peace talks with the English.”
“So you risk the wrath of the English for the possibility of seeing your father?”
“Aye. The English are kept busy in Cork and Kerry,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Dochas is safe.”
Colm’s rich, earth brown eyes narrowed on hers. “I hope that is so for your sake.”
“One day soon my father will return for all time,” she assured the poet. Each time she assured another, Meggie reassured herself. “A man belongs at home by his hearth, tending his land and animals.”
She blamed the English for taking her father away from her. If ever one Englishman approached Dochas and attempted to claim her castle for his own, she would raise her musket without remorse. She would ask no questions before she fired.
The bard’s dark brows deepened. “I hope your father returns soon, or...” His voice trailed into a whisper and then into silence.
“Or what?”
Averting his eyes, he rubbed his forehead. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you should have a husband looking after you.”
His insinuation stung. “’Tis no concern of yours!”
“Forgive me.”
“But if ye must know, I have been betrothed.”
With only the trace of a smile parting his lips, such sensuous lips, she thought, he nodded. “I knew a pretty lass like you would have suitors.”
Pretty lass? The bard thought she was pretty! Tamping down unspeakable delight, she drew a deep breath to compose herself. “Two years past I was promised to Declan, chief of the Hennessy clan.”
“A fine lad approved by your father?”
“Aye. Declan swore to me on my mother’s brooch.” She slapped her hand over the silver brooch pinned above her heart. “He swore that he would never raise a sword. He promised he would farm his land and make arms from his forge, but nothing more. That is what he promised me.”
She stopped and heaved a heart-wrenching sigh. Declan had always done her bidding without question. The boy would have ridden a wild mare to Dublin and back without stopping had she asked.
Colm ran a hand through his long hair. “Did your young man break his promise?”
“My wondrous boy up and joined my father and Hugh O’Neill without sayin’ a word to me!” Declan’s perfidy still riled Meggie. “The next I heard of him, he’d been killed in battle, cut down by an Englishman.”
“He wished to take his stand as a man, to be your hero,” Colm offered in consolation.
“He betrayed me,” she replied in a soft whisper.
A profound silence enveloped the chamber.
“A man has reasons for what he does. I do not believe Declan meant to betray ye.”
She should have known. No matter what had passed, a man always defended another. Even a poet who should possess a more sensitive soul.
Meggie stood up to look down upon the bard. “My heart is no longer broken. It has healed quite well.”
Adding a silent statement of pride, she raised her chin.
Chickens clucked in the bailey below. The melody from a distant whistle drifted on the summer breeze. But the sound of his breathing was all Cameron heard clearly. It was quite loud but steady, a favorable sign. He had obviously said the wrong thing and searched in vain for something acceptable to say.
The Duchess of Dochas saved him. And it struck Cameron that was what Meggie reminded him of with her chin-held-high, impervious manner. He stilled a grin. Henceforth, Meggie would be the duchess to him.
“I shall not lose my heart again,” the Irish duchess pronounced, “until a rich Irish lad comes calling at Dochas.”
Cameron did not think such a man existed. Although, he supposed, an Irishman might be rich in land and cattle. Still, her statement bothered him. “You would marry a man for his wealth?”
Meggie did not hesitate. “Aye! Dochas needs many repairs, and I wish to have more children than my arms will hold. If love cannot be trusted, then I must marry for sensible reasons.”
Cameron managed to overcome his shock. “These days it seems only the English enjoy prosperity.”
Unless they were lieutenants in the queen’s service, like him.
“Ach! I would rather pluck chicken feathers for the rest of my life, ’til my fingers are sore and bleedin’, than marry an Englishman.”
Pluck chicken feathers? The devil!
Stifling the surge of anger and a sharp rebuke that came to mind, Cameron smiled instead. “You’re a loyal, fine lass.”
While he should have felt a swell of relief as she walked away, hips undulating in a manner he found quite enticing, he felt a wave of disappointment—despite himself.
Left alone with naught to do but fend off his isolation, he swung his legs back up on the bed. The pain took his breath away. He was weaker than he cared to admit, but not weak enough to eat blood pudding. Cameron stared at the ceiling, contemplating the long road that had brought him to this place.
He had been raised as the only son of Cotswold innkeepers who had been blessed with five daughters but were desperate for a son. George and Bess Thatcher adored their boy.
Cameron thrived on the hard-working couple’s love and care, but he did not care to keep an inn. He felt strangely separate from his mother and father and five silly sisters. Although he desired to please his father, he craved a life of adventure. Ever since he could remember, Cameron longed to be a leader of men. What better way than to become a military man where he could rise in rank and stature? He would make his mark and earn the respect of all men. Something an innkeeper never knew.
It was only then, when he balked at the plans made for him, that Cameron learned he was not the Thatchers’ natural son. He’d been eighteen years old at the time he discovered the truth. When he was but an infant he had been given to the Thatchers. It was only then that Cameron understood, after years of wondering, why he had always felt different from the rest of the family— apart from being the only male save his father.
To his surprise and great satisfaction, he also discovered that rather than become a part of the trained band, he had the ability to purchase a commission in the queen’s army. Unlike most foundlings, Cameron had come to the Thatchers with funds for an education and a ring he had promised to wear at all times. He raised his right hand and regarded the band of gold wrapped with rose and crown.
Burning curiosity concerning the ring eluded him. He had always felt confident that some day, in its own time, the mystery would be solved. The truth of his birth would be revealed. Uppermost in his mind had always been the goal of achieving the highest rank he could aspire to and winning the admiration of nobles and peasants alike.
The success of this mission and the information he retrieved could bring Cameron the rank he currently sought: Captain Thatcher. With each accomplishment, he had steadily earned more authority and risen in the esteem of his fellow Englishmen.
He could not let his wound hold him back. He could not fail.
* * * *
The following day, Meggie’s grandfather once again sat in the corner carving on his stick.
“A redheaded woman bodes ill fortune, ye know.”
“But so many Irish women have red hair,” Cameron pointed out, thinking of Meggie’s glorious mass in particular, as no doubt her grandfather did.
“Aye,” the old man agreed.
Cameron’s chivalrous nature spurred him to add. “It’s only a minor wound your Meggie gave me.”
Gerald Fitzgerald’s manner of speaking no longer perplexed him. He went along with the old man, no matter what subject the craggy, ancient warrior chose or how abrupt the change in discussion. At least he had someone to talk with, and for that he was grateful.
“’Tis the shame of it,” the old man sighed.
The Irish were mired in superstition for which Cameron held little patience. “Well, I for one do not believe the color of a lass’s hair is a bad omen.”
Once again he perched on the edge of the bed, gingerly testing, attempting to put weight on his injured leg. Cameron slowly increased the pressure until a pain shot the length of his leg like a red-hot lance.
Gerald did not notice him wince. Bent over the stick, Meggie’s grandfather appeared absorbed in each stroke of his knife.
“Believe what ye like,” he said, pausing to run his thumb over the grain, gently wiping stubborn shavings away. “But I know this: ye are wounded.”
“Because she shot me.”
“And the only two men who have ever courted my Meggie have suffered for it. Declan is dead and Niall is blind in one eye.”