Seducing the Spy (30 page)

“I shall spend my life begging your forgiveness,” he swore. His husky timbre sent delicious chills sweeping through her body. “I have already forgiven you.”

“You
have forgiven
me?”
she echoed, incredulous. The flames of Meggie’s desire sputtered and fizzled like a blazing fire doused with water.

“Aye,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

She pushed back out of his arms. “For naught? Ye have forgiven me for naught? I did not betray ye to Niall.”

“I understand why you would,” he interrupted quickly.

But she was not finished. “And ’tis not I who pretended to be what I’m not.”

His dark brows gathered in a plainly perplexed frown. “Meggie, you shot me.”

“That was different.” She hitched her chin upward. “Will ye be forever holding that against me?”

“Nay.” He smiled, a teasing, crooked smile that made her knees weak. The scurrilous bard pulled her back into his arms. Her arms dropped to her sides. “I only want to hold you against me.”

If she could only stay in his arms forever. “I... I don’t even know your name,” she sighed, curling her arms around him.

“Cameron. My name is Cameron.” His deep, baritone voice triggered a flood of fire in Meggie’s veins.

“Cameron,” she murmured, trying the name on her tongue.

“I’m the son of the Duke of Doneval. I am a Scotsman.”

She reeled back. “A Scot? The son of a duke?”

“Aye. And I vow to you, Meggie, I shall never deceive you again. There will never be a reason. I did what I had to do while serving the queen. I obeyed orders. But I take orders from no one any longer.”

“Ye deceived me because you were obeying orders?” she repeated.

“Aye.” He gave her a smile that melted her heart and threatened to fold her knees.

She took a deep, ragged breath. “And ye are the son of a duke?”

His warm eyes locked on hers as he nodded. “Aye.”

Meggie raised her chin. She must not give in to... to Cameron easily or the son of a duke might think he could have his way with her no matter what. “And ye expect me to believe ye?”

“My father will explain to you as he did to me.”

Cameron Thatcher stood ready to prove his claims. Meggie sucked in her breath. “And ... and your mother?” she asked. “What of your natural mother?”

The tall, handsome man lowered his eyes. “My mother is gone. I have only my father’s memories of her.”

“But what of the ring ye gave to me?”

“The ring is yours.”

She fingered the chain.

A shooting star flashed across the sky, the cool breeze slapped at Meggie’s skirts, and Cameron felt warm for the first time in days. He would never let her go.

Meggie slipped from his arms. Her crystal blue eyes fixed on his before she looked to the ground, seemingly collecting her thoughts.

Cameron’s gaze raked her slender figure.

His heart slammed against his chest.

Breathtakingly beautiful in her lovely blue gown, Meggie’s radiance put all the drab English lasses at the ball to shame. He could not stop staring.

Her long, elegant fingers played with the rope of pearls and chain. With a gentle tug, she pulled her chain above her décolletage. Cameron’s rose-and-crown ring fell from
the chain. She wore his ring around her neck!

“Meggie, I have much to explain.”

“Aye, and that you do.”

“But time is short. My father and I leave the day after tomorrow for Scotland, for Doneval Manor.”

The color drained from her cheeks. Her voice suddenly sounded as thin as an ill, old crone. “Ye are leaving Ireland?”

“Aye. May we meet on the morrow and talk?”

“Talk?” Her bright, intense eyes met his. “Do you wish to tell me more lies?”

“No. Meggie. You can trust me. You must.”

“Ach!”

Flinching as if he had struck her, Meggie wheeled on her heel. She fled from the courtyard straight into the arms of a man who stood at the open door. Humphrey Fitzgerald. Cameron knew without ever having met the man before that this rigid, warrior-like figure looming in the shadows belonged to the Irish rebel.

“Wait!” he called.

But his cry was ignored. Fitzgerald glared at him from across the room before sheltering his daughter in his arms and hurrying her away.

Cameron had lost the duchess again. He should not have told her he was leaving Ireland. He should have first asked her to make the journey to Scotland with him.

The devil!

Once inside the ballroom, Cameron faced his twinkling-eyed father, who did not hesitate to ask questions. “Weel na, who was the bonnie lass?”

“Meggie Fitzgerald,” he replied with a soft sigh. Cameron had not the strength or spirit to hedge any longer. He could feel his heart beat faintly within his chest. “I never thought to see her again.”

“Is she the lass who would like to see you hanged?”

Cameron nodded dully. “For good reason. I lied to her... in the line of duty.”

“Did you explain?”

“She won’t believe me now.”

“Women are strange creatures, lad,” Donald commiserated. “Where does she stay?”

“She lives in Dochas. I don’t know where she stays in Dublin,” he admitted, wretched in defeat.

“We shall make inquiries.”

Cameron had another thought as he strained for a clear view of the ballroom entrance. “Perhaps, there is still time to catch her before she leaves the castle tonight”

“There’s more than one way out of Dublin Castle.”

Cameron’s belly constricted into a cold knot of steel.

The duke rested a hand on his shoulder. “The lass sought you out. That’s a good sign she has feelings for you.”

“She gave me a tongue-lashing.”

“Och!”

“Only because she carried no musket to shoot me.”

“’Tis true love,” his father declared.

* * * *

The next day, his last in Ireland, Cameron set out to find Meggie. He could not bear to leave without once more attempting to win her trust. Holding her the night before had been like restoring life to his body, happiness to his heart... if ever so briefly. Cameron’s chance encounter with his Irish beauty had served to deepen his heartache, make it even more painful than before.

He meant to ride Dochas his gift from Meggie’s grandfather, down one narrow Dublin street and up another. He would ask questions of everyone he met. And if he found her, he would never let her go. Cameron had it in mind to kidnap the duchess if necessary and whisk her away to Scotland with him. She had not given him the time or opportunity to ask last eve at the ball. Resolved to find the Irish vixen, Cameron left the house at the same time as his father.

Instead of the usual dismal gray winter sky, hazy sunshine streaked across a pale blue canopy. A chill nipped the air, and the wind swirled dust and debris in the street.

Donald Cameron understood what his lovesick son endured. The duke had lost two women whom he had loved. He made no attempt to put a halt to what he considered Cameron’s futile search for Meggie Fitzgerald. Taking action, no matter how misguided, might in the end serve to dull his son’s pain.

Before his business with the horses, Donald paid a last visit to Dublin Castle to take his leave from Wicklow.

“Last night I met a man called Fitzgerald. Who would he be?”

“Despite our best efforts, a man out to kill every last Englishman.”

“Aye? A shame. Does he maintain a home in Dublin?”

“Nay. When he and O’Neill come to Dublin, they stay in different houses to make it more difficult for us to find them. But if you wish to speak with him, I can tell you they departed the city this morning.”

“No matter.”

“We watch those two carefully.”

“Aye. No sense taking chances.”

“Fitzgerald’s returned to Dochas. If only he would stay there.”

As he rode in his hired carriage to the site of the horse auction, Donald wished with all his heart that there was something he could do to help his son. But nothing occurred.

What he could do was make certain the Irish steeds he had purchased the day before were in good hands with the young English lad he had hired to deliver them from Ireland to Doneval Manor. The horses were to be shipped in two days’ time.

When he arrived at the site, there were but a few horsemen about. Straightaway, Donald noticed something amiss with the pen containing his horses.

“Where are the bay mare and her foal?” he demanded. “My son made the purchase, and they were to be shipped with mine.”

“Nay, Your Grace.” The English lad who made his livelihood transporting horses from Ireland to England and Scotland bowed awkwardly. “Orders were given for the mare and foal to be delivered to Dochas Castle in Ballymore.”

“Dochas Castle?”

“Aye, Your Grace. Me Irish friend Tad is to deliver them to a Mistress Meggie Fitzgerald.” The boy puffed up with pride. “I helped to make the arrangements.”

“Och!” Donald slapped the heel of his hand to his temple. “I had forgotten. Pray pardon.”

“Tad leaves at midday with another delivery. And you can be sure I’ll be takin’ good care of your ponies. I’ll be deliverin’ them to ye in Scotland as fine as ye see them now.”

Deep in other thoughts, Donald nodded absentmindedly. “You’re a good lad.”

“Ye can depend on me, Your Grace.”

“Aye, boy. But would ye happen to know where I might find Tad?”

Chapter Seventeen

She’d left him. Meggie had fled from the bard, from the ball. The imposter poet planned to leave Ireland. Whether he realized it or not, he would be taking her heart along with him. Meggie’s sorely wounded pride would not allow her to be left a second time. This time Cameron Thatcher, son of the Scottish Duke of Doneval, was left behind. The marquis had stood stunned in her wake.

Meggie’s heart could not endure losing him again.

On the return journey to Dochas, she softly repeated the name over and over to herself. Cameron. Cameron. His name held strength and courage. It rolled deliciously on her tongue. She warmed to the solid, lusty sound of it. Cameron.

She praised the saints above that he had not been completely cursed. As luck would have it, other than English blood ran through his veins. The heart-stopping spy was as much a Scotsman as an Englishman.

Even more astonishingly, he possessed a title as well: the Marquis of Doneval. If, as in her wistful dreams, the sea that separated them could be crossed, his class would then stand between them. Meggie owned no title.

Still, she reproached herself all the way home to Dochas. If she had not lost the horrid temper that plagued her, the evening might have had a different ending. But she had followed Cameron Thatcher from the dance floor and ranted at him like a maniac. Meggie had proven beyond a doubt what the English believed: the Irish were crazy fools. Her untimely tirade more than likely convinced Cameron that he had good reason, once again, to fear for his life at her hands. He had made plans to leave Ireland without any thought of returning to Dochas. The man couldn’t wait to leave her behind.

Believing that she had revealed his identity to Niall, he had accused Meggie of betraying him. Never. Never would she betray her only love. But she had not convinced him, and now Cameron would never know the truth.

For the first time in her life, Meggie hadn’t wished to leave Dublin. In the wee hours of the morning, composed once more, she thought to send a message to the marquis. If she could have explained that it was Deirdre who had betrayed him, not her, perhaps he might have changed his mind about leaving Ireland. If she had been able to overcome her pride and apologize for her outburst, perhaps Cameron might have gathered her in his mighty arms and carried Meggie off with him to Scotland. Unable to escape his overwhelming strength and desire, she would have been doomed to spend the rest of her life as a prisoner in his loving arms. If.

If she had been able to look into the warm, golden brown depths of his eyes and confess her love for the splendid imposter, she might feel differently today. Her heart might not be aching, her soul might not be splintered, her spirits might not trail with the hem of her gown. She would not be weeping. But Meggie had been given no opportunity to send a message or slip away in search of Cameron. Her father had insisted upon leaving Dublin at dawn the following day.

Since their return to Dochas, most of Humphrey Fitzgerald’s time had been spent with Niall and Hugh O’Neill. The two men had finally departed earlier in the day, which might mean Meggie would have time with her father. But she could not talk to him about her feelings.

Meggie had no one to talk with about the misery within her. She certainly could not share her feeling with Deirdre. The girl moped about, obviously having made no headway with Niall.

Seamus and Bernadette listened to Meggie with cocked heads when she talked to them in the stillness of her chamber. But they expected a bone when she finished.

The searing pain in the hollow that had once lodged her heart grew ever more insistent. Being with the tall, handsome imposter again had ignited a fierce yearning for him. A yearning that refused to wane.

With her hounds at her heels, Meggie listlessly roamed the bailey, chatting with the retainers, learning what had taken place during her absence. The autumn winds were cold, numbing her ears and sweeping clusters of burnt red, gold, and brown leaves through the air. Beyond the castle walls the rich green fields faded beneath increasingly predominant lead gray skies.

Meggie strolled toward the stable. The sounds of hammering and the clink of chipping rock rang through the bailey. Her grandfather supervised the construction of the new building. He had been involved with the new stable since first viewing the bard’s plan. Now that the building neared completion, most of the horses had been sold in Dublin. Once more Meggie must begin over, searching for wild horses, training and breeding the few that remained.

The old man sat under a tree bundled in his heavy, oversized mantle. His withered face seemed shrunken, but his eyes, rather than their usual milky appearance, shone a bright blue as they peered at her from within the hooded frame of dark wool.