A shudder of revulsion swept through her at the thought of Barra forcing himself upon her. And then her blood began to boil. Her hands curled into fists, fists she raised to her hips.
“I’m feeding and shelterin’ ye, and that’s enough!” She bristled.
Barra must have found her objection amusing. Chuckling, he dragged her into what he thought to be her chamber. “Ye’re gonna give me more, fair lassie.”
So intent was he on ravishing her, the burly rebel did not realize he had spirited her into the bard’s chamber. Barra did not see Colm asleep in his bed.
“Shush!” she said. “Or you will wake the sleeping poet.”
“Who?” Barra turned away to look where she pointed.
In that unguarded moment, Meggie wrenched free. But as she turned to run, Barra pounced with surprising agility. He snatched her upper arm and clasped it tightly. He pulled her out into the corridor. In the darkness, Meggie kicked and flailed, fighting off Barra’s brute power as he sought to capture her lips.
Was the bard truly sleeping through this?
“Let me go!” Meggie hissed, beating her fist against Barra’s chest.
The drunken rebel appeared to enjoy the fight. He threw his head back and laughed. In a desperate effort, Meggie flung her body to the side with enough force to cause her attacker to lose his grip on her once more.
Pulling free, Meggie ran to her chamber. Pulse pounding, she dashed to her wooden chest. Flinging back the lid, she plunged her hands deep into the linens and clothing. Rummaging furiously through the contents, she searched for her dagger.
“Ye can’t run from me, Meggie.” Barra’s hulking form loomed above her, swaying. “Ye’re meant to be mine.”
She found her weapon. Her hand clasped the ivory handle. Holding the dagger behind her back, she rose slowly. “Be gone, Barra.”
“Ye’re playin’ with me.”
“I shall not warn you again. Go away or ... or I will have to kill ye.”
“And she means what she says.”
Barra’s bulk of a body jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
“She’s shot a man for less,” the deep baritone voice assured the drunken rebel. “Trust me.”
It was Colm. Barra appeared frozen. He swayed not the slightest.
Meggie took the first deep breath she could remember since being confronted by the foolish man. She quickly lit another candle from the one burning by her bedside.
Colm stood behind Barra, towering over the suddenly quiet brawler. In the flickering light, the poet’s scowl appeared more menacing than Barra’s drunken passion. Slashes of dark brows met above the bridge of his nose. His lips were pressed tightly together in two narrow bands of anger. A muscle pulsed in his squared jaw. Even though he leaned upon the blackthorn walking stick for support, the bard appeared quite fearsome.
But ruled by his mad dog instincts, Barra quickly recovered from his surprise and spun on Colm. Ah, but the spin proved too much for the mead-sotted man. He wobbled, flapping his arms like a highly strung chicken while trying to maintain his balance.
The bard took advantage of the rebel’s uncertain state. Dropping the walking stick, he curled his large hand into a giant fist. With one well-directed punch to Barra’s jaw, Colm knocked Meggie’s attacker to the ground. The Irish rebel thumped to the floor like a sack of rotting praties.
Meggie’s relief was short lived. One fright gave way to another.
Colm swayed unsteadily. In one motion, she rushed to his side, scooped up his walking stick, and slipped an arm about his waist.
“Lean on me.”
“That’s not necessary.” But even as he protested, he did as she bid.
The heat of his body warmed her through the linen tunic he wore. For whatever reasons, the poet insisted on sleeping in restrictive clothing. One thickly muscled arm wrapped around her shoulder. The innocent movement sent a series of warm shivers sweeping through Meggie. Just moments ago, she had been cold with fear; now she melted from heat.
She longed to walk with his arm wrapped around her forever, at once sheltered and excited by the intense maleness of him. The bard generated a raw, animal potency that seeped through Meggie’s skin, settled and burned beneath her flesh.
Oh, she surely was a shameless woman, lusting after an ailing man.
“Come, now ...” she coaxed softly.
“What about him?” The bard dipped his head toward the unconscious man folded on the floor.
“We’ll leave Barra to sleep it off.”
“But where will you sleep?”
“With you.”
He frowned as if she had said something to perplex him. “Aye?”
She did not take offense. The effort it took to defend her had obviously caused him to grow light-headed. In all of the castle tonight, Colm was the only man safe to sleep with.
Seeking to support the poet, Meggie circled his waist and found it to be a narrowed band of steel. She clasped the hand of his arm looped over her shoulder. “We’ll move slowly,” she said.
Even though aided by his walking stick and Meggie, Colm winced with the first movement. “Aye,” he agreed.
The bard’s muscular body brushed against hers with each slow step. His heat curled through her limbs, spread to and dulled her senses. She could only feel. And she felt an amazing lightness of spirit
“Just a few more steps now,” she said.
“I can make it to my bed alone.”
But Meggie did not care to untangle herself from Colm.
She plopped down beside him as he sank to the featherbed. A small sigh escaped her as she slipped from beneath his arm, shifted away from his side.
“Did ye say ye would sleep with me?” Colm’s eyes were shadowed by confusion, making them appear as dark as night.
“Aye.” Meggie felt safe beside the poet. “But first I will fetch ye a nip of whiskey to ease your pain. I fear ye have spent all of your hard-earned strength this eve.”
“Why did Barra attack you?”
“Ach!” Meggie shook her head and gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The lad was drunk.”
Colm’s gaze locked on hers. He spoke in a whisper. “A man would not have to be drunk to want ye.”
Meggie’s pulse took on a swift, furious beat. Did he mean—? No, he certainly could not mean—! He seemed indifferent, but did this mean—? One wild thought followed another. Within seconds however, Meggie realized how foolish it was to think for one moment that the handsome bard wanted her.
She angled her chin upward. “I had reached my dagger and would have put a stop to his foolishness if you had not come to my rescue.”
“Ye would have killed him?”
“Nay! Do ye think I go around killin’ men for sport?”
His lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Aye.”
The bard’s smile set Meggie’s heart to thumping at a loud and alarming pace. She completely lost the power of speech.
“You’re a brave woman, Meggie Fitzgerald.”
“Ye ... Ye saved my virtue this eve.”
He shrugged and ran a hand through disheveled hair. “Any man would have come to your aid. Any man would have done the same.”
But she knew differently. He might have been badly hurt in the fray. He had risked the recovery he desperately worked toward every day. “I should look at your wound to be certain ye did not rip—”
“I’ll look,” he interrupted quickly. Gazing into the blackness, Colm slid a hand beneath his tunic and examined the wound by touch. “You need not worry. It has not opened but feels fiery hot to the touch,” he reported.
Meggie wished she were the one doing the touching. But relieved no harm had been done, she stood. “I shall return with whiskey for ye.”
But when she did, she found the bard dead asleep. Nothing short of cannon fire would wake him now. Feeling a senseless pang of disappointment, Meggie removed her gown and chemise. Without an ounce of shame, she slid into bed beside the bard.
An unmarried man and woman did not sleep together unless there were several bodies in between them. She would be disgraced if anyone knew she had climbed into bed with the bard. But who would know?
Her body hummed.
* * * *
Meggie woke at the first streak of dawn and rose without waking Colm. There was much to do. There was always much to do. Barra confronted her later in the day. He held a tankard of mead in one hand, rubbed his swollen jaw with the other.
“Mistress Meggie, I fear I’ve misbehaved.”
“Ye took liberties a gentleman would never think of doin’.”
“I’m beggin’ yer forgiveness.”
She did not yield, throwing him a look of disdain. There seemed not a man in the world she could trust. Except, perhaps, for the bard.
Wagging a finger at Barra, Meggie admonished him as if he were a child. “See ye keep your distance in the future.”
“Ye have a powerful blow for a lass.”
“And there’s more where that came from,” she bluffed. The scoundrel obviously did not remember it was Colm who struck him, and that was just as well for the poet’s safety. “Ye should think about being on your way, Barra. Ye are not welcome at Dochas any longer.”
His downcast eyes reminded her of a whipped puppy. “We cannot leave until Niall comes.”
“Niall.” How could she have forgotten? Niall had promised to come for the Lughnasa celebration.
* * * *
Stretching as far as the eye could see, the rolling emerald green hills of Dochas glistened with morning dew. Flocks of sheep and herds of Irish black cattle grazed on the far hillsides. Cameron felt the beauty of the Westmeath countryside as certainly as he felt the warmth of the summer day.
Not far from the bailey, a young mare pranced within a fenced enclosure. Leaving the castle gates, Cameron leaned heavily on his walking stick as he made his way toward the enclosure.
Determined to be strong enough to leave in two days’ time, he viewed walking on the stony road that led from the bailey as restorative. Each laborious step brought him closer to his goal. Cameron risked the failure of his mission if he was not on his way to Dublin soon. And he could not fail. His future depended upon success.
In Cameron’s travels through Ireland in the guise of a bard, he had been charged with noting the defenses, the weapons, and the number of fighting men in each village. If by chance he gathered information on Irish battle plans, it would mean a promotion. To this point he had discovered nothing so remarkable - but not for lack of trying.
Periodically, he would be contacted by another spy to whom he would divulge all of the information he had gathered. Cameron never knew his contacts or where he would meet them. Most often he would be approached by a young man disguised as a farmer, monk, or craftsman. The contacts always asked the same question: “What bird flies near?”
Cameron always replied, “The jackdaw.”
The information he gathered would be used by his countrymen to overtake the last stronghold of the Irish, Ulster. With the defeat of Ulster, the English would assume command of the entire Irish isle.
Knowing he had lost precious time due to his injury drove Cameron on. Who knew what information he had missed gathering to the north while confined to his chamber at Dochas? He had learned nothing while an invalid. Time grew short. He must be on his way.
Cameron suffered the pain of determination with each step on the path. Every movement burned as if a searing poker branded his flesh from his thigh to his toes. The physical torture exceeded the mental tension of encountering Barra or one of his men. The churlish band had not yet left the castle. It was clear they cared more for women and mead than they did for fighting.
For the past several days, he had caught little more than a glimpse of the Duchess of Dochas. But this morning, from his window, he had seen Meggie leave the keep. Her two faithful hounds trotting at her heels, she had set out for the fenced enclosure.
He knew Meggie’s habits by distant observation. She rose before he did, before the sun, and retired to her chamber hours after he fell asleep, weary of waiting for her to pass by his chamber. She had teased him on the night he saved her from Barra’s unwelcome advances. Meggie had vowed to sleep with Cameron that night. But exhausted, he had fallen asleep quickly and did not know if she had returned. He thought not. A man would know if Meggie had slipped into his bed, he thought. In all likelihood.
Absorbed in her task, the duchess did not hear Cameron approach. She stood within the fence, crooning to the dappled gray mare as if the horse understood.
The loosely laced crimson gown Meggie wore slapped about her ankles, stirred by the soft summer breeze. A white linen kercher covered the top of her head. Glinting gold in the sunlight, her burnished hair fell in one thick plait down her back. She wore an expression of pure rapture. Evoked by a horse?
Unreasonable irritation pricked at Cameron like a shower of needles against his bare flesh.
When her wolfhounds barked, Meggie looked his way and flashed a brilliant smile. The warmth of her smile banished the needles and gave renewed vigor to his throbbing leg.
Cameron reached the enclosure slightly out of breath, but unwilling for Meggie to know. She would force him back to bed once more. Leaning against the fence rail, he greeted her with his own smile. “Good day, Mistress Meggie.”
“Ye are looking fit this morning,” she said, leaving the mare and strolling to the fence.
“I owe my recovery to your nursing skills.”
Her smile grew wider. “’Twas the least I could do under the circumstances.”
He chuckled despite himself, expecting that was the closest he would ever hear to an apology from the stubborn lass. “Ye have a fine looking mare there,” he called.
“Aye.” She looked over her shoulder at the horse now grazing peacefully. “While I must tend the fields, the growing of the corn and praties, this is what I love ... raising the horses.”
“The Irish produce the finest horses in the world.”
“Aye.”
If this mare was an example of Meggie Fitzgerald’s horse-breeding skills, she knew her business. However, it wasn’t women s work and he said so. “Ye know, Meggie, some would say that it’s not a woman’s place to be breedin’ and trainin’ horses.”
Her chin rose defiantly. “It is for any who love the horses the way that I do.”