Seducing the Spy (21 page)

But when Cameron stepped out of the drying cottage and into the night, he encountered fire of another sort. One the light rain could not put out.

The stable was on fire! Fire was a constant hazard but not one he wished to combat this eve. The blaze, which was not yet full-blown, might have been started by the lightning or even sparks from the wall torch. Intent on saving the stable, Cameron sprung into action.

“Fire!” he shouted, making his way to the well. “Fire!”

The blacksmith heard his cries first and came running.

Cameron barked his orders. “Send for help. Bring jugs, pots, pails - whatever will hold water.”

As the blacksmith made haste toward the castle, Cameron ran to the stable. If Meggie lost her foal to fire, she would be devastated.

He raced through thick smoke toward the foal’s stall. The young colt and its mother whinnied and pranced, each edging toward the far wall to be near the open window. After a hurried search, Cameron located rope. By tying a knot, he made a loose collar and went for the frightened foal. After encountering much prancing, rearing, and snorting, he was finally able to loop the rope around the colt’s neck. The mare reared up and when her hooves came down, they narrowly missed him. He pulled at the rope. The terrified colt wouldn’t budge.

Tense and frustrated, Cameron attempted to soothe the reluctant animal. “Come, boy, come.”

To no avail. And then through choking smoke and leaping flames, Cameron smelled a whiff of sweet lavender and woman.

“I’ll take Bard!” Meggie cried, tearing the rope from his hand. “You take Sorcha.”

“Get out, Meggie!”

“We’ll leave together,” she shouted.

“A cloth. A rag. We need something to tie around their eyes.”

Meggie dipped down and twice ripped the hem of her chemise. “Take this!” She shoved a torn piece of linen into his hand.

“Now go save the foal!”

She doubled over in a fit of coughing.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye.” Nodding, she rapidly blinked her tearing eyes.

“Then, go ... before the foal is hurt.” It was the only thing Cameron could think to say that would move and save the stubborn Irish lass.

The stable boy along with several of the other men had run into the stable. Some threw water on the fire; others set to rescuing the remaining horses. Of the twelve stalls, all but one held fine Irish steeds.

Struggling to still the mare long enough to wrap her eyes, Cameron was knocked to the ground. Spurred by a searing pain in his chest and a harsh cough, he pushed himself to his feet and looped another rope around her neck. Refusing to accept defeat, he pulled Sorcha from the stable, using every ounce of strength he possessed.

Still holding the foal’s rope, Meggie stood outside the stable. In the midst of the mayhem, she was doubled over, coughing so hard it shook her body. Cameron took the foal’s rope and handed it over along with the mare’s to Gerald Fitzgerald. The old man stood watching, rubbing the wart on his nose and shaking his head.

Wrapping an arm around Meggie, Cameron guided her toward the castle. They were caught in a fresh torrent of rain, one heavy enough to douse the fire.

“We shall build a new and better stable on the morrow,” she declared, before taking a new fit of coughing.

Cameron hoisted Meggie into his arms and carried her into the castle and to her chamber. Her breathing was heavy as he gently laid her down on the bed.

“I feel... feel as if the mare is sitting on my chest,” she rasped before giving in to another bout of coughing.

“Rest easy, all of the horses were saved.”

She nodded weakly.

He could not leave her like this.

“Will ye dry my hair?” she asked.

“Aye.” She who never asked for help had asked.

After calling for warm water, Cameron sat on the edge of Meggie’s bed. Never in his life had he imagined that taking care of a woman would give him a feeling of contentment, a feeling of importance. Dipping a soft rag in warm lavender water, he bathed the traces of the fire away. He gently wiped the soot from Meggie’s blushing cheeks, her near regal cheekbones, and sweet, saucy freckles.

Cameron took extra care, fearing his male clumsiness might seize him. He stroked the Irish beauty’s silky complexion from her smooth, ivory forehead to her impertinent chin. And when his rag reached her mouth, he experienced an overwhelming urge to run his tongue along the cherry fullness of her lips. If he could kiss away the smudges there, he would be a happy man. Instead, he fixed on subduing the burgeoning warmth in his loins and dabbed at the residue. Meggie’s lips parted in a soft, moist smile.

His heart careened against his chest. Quickly turning away, he took a steadying breath before picking up her brush and in long strokes brushing ash from Meggie’s hair.

When Cameron could think of no more to do to make her comfortable, he allowed himself a kiss. His lips quickly grazed the top her nose.

He wanted to kiss much more of her. Every inch of her. Again.

“I shall leave you to rest now,” he said, standing.

She looked up at him, a heart-rending smile upon her lips, lips still swollen from his kisses. “My thanks to you. If you had not acted quickly, the foal would have died, and the others as well.”

“Do not fashion me into a hero, Meggie.”

“But ye are.”

“Nay. I only wish I had something to give you.”

“You shall give me a poem one day.”

“Nay, Meggie, there is no poetry in my soul—

“Aye, if only ye knew it. Poetry sings in the tips of your fingers, from your lips.”

Cameron lowered his head. The golden ring he had worn ever since he could remember gleamed on his finger.

Meggie watched silently as he twisted the band to and fro until he could remove it.

Placing her left hand in his, Cameron slipped the ring onto the raspy duchess’s third finger. “It’s too large for ye,” he said with a puff of disappointment. “But my ring is all I have to give ye.”

“’Tis a beautiful band.” She spoke in hushed tones, regarding the simple rose-and-crown ring with a reverence most women reserved for diamonds and rubies. “Is it an heirloom?”

“Aye. My mother gave it to me. But that’s another story for another time,” he added hastily.

“I shall cherish your ring, Bard, but...” She paused and raised her luminous eyes to his. “But you are wrong. There is something else you have to give, more precious than gold.”

His love. She wanted his love.

The devil.

Chapter Twelve

Colm raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Standing above her bed, he appeared as tall as the tower house and, sadly, just as impenetrable.

“I know not what ye speak of, Meggie. Aye, but I have never been able to understand a woman.” He paused, waiting until the cough that scraped her chest passed. “I’m thinking the good Lord meant it that way. Certainly, if men and women possessed a true understanding of each other, ’twould be frightening.”

But he did understand what she meant. Meggie felt it, knew it as well as she knew the flecks of gold softly glittering in his eyes. Clearly, he was not ready to give her his heart. But she sensed he wavered. He cared for her. She hadn’t imagined the grand passion that they had shared. Given a few more days and several nights of loving, Meggie felt certain she could persuade the bard to cease resisting his feelings. Once he did, it would only be a matter of time before he realized the advantages of making his home at Dochas. Colm was an intelligent man, after all. His sharp wit was one of the reasons she had come to admire him.

If all else failed, she could always hold him manacled in the tower house as her love slave. Ah, but she had little time to dream. She must act at once to put his mind at ease. If he suspected Meggie wished to marry him, the lusty poet might balk. If she wasn’t mistaken, Colm would be happier believing that love, marriage and life at Dochas was his decision.

Meggie lowered her eyes, twisted a curl that fell over her shoulder. “Colm, I would not have ye believe that because we made love that I have ... have feelings that demand ye ... ye remain with me,” she said in a faint, scratchy voice.

“But I have taken your –”

“Ye must forgive my curiosity,” she interrupted. “For I have long been curious as to what happens between a man and a woman in private. This eve I allowed my curiosity full rein. I hope I have not caused you undue distress.”

A flicker of surprise lit his eyes, followed by a deep, disapproving frown. “Meggie, if your grandfather and father knew what passed between us…” his voice trailed off in a sigh.

Raising her gaze to his, she spoke quietly, beseeching but not begging. “I would think kindly of ye, Bard, if ye never mention to another soul what happened between us.”

Colm’s frown grew deeper still, his eyes darker. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight from his bad leg. “Aye. You, you need not fret. But—”

Meggie lifted wide eyes to his. “Aye?”

“I am a man of honor. I would not... I did not... I did not know ye were ...” His stumbling explanation trailed off into silence once again. Closing his eyes for a moment, he drew a deep breath and began anew. “Nay, I did not consider that ye had never known a man before.”

Warming at the memory of the moment she became a woman, the wondrous moment that she became his, Meggie smiled. “Ye were the first.”

And last.

Grimacing, he rubbed his forehead. Rapidly. “A thousand pardons, I should have known. I am not altogether witless.”

“Mine is a happy heart.” She gave him her sweetest, most saintly smile. “Do not vex yourself.”

“I would not have hurt ye for the world, Meggie. I respect you. I, I --”

 Meggie cut him off, unable to allow the distraught bard to torture himself any longer. “I understand, Colm. Please believe me when I say that ye have not hurt me. You have answered all of my questions this eve, and more. Quite to my liking. I am at peace knowing at last exactly what happens between a man and a woman.”

“But... But it is not always the way it was between us.”

She smiled. “Ye have made me a happy woman, and I cannot ask more of ye than that.”

He shook his head, as if the slight action might clear an apparently perplexed mind.

“I must rest my throat now, and my eyes.” Meggie’s eyes stung, watering as if she were still in the burning stable. She attempted to blink the pain away as Colm turned from her.

Only one candle burned, and that by her bedside. Her downcast lover busied himself, rolling out the pallet in the dim light. Seamus and Bernadette slept on the other side of Meggie’s bed, ignoring Colm’s presence. The man and the beasts had come far in recent weeks, from instant umbrage to silent tolerance.

Colm lay on his side. He braced himself on one elbow, propping his head with his hand. “I shall sleep here this eve in case you should need me.”

“My thanks.” She smiled. She would always need him but not quite in the way that he meant.

’Twas Deirdre’s place Colm occupied. If she had been at Dochas, the impulsive girl would have spent the night with Meggie. But the morning after being attacked by Thomas, Deirdre had asked to leave, pleading to make a visit to her friend who kept house for Ballymore’s only priest. Meggie expected Deirdre to remain in the village until the English left Dochas.

Owing to her youth, her fearful state and the intrusion of the randy English, Meggie thought it wise. She had sent Deirdre on her way under the protection of two old shepherds.

Meggie had found her own protector in Colm. On this eve he had made love to her until her body hummed. Music her own harp would envy played in Meggie’s heart. The brave poet had fought and extinguished a raging fire. He had carried her to her bedchamber as if she weighed no more than one of the wispy wee people.

She did not for a moment doubt Colm’s ability to chase off a wicked pooka, ward off werewolves and save her from evil curses.

His gaze pierced the near darkness as he studied her, his eyes reflecting his concern. He reminded Meggie of a gardener regarding his finest rose, fearing the flower might wilt at any moment, watching and waiting in mounting agony for its head to drop off! In this instance, hers.

On the chance that this was the hour that wishes came true, Meggie wished for Colm to be lying beside her. Impossible, considering that he had pulled cushions from every chamber to ensure that she slept in an upright position. No room remained on her bed. Prevailing theory taught that by remaining erect, any smoke inhaled would exit the chest. Meggie would sleep this eve in a sitting position, a far more favorable cure than resting with a dead pigeon over her lungs, as was another widely accepted remedy.

“Would you like another cushion?” Colm asked.

“Nay, I am fine. There is barely enough room left for me on my bed. But ye make a fine nurse,” she hastened to add in the strained, raspy voice she had acquired since the fire.

“I learned from you,” he said, with a sheepish grin.

As much as she longed to feel his arms around her and to make love through the night, Meggie’s lungs burned. Her throat felt so raw that when she coughed, she feared it would tear and bleed.

But her soul whistled a merry tune. Her mind skipped like a child’s in lighthearted delight. Feelings she had never experienced previously and could only attribute to making love with Colm overwhelmed her. Feelings that prevailed despite the fire in the stable.

Fires were common and this eve they had had the good fortune to save all of the horses. But Meggie’s body had never before smoldered with its own fire and smoke. She held the achy, edgy feeling to her, unwilling to let it go.

“And I have learned from you, Colm. You and I each possess skills to share,” she assured him in a strained whisper. “We can learn from one another.”

“Aye? My muse has not yet returned. What could you possibly learn from me?”

“I could learn how to please you in—”

Bolting upright, Colm interrupted Meggie. “Ye should not be dwelling upon—”

“I cannot help but remember. I do not wish to forget.” She shot him a teasing smile before lowering her head. His mouth had fallen open.