Seducing the Spy (29 page)

The biting cold stung Cameron’s cheeks and the tip of his nose as he hurried up the stairs at the side of Donald Cameron. Cameron doubted that the sun could have shed more light on the dancers than the multitude of candles and flares within the castle. A crush of bodies, sparkling with jewels, warmed the great hall and ballroom.

Despite the duke’s reassurances, Cameron felt the fop in his padded, ebony velvet doublet and black-and-gold brocade breeches. As an innkeeper’s boy and a military man, fashion held no interest for him. Although he might be ridiculed for saying as much, Cameron preferred wearing a loose Irish tunic and long, warm mantle as he had been used to of late.

But now, as a member of Scotland’s peerage, he must present a well turned out figure to the world. The standing lace collar that chafed the back of his neck, however, begged to be ripped away. He considered his polished, thigh-high leather boots the most tolerable part of his costume. They were also regarded as quite dashing. At least, according to the duke’s valet, who had been charged with outfitting Cameron.

In contrast, his father, long used to ostentatious costume, appeared quite comfortable in his elegant attire. Bedecked in fine satin and velvet, with girdle of gold, Donald Cameron beamed with pride as they were introduced.

The Duke of Doneval. The Marquis of Doneval.

Determined to make up for whatever lost time he could with his natural father, Cameron lingered at Donald’s side. Almost from the start, he had discovered that pleasing the duke gave him a great deal of pleasure. His father’s happiness was well worth whatever boring hours he must spend at this eve’s ball.

The dancing had begun. English musicians provided the music for the galliard, the queen’s favorite. Attempting to feign interest, Cameron scanned the ballroom and the adjacent hall where long tables sagged beneath the weight of food and drink. They might as well have been in London. He suspected there was little difference. Fair-skinned English beauties abounded in the glittering hall, and many looked his way.

Noticing his father’s foot tapping in time with the music, Cameron asked, “Will you dance this eve, Father?”

“We would be thought ungrateful guests if we dinna dance with the ladies. Weel na, just look. The lass with the blond curls in the green dress has her eyes on ye.”

Cameron had seen the look in her eye before. The ladies who stopped with their retinue to pass the night at Buckthorn Inn had batted their lashes and smiled just so. He recognized a frank invitation to more than a dance.

“I think I should enjoy an ale before dancing,” he said, uninterested in whatever the lady might offer. “May I bring you one?”

“Aye. An’ there’s another lass who appears eager to make your acquaintance. ’Tis Margaret, Lady Mary’s daughter. We’ve met. The lass knows a bit about butterflies.”

Margaret’s fair complexion and light brown hair gave her a fragile appearance. She had not Maggie’s spark or glowing cheeks. But then, who had? Cameron’s gaze drifted over the women who either fanned themselves on the bench or ringed the floor in gossiping groups.

He saw no woman here who could compare with Meggie in spirit or beauty. The duchess was one of a kind. Despite the merry music and frivolity surrounding him, Cameron’s mood grew melancholy as it always did when he thought of Meggie. If he lived to be centuries old, he would never find another woman quite like her.

Margaret’s eyes appeared glazed as she stood stiffly regarding the sea of dancers. Cameron felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Perhaps one dance would satisfy both her needs and his father’s desire to see him make overtures with a lady.

“Before the ale, I shall dance with Margaret,” Cameron declared. “Will you introduce us?”

The duke grinned.

* * * *

Meggie, her father, and Hugh O’Neill were not introduced as they entered the great hall for the English ball, although Wicklow did greet them belatedly and then disappeared.

“Sit here, me Meggie “ her father said. “I shall bring me brave lass an ale.”

Indeed, she might need one. Nay, several. Meggie continued to stand at the edge of the dance floor as her father and Hugh made for the chamber holding refreshments.

The opulence of the ballroom and dancers both fascinated and repelled her. Not far from Dublin Castle, there were men, women and children wearing naught but rags and starving. She felt no joy as she observed the English gathered here, only a simmering rage.

Her father and O’Neill had not been gone long when a young Englishman approached Meggie.

Proffering a stilted bow, he smiled politely. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Will Smythe.”

Meggie dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Would you be so kind as to dance with me?”

“My thanks, but I must first dance with my father.”

Upon hearing her lilting Irish accent, the fellow backed way. His shocked expression gave way to that of a man who had narrowly escaped disaster. “Mayhap another time,” he mumbled.

He could not have recognized Meggie as an Irish maiden, dressed as she was in the height of English fashion. She suspected the gown her father brought her had been another spoil of battle. But she had made it her own by carefully sewing the sprinkling of wee pearls that adorned the pale blue silk. A high lace collar rose from the back of the gown to almost the top of her head. The same delicate lace trimmed the cuffs of long, full sleeves. Although a full intake of air was severely hampered by the tight bodice, the gown’s low, square neckline pushed her small breasts upward, giving Meggie the appearance of possessing ample cleavage. The single element of her gown that she appreciated. She certainly did not enjoy the cumbersome wheel farthingale.

In keeping with the English ladies, her fiery hair had been subdued: swept away from her face, dressed over pads, and pinned with the same wee pearls adorning her skirt. Unlike the English ladies, she did not line her eyes with kohl, attempt to fade her freckles with egg whites and rose water, or whiten her skin with ceruse, white lead and vinegar.

Meggie could go only so far.

Her only jewels consisted of her mother’s brooch, a single rope of pearls, and a long gold chain holding the bard’s ring. She could not yet bring herself to remove the ring. Nestled between her breasts, the gold band could not be seen.

She felt a bit of envy as she watched the colorful swirl of dancers. An Irish maiden loved music, loved to dance. Meggie was no exception; ’twas a birthright

Her father returned to her side bearing a goblet of ale. She raised it to her lips at once and took a long, steadying swallow.

Affection gleamed in Humphrey Fitzgerald’s blue eyes as they rested on hers. “Meggie, me love, I expected ye to be dancin’.”

“Da, there’s not an Englishman here who wishes to dance with an Irish woman. And ye can be certain by now ’tis all over the hall to avoid the lass in the blue gown.”

“’Tis their loss,” he declared indignantly. “Witless Englishmen. Joltheads all to be spurnin’ a beautiful lass like me Meggie.”

“Ssssh, Da. Ye can’t be talkin’ that way. We’re guests.”

“We don’t have to be stayin’.”

But the light, lyrical music had worked its way into Meggie’s toes. “Would ye dance with me before we go? Just one dance.”

“Aye, an’ there’s nothin’ that would make me happier.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “Even though I don’t know how to dance.”

She drained the goblet of ale before her father swooped her into his arms. He danced with the vigor, if not the skill, of a young man. Never having danced with her father before, Meggie closed her eyes and savored the moment. She would remember this wondrous dance all of her life.

Time and circumstance had not allowed Meggie and her father to be as close as other fathers and daughters. Never knowing if it would be the last, she always treasured the time she spent with her da. One day he would go off to battle and never return. She knew that as certainly as she knew the sun would rise on the morrow. But tonight... Ah, of their time together, this would be the sweetest memory of all.

Meggie could think of only one other dance partner who could bring her more happiness. Colm. Once again, she closed her eyes, envisioning the would-be poet’s riveting features. Dancing with the bard would be splendid beyond compare.

When the music ended, her father slowed to a stop. Truly smiling for the first time in weeks, Meggie opened her eyes.

And blinked.

Merciful Mary!

The bard himself was standing so close to her she could reach out and touch him. It could not be him. Quite openly and rudely, she stared. It could not be anyone but Colm!

Look around, look around. Look at me. See me.

But he did not turn around. She must be mistaken.

Nay, she could not be. Meggie would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. She blinked again.

’Twas he. ’Twas truly the bard! She was not imagining, no longer dreaming. He had turned to bow to his partner, a mousey-looking English girl.

Look at me! See me!

But he did not. Meggie was rooted to the spot.

“Meggie? Are ye all right?” her father asked. The old bark folds of his face deepened with concern.

“Nay.” She could not take her eyes off the bard.

He had never looked more striking, more compelling. Towering over the other dancers, Colm’s commanding figure drew audible sighs of admiration from the females surrounding him.

Saints be praised!
She could understand their plight.

The bard was looking more glorious than she had ever seen him. He aroused an instant heat within Meggie - and every woman in the ballroom. Her aching heart seemed to take flight, fluttering like a wild thing. Her dead heart lived again!

Dressed in black and gold, Colm resembled a magnificent king of legend, not the wandering poet she had known. A potent masculinity shimmered from his figure, glistened in his dark eyes. His enigmatic smile held Meggie transfixed. And he wasn’t even smiling at her!

If she swooned, could she claim a sudden affliction. Would her father be satisfied with such an explanation?

Her breath came in shallow, lusty gasps. The ale she had so hurriedly swallowed had not emboldened her, else Meggie would have made her presence known at once. She longed to reach out and seize the handsome bard, to shake him, scream at him, throw her arms around him. Anything. Everything. None of which she could do in the middle of the English ballroom, and especially not in front of her father.

“Come, me Meggie, we shall leave this place.” Her father’s voice sounded at once both stern and urgent. “Ye have grown quite pale. Dublin Castle does not agree with ye.”

“I... I should like something to eat first.”

“Ye’ve eaten your weight and more just since we’ve been in Dublin,” he reminded her gently.

“Something sweet. I should like something sweet.”

His blue eyes darkened. “I’ll fetch ye a sweet.”

She threw him a shaky but grateful smile.

“Are ye feelin’ all right?” he asked, obviously reluctant to leave Meggie’s side. “Are ye feelin’ lightheaded?”

“Nay. Go now,” she urged, straining to see in which direction the bard had headed.

“Meggie, I’m hesitatin’ to leave ye alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Da. Go now.” She smiled once more to reassure him.

He did not appear reassured. But after a moment of scowling contemplation, he tramped away.

As soon as her father was out of sight, Meggie summoned her courage and wound her way through the crowded dance floor toward the edge of the ballroom. She came upon the bard suddenly.

His back was to her. The mousey English girl was nowhere to be seen, but Colm was engaged in conversation with an older man. The man stood nearly as tall and possessed the same melting warm brown eyes.

All at once she could not breathe. She did not know what to say, what to do. She only knew she must make her presence known to him – and her anger. Perhaps, her love as well.

Raising a trembling hand, she tapped the poet who knew no rhymes on the shoulder. He did not respond. She tapped with a bit more force.

He looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

The room swirled around Meggie in dizzying circles.

“Meggie!” With a cry of surprise and delight, Colm spun around to her.

She could not mistake the pleasure shining from him.

Could she? Nay! But neither could she trust his emotions. He was like a player upon the stage, an actor.

Awash in heart-pounding turmoil, Meggie dared not trust her own emotions. A consuming desire to wrap her arms around the imposter bard and never let him go warred with the need to cause him a lifetime of suffering for deceiving her.

She could do neither. Her throat too dry to speak, Meggie turned on her heel to run, but with the first step, he snatched her arm.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was deep and low as he steered her toward the rear of the ballroom which was lined with old benches and even older women.

She raised her chin defiantly. “I... I might ask the same.”

Before she realized what he was about, Meggie found herself in the courtyard. A cold courtyard. Several torches, a crescent moon, and a mass of silver stars provided the only light.

She shivered.

He gathered her into his arms.

She shivered again, but this time her body was not reacting to the cold.

Meggie felt the warmth of the bard’s breath on her cheek, inhaled the spicy clove scent as he cradled her. “Why did you betray me?” he asked in a husky whisper. “Why did you betray me to Niall?”

“I did no such thing.” Her shocked, angry denial was lost, muffled against the hard, muscled warmth of his chest.

“He just happened by Dochas right after I...” His voice faded, and he took a ragged breath. He drew her more tightly against him. “Meggie, I did not seek to deceive you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Awash in the pulsating heat and virile scent of him, Meggie struggled against her mounting desire. To kiss him, to taste him, to feel him within her again would be heaven. “Fo ... for a man who never wanted to de... deceive me, ye certainly succeeded.”