Seducing the Spy (31 page)

Meggie sank down to his side. For a long while, she watched the construction in silence, wishing things could have been different. Cameron should be here with them to see the results of his plan.

“Grandfather, I saw the bard in Dublin,” she said at last.

“Aye?”

“I saw him at the ball. His ... His name is Cameron, and he’s the son of a Scottish duke.”

Her grandfather rubbed the wart on his nose. “Good Celtic blood,” he declared.

“He believes I betrayed him to Niall.”

“Ach! Did ye not explain?”

“I tried ... but I was angry…”

Tears again! Merciful Mary’.
She had not cried for years, and now it seemed she could not stop. She never knew when to expect them. They fell with no warning.

Her grandfather’s wisp of white brows gathered into a frown. His eyes lost their luster as he studied her. “Ye’ve lost your heart to the bard.”

“I ... I fear ... I have.” Meggie could see no reason for pretense with her dear, mostly witless grandfather. By the morrow he would not recall anything she might reveal.

He placed one gloved hand over hers. “He’ll be comin’ for ye someday.”

Meggie dared not hold that hope. To believe that someday Cameron would come for her, and risk intolerable disappointment when he did not, would be more than she could bear. “I don’t think he will.”

“When this land is free of strife and ours once more, the bard will return,” her grandfather insisted.

When werewolves fly with the wee people.

Meggie sucked in a ragged breath and squeezed her grandfather’s hand. She appreciated the old, addled man’s attempt to cheer her.

“Cameron is in Scotland by now” she told him. Talking to the sweet soul was much like talking to herself. “If... if his ship made it across the sea.”

In order to return to his homeland, Cameron would have had to cross the Irish Sea. The sea where her mother and sister drowned. Since that horrid tragedy, Meggie’s fear prevented her from even thinking of boarding a ship. In her mind, a sea voyage bode disaster. The closest she came to water was when she bathed in the river.

“The ships go both ways, ye know. East and west. Ye might consider sailin’ on one yerself,” her grandfather added, obviously forgetting her fear.

“Nay. I never could. I shall never sail.”

“Mayhap one day ye’ll change your mind. In me years, I’ve seen it proved that a lass in love can do what she never thought possible.”

“Grandmother?”

“Ye wouldn’t believe how many warned her against marryin’ the likes of me.”

Meggie brushed his soft bearded cheek with a kiss. He had caused her to smile for the first time in days.

“Just look at the new stable,” he said, stroking the spot where she had kissed him with the back of his gloved fingers. “’Tis sturdy and safe from most fires thanks to the ... Cameron.”

“Aye,” she agreed, though she could not take joy in the stable. The foal had been sold, and the bard for whom he was named would never see the building.

Knowing she would soon dissolve in tears if she kept to this track of thinking, Meggie turned to her grandfather with new resolve. “Ye’ll be catching your death sitting in this wind. Come inside with me now.”

He shook his head. “In a wee while.”

During the short time she was away in Dublin, the old man had taken to leaning on a staff. His legs trembled as he walked. Was it overnight that his body had grown as feeble as his mind? When his mind
was
feeble. He spoke with heartening clarity today.

He shifted his body toward Meggie, but his eyes locked on something over her shoulder. A fey smile curved his dried lips.

“What is it, Grandfather?”

He turned his head. “Look.”

Fearing he might be seeing things, Meggie nonetheless followed his gaze. A lone rider approached through the gate with a chestnut mare and foal tied behind his steed.

Her foal! Meggie sprang to her feet.

The Bard had returned.

The smile on her grandfather’s face widened.

Rooted to the spot, Meggie watched in wonder as the rider led Sorcha and the Bard toward the stable area.

What mistake was this? The mare and foal had been sold for a goodly sum. Meggie’s father had boasted that he had never received more for a foal and mare before.

She rushed to where the rider halted and watched impatiently as he dismounted.

“Good day, mistress.” The young Irish boy pushed back the hood of his mantle.

“Good day to you,” she replied. “Why do you bring these horses? We sold the same foal and mare in Dublin just days ago.”

“They are gifts for Mistress Meggie Fitzgerald.”

“Gifts?” Certainly she hadn’t heard the boy correctly.

“Aye. If ye are Mistress Fitzgerald, I must say to you that whoever ye sold them to is givin’ these  back to ye.”

“Are you certain this is not a mistake?”

“Aye.” The lad smiled broadly and dipped his head. “Me name is Tad. An’ I’m carryin’ a message for ye as well.”

Meggie’s mind whirled in dizzying confusion, as if she had sipped a wee bit too much mead. “What message to you have for me?”

The boy handed her a sealed parchment as Meggie’s grandfather hobbled up beside her. A written message. The parchment burned in her hand. She longed to tear it open but managed to keep her composure.

“Follow me, if you please. Ye shall have food and shelter.”

“I’ll see to the colt and mare,” her grandfather said, taking up the reins. For a moment, Meggie thought she detected a secretive glimmer in his eyes.

“My thanks.”

Meggie found Deirdre in the kitchen. She instructed the girl to feed Tad and see him to a comfortable chamber. Upon meeting the young man, Deirdre’s eyes lit up for the first time in days. With Tad’s welcome assured, Meggie escaped to her chamber where she could read the message in private.

Her hands trembled as she broke the seal.

My Dear Meggie Fitzgerald,

Although we have not yet met, I would like to make myself known to you. My name is Donald Cameron, and I am the Duke of Doneval.

My son Cameron purchased these horses for you, an arrangement he made before we attended Wicklow’s ball. While an old man should not meddle in his son’s affairs, I fear I must. Although he might be angry with me if he learns I have contacted you, Cameron’s happiness is my only concern.

It has become apparent to me that my son is in love with you. Further, I believe circumstances have not been kind to either you or him. If by any chance you should return Cameron s affection, might you find it in your heart to send a message to him?

By month’s end my son will be residing at Doneval Manor, near Stirling just north of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Unable to see through the blur of her tears, Meggie could read no more. The Duke of Doneval himself had written to her.

He claimed Cameron loved her!

Merciful Mary!

A thousand curses on her foolish, foolish pride.

* * * *

On the morning Cameron left Dublin, he had stood on deck watching until he could no longer see the shores of the city. Long after the lush green isle disappeared and nothing but the wide, white-capped waters surrounded the ship, he stayed. It had been a painful crossing. Each hour he slipped farther away from Meggie.

Feeling as if he had spent too long a time from home, the duke chose not to linger in England after their ship docked in Southampton. Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, his father had taken advantage of several social invitations to make Cameron known to all as his son. And then, after less than a week of rest on solid earth, they began the journey north to Doneval Manor in the duke’s own coach. ’Twas a journey of discovery for Cameron.

Meggie traveled with him, for she was constantly on his mind. He stared from the window, appearing to contemplate the passing scenery. But it was the smiling face and sparkling eyes of the Irish lass he saw before him.

When the duke’s coach pulled into the long, winding drive of what obviously was a magnificent country estate, Cameron felt relieved to have his mind distracted from red-gold curls and blushing cheeks.

“Did I mention we had stops to make?” the duke asked.

“Nay.”

“Weel na, this is Rose Hall, the home of your sister Kate and her husband, Edmund Wydville, Earl of Stamford.”

It seemed only a matter of moments after their coach had pulled up before the massive estate that his amber-eyed sister greeted Cameron with unabashed joy and a welcoming embrace. “My brother! My only brother!”

“You must be Kate,” he replied in a droll aside.

“Look, Edmund! Look at how handsome my brother is,” she crowed to her husband.

After being raised with five females, to actually have only one blood sister proved bracing to Cameron. From the moment they met, his honey-haired sister showed an indomitable spirit and pleasing intelligence. Her husband plainly adored the beauty.

Before he knew it, Cameron had joined Kate on the floor to play with her twins.

“You have a way with babes,” she told him.

He forced a smile. If only he and Meggie might marry.

Baby fingers pulling at his ear drew his mind back to the twins and his attention to where it belonged.

Later, the family gathered for the last meal of the day in the small, intimate dining chamber of Rose Hall.

When finished with his venison, the duke leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps ye can help your brother, ye being a woman.”

Cameron frowned. What was this?

Kate straightened, eyes alight and eager. “ ‘Twould be my pleasure. How may I help, Cameron?”

He shot a warning glance at his father before giving a shrug and shaking his head. “I know not.”

“Weel na, dinna be bashful. ’Tis family gathered.”

“It’s of no consequence, Father.”

“Your brother’s lost his heart but must win the lass’s.”

“Father.” Cameron ground the word between his teeth. The duke had never embarrassed him before.

Kate looked from one to the other in puzzlement.

Edmund, her husband, lifted a goblet of ale.

Donald Cameron ignored his son’s warning. “Can you tell us, Kate, what might be the best way to a woman’s heart?”

“Ah, now this is something I know.” She threw them both a bit of a superior, but still dazzling smile. “Sweet words. Words from the heart.”

Cameron scowled. This was worse than he feared. “Words like a poet would use?”

“Aye.”

“Jewels will not do?” he asked.

“Nay. You shall win your lady forever with sweet words.”

He heaved a put-upon sigh. “Would you recommend the words of Shakespeare?”

“No, no, dear brother. You must use your own words.”

The devil.
He had feared she was going to say that.

After three mostly festive days with his newly found sister and her family, Cameron and his father set forth once more on the road north. They next stopped at Buckthorn Inn to spend time with the man and woman Cameron had known most of his life as his mother and father.

While he assured George and Bess Thatcher of his continued love and devotion, he teased the sisters who had tormented his youth.

“You may address me, each and every one of you, as the Marquis of Doneval.”

The girls laughed. As did Cameron, to his surprise. A few short weeks ago, he thought he would never laugh again. If he could never think of Meggie again, he might recover.

As Cameron and his father pulled away from the inn following their visit, Donald settled back in his seat and grinned. “Weel na, I’m a fortunate fellow to have a growing family at my age.”

In a most generous gesture, the duke had invited all of the Thatchers to spend the upcoming holidays at Doneval Manor.

“I feel fortunate as well,” Cameron said. He had been blessed with all a man could wish for, save the love of his life.

They made one more stop on the long journey home, and that was at Downes Castle, south of Moffat. Although the ancient structure was in the midst of being restored, Sally Pickering still lived there.

Cameron visited his mother’s grave, and when he returned to the castle, Sally presented him with a small likeness of Anne painted by a passing limner. A knot the size of Scotland lodged in Cameron’s throat as he gazed at the picture of the woman who had given him life. The artist had captured a fragile quality, a wistful smile. While he favored their father, his sister Kate’s eyes resembled their mother’s. He had inherited Anne’s high forehead.

“My thanks, Sally. I shall treasure this always.”

The old woman smiled and closed her eyes as if she had found peace in his words.

Almost a month after leaving Dublin, Cameron and the duke at last arrived at Doneval Manor. Awestruck, Cameron could not explore quickly enough. The duke’s country estate boasted acres of fields where large herds of Highland cattle and smaller flocks of sheep roamed freely. The manor itself boasted almost as many rooms as a castle, and most were tastefully appointed.

The duke gave Cameron the east wing of the estate to call his own. In hopes of distracting his aching heart, Cameron flung himself into a flurry of activity, reorganizing the wing to suit his taste. He added furnishings and ordered a harp. Meggie loved to play her harp. Perhaps he might learn to play it one day.

Contrary to his hopes, the work did nothing to stave off his thoughts of Meggie. Each night, and frequently during the day as well, Cameron dreamed of his duchess.

There were few estates within a day’s riding distance, and even fewer women living within their gates. But Cameron was thankful his social obligations were few. In the evenings, he retired early to his chamber. He wrote by candlelight, earnestly seeking his muse. Or for that matter, anyone’s muse.

* * * *

Meggie and her grandfather led the mare and her foal into their new stalls in the stable. A sharp chill seeped through the stone walls, but the fresh hay smelled of a summer’s day.

Spreading a blanket over the colt’s back, she said, “I think the Bard shall be happy here, Grandfather.”

“Aye, lass. Aye.”

Bussing a kiss on the foal’s forehead blaze, Meggie reluctantly left the stall. Beside her, Grandfather Fitzgerald leaned on his walking stick. She slowed her steps to accommodate his faltering pace as they made their way to the stable door. As she reached for the door, it swung open. Her father stood on the threshold of the bard’s stable. Humphrey Fitzgerald did not look like the sort of father who might have bounced his baby daughter on his knee. To Meggie’s knowledge, he never had. Her father’s formidable stature and mane of flowing hair gave him a kinglike appearance. But instead of a flowing train of royal velvet robes, his goatskin mantle trailed behind him.