Seducing the Spy (9 page)

“What is it?”

“Niall has arrived. Niall O’Donnell.”

“Who is he?”

Lowering her eyes, she hesitated for a moment. “He ... Niall is a friend of my father’s. I must go and greet him.”

“I would not keep you,” Cameron responded with a gallantry he did not feel.

Instead of Meggie’s usual bustling stride, that of a harried goodwife, her gait was decidedly sedate as she left him. Oddly, he felt the emptiness of the space beside him that she had occupied; the lavender scent of her still lingered.

Curious, as it was his duty to be as a spy for the queen on foreign soil, Cameron watched closely as the man Meggie called Niall met her halfway across the hall. By the width of his grin and the glow in his eye, Niall O’Donnell was more pleased to see Meggie than she appeared to be to see him. O’Donnell did not seem to see anyone in the great hall except Meggie.

Of medium height and of sturdy build, the bearded fellow wore a black patch over his right eye. A sheet of straight, ink black hair fell to his shoulders and down his forehead, stopping in a choppy fringe just short of his eyes. So this was Niall O’Donnell.

Cameron recalled Meggie’s grandfather had spoken of the man, claiming O’Donnell was a suitor to his granddaughter. But Gerald believed the man was more interested in Dochas than in his granddaughter. Still, knowing Gerald Fitzgerald’s fickle mind played tricks upon him, Cameron did not fully trust the old man’s observations.

Engrossed in his study of O’Donnell, who certainly appeared besotted with Meggie, Cameron did not notice Deirdre until the young lass stopped at his side.

“Would ye care for a bit of whiskey?” she asked.

The girl held a tankard out to him. He did not care to drink whiskey, especially a tankard full, but no true Irishman would turn down such an offer. Cameron’s success - his very survival - depended on keeping his wits about him at all times. Yet, he dared not appear different from the other men. Now that he was close to fully recovered, he would be expected to drink. Most Irishmen would have taken up their mead again long before.

With a curt nod, Cameron took the tankard. “My thanks to ye.”

“Meggie thought ye might have supper.”

“Did she now?”

Deirdre bobbed her head.

His dealings with Deirdre had been brief. A shy lass, small in stature, she never looked a body in the eye. Bright rounds of crimson appeared painted on her cheeks in contrast to her fair complexion. She wore a cap of white linen folds over the thick, midnight waves that fell to her shoulders. Over her chemise, Deirdre wore a simple pink gown with hanging sleeves.

“Has the old man partaken?” Cameron asked, thinking to share his meal with Fitzgerald.

“Aye, he’s joined the musicians to play his whistle.”

Cameron followed her gaze to where the musicians were grouped. Gerald Fitzgerald’s body swayed, and one foot tapped to the music he played. He might not know where he was playing, but he appeared to be having a rousing good time.

“Would ye like a bit of mutton stew?” the young lass asked.

“Nay, later perhaps.” Cameron regarded the girl, who bit down on her lip, obviously unhappy with his answer. “You hold the mistress of Dochas in high regard, do you not?” he asked.

“Aye,” she replied, in tones barely audible. “And she bade me make certain you had supper.”

“I shall... in time. Your loyalty to your mistress is quite admirable.”

“Mistress Meggie took me in when I had no one. Me parents were killed fleeing the English.”

Although not responsible for the girl’s loss, Cameron experienced a stab of remorse. The perpetually blushing Irish lass was an innocent, victimized by a struggle for land between two nations. If the Irish could only realize how much better off their lives would be under British rule, the killing and suffering would end. Still, his heart went out to the girl.

At the start of this mission, Cameron had been warned to bury his natural, rather passionate nature. He understood it was folly to allow himself to feel sympathy for the enemy, to feel any emotions at all. A spy could not afford a show of feelings. Cameron could only pretend to be affected, while remaining indifferent.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Mistress ... Meggie, she likes me to call her Meggie,” the gray-eyed girl explained apologetically. “She owns a kind heart, and I have learned much from her.”

Deirdre’s gaze fell from Cameron’s eyes to his tankard. “Is something amiss with the whiskey?”

“Nay.” He gulped a hearty portion to demonstrate. And immediately cursed himself. His throat burned. His stomach knotted in a fiery ball. And his eyes watered.
’Tis the devil’s brew!

Deirdre missed nothing. The soft-spoken girl lowered her head to hide her smile.

Did she understand she was the instrument of torture?

Highly unlikely. “Do you like living at Dochas?” he asked. His voice had taken on a raspy quality.

Her dark brows squiggled into a frown.

Cameron asked a great many questions of everyone he met. A man in his position could never collect enough information. Often even the mundane questions resulted in valuable knowledge. “I mean, do ye live without fear? Are ye well protected from the English?”

Deirdre drew in a breath of comprehension. “Oh, aye. Dochas is equipped to keep the English at bay and diminish their ranks as well. You need not fear, Bard. We can well defend the castle. Besides, Barra and his men patrol the area at all times.”

Except when they were eating and drinking and sleeping with the women of Dochas. Cameron thought to ask Deirdre exactly what defenses the castle possessed, but doubted the retiring lass had such information. He resolved to investigate himself first thing on the morrow.

Deirdre’s gaze drifted to his tankard again. He took a tentative swallow. His throat did not close this time. The whiskey, while harsh, did not burn as badly as it had on the first swallow. After having no whiskey, ale, or mead for weeks, Cameron feared it would not take much of the stuff to make his head buzz.

“Who is the fellow with Mistress Meggie?” he asked, turning his attention once again to O’Donnell and Meggie. Her fiery red tresses made the Irish duchess effortless to spot.

Deirdre did not reply directly, obviously searching the hall until she found the couple. “Niall O’Donnell. Is he not... most attractive?”

Cameron did not think O’Donnell attractive, but the girl’s breathless question left no doubt that she did. “Aye,” he agreed.

“Niall will take Meggie as his bride soon.”

“Are they betrothed, then?” he asked. Meggie had told him that O’Donnell was a friend of her father’s. Her grandfather suggested more. It wouldn’t hurt to have a third view.

“In all but deed.” Deirdre gave a wistful sigh.

Meggie had not been forthcoming with Cameron.

“Has O’Donnell not heard redheaded women bode ill fortune?” he asked, disgruntled.

A flash of outrage flickered in the young lass’s eyes but disappeared in the next instant. “Not Mistress Meggie,” Deirdre objected. “She’s different.”

“Aye. An’ that she is,” Cameron agreed with a grin.

“Meggie will not marry Niall until her father returns to Dochas. She wishes her da to see her wed.”

Cameron glanced over at where Meggie stood with Niall. The couple were deep in conversation. What did she see in O’Donnell? he wondered. The man was only average in appearance and minus one good eye.

“If I were Meggie, I would not wait to marry Niall,” the girl said in a soft whisper.

Cameron did not comment. He thought Meggie wise to wait. “Why is O’Donnell not off fighting the English?” he asked before taking a hearty swig of whiskey.

“He lost an eye in battle.”

Cameron felt certain there must be something a one-eyed warrior could do with one of the fighting rebel bands… if he had a mind to.

“Niall owns acres and acres of land to the west,” Deirdre went on. “There is no other Irish farmer as wealthy as Niall O’Donnell.”

The truth struck Cameron’s gut like a blow from a sailor’s fist. O’Donnell was precisely what Meggie had said she wanted, a rich husband. Why, then, had she not approached O’Donnell with more enthusiasm upon his arrival? Cameron gave a begrudging grunt and absent-mindedly took another swallow of the whiskey which now warmed him. Why should it matter to him if Meggie was promised to Niall O’Donnell? He cared not. But he wondered if the one-eyed farmer knew the wild lass passed her time with a loaded musket and jug to substitute for a man’s heart. Did O’Donnell know that she could string a curse longer than any man without once running out of breath? Did the man understand that Meggie possessed a defiance and spirit that no man could tame?

The devil take him!
Cameron hauled the tankard to his lips once again and downed a hearty swallow of the stuff. Why dwell on trouble that would not be his?

Deirdre still gazed at the couple. It was clear to Cameron the young girl fancied Niall O’Donnell. What she and Meggie saw in the man, he certainly could not fathom.

“Who shall ye marry when the time comes, Deirdre?”

She turned back to him, her normal blush deepening to a bright scarlet that spread from her round cheeks to the tip of her upturned nose. “I... I do not know.”

“Ye are a pretty lass. You shall have your pick of the lads,” Cameron assured her.

Her shoulders rose and fell on a heavy sigh. “I fear there are not many young men about Dochas. They are away fighting. Who knows when they shall return, or how many of our lads will come back whole?”

“No one knows,” he admitted. But striving to cheer her, he added, “If I come across any fine young lads in my travels, I shall send them directly to Dochas. And they shall ask for you.”

Deirdre gave him a melancholy smile and then pointed to the pewter tankard he held. “’Tis empty, I’ll fetch ye more whiskey.” Whirling about, she made a hasty escape.

Cameron did not follow her. Instead, he looked across the room. And when he did, his eyes met Meggie’s.

His heart slammed against his chest as the wild Irish beauty’s blue-sky gaze fixed on his. A melting warmth took hold of him, coursed through his lower regions like a rushing river, stirring anew the need in him. Cameron feared the suddenly slowed, roaring beat of his heart might be heard above the din of the great hall. But before it happened, Meggie lowered her eyes and looked away from him.

God’s bones!
Whatever it was that had just transpired between them had been jarring. Cameron regarded his trembling hands. He had never experienced such a jolt or aftermath before. Clearly, the whiskey was to blame.

The music grew louder, the dancers more numerous. Dochas’s expansive great hall reverberated with the sound of laughter and voices raised recounting bawdy, and patently untrue, tales. The smell of roast mutton and mead mingled with the acrid scent of burning torches and potent whiskey on this triumphant eve of Lughnasa revelry.

But Meggie did not feel triumphant at the moment. Niall’s arrival had been an unwanted interruption.

“Come outside, me heart,” he coaxed. His smile held little warmth. The slight curve of his lips barely made a ripple in the flesh showing above his beard. Too long exposed to the elements, Niall’s skin had become thick and coarse, like leather bleached too long in the sun.

“But my guests—”

“They will survive without ye for a few moments,” he interrupted. “Take pity on me, Meggie. I have been without you for weeks and yearn for your company alone.”

“Pish! Ye sound as if ye’ve been to the Blarney stone and back!”

Niall did not appear amused by Meggie’s jest. The fire in his eye grew cold. He ran his tongue slowly along his broad lips, wetting them. She shivered.

“It is much too noisy in the hall to talk, and I have longed to be alone with ye,” he said in sterner tones.

“My wolfhounds –”

“Ye can be without them for once.”

“Grandfather may need me,” Meggie objected, looking for any excuse to avoid being alone in his company.

“Nay, only look,” Niall extended his arm. “Gerald plays his whistle while Deirdre and the rest of the women serve.”

Meggie searched out Deirdre and found her filling the bard’s tankard. Whenever Colm’s eyes locked on Meggie’s, as they had just moments ago, she felt an alarming, skittish sensation deep within. It was as if only the two of them existed, although surrounded by more than a hundred others. Her heart fluttered like the wee people’s wings, until she forced herself to look away and broke whatever spell he had cast.

But as Meggie watched Deirdre and Colm, she wondered. She wondered if the bard was attracted to the shy young lass.

“Meggie, come,” Niall ordered.

Without waiting further argument, he took hold of Meggie’s arm and steered her from the hall and out into the keep. In a hasty, parting glance, she saw the poet hoist his tankard. Colm should not be drinking whiskey so soon after his ... accident.

She dug in her heels. She must return and rescue the bard from himself. “Nay, Niall, I must not leave the hall.”

“We shall be gone only a moment,” he insisted.

With a firm stride, Niall guided Meggie to a low stone wall near to the wash house. A full moon and thousands of stars cast the only light. The chill in the summer eve air caused goose bumps to rise on her bare arms. Niall wore a mantle; she did not. Meggie expected he would offer it, but he appeared unaware of her chill.

After the din of the hall, the night seemed oddly quiet, save for the sounds of nocturnal creatures and the soft lowing of cattle in the distance.

Meggie looked about her with pride. Dochas had grown from a humble beginning as a round tower house and spread into narrow corridors and spacious, high-ceilinged chambers clustered in wings to the east and west, north and sound. With all its hard angles and unlikely projections, it was not a stately mansion like those built within the protective walls of Dublin. Dochas served as a fortress as well as a home. Stores were filled with, among other necessities, chain mail, spears and pikes, dirks and broadswords.

The expansive keep held a dairy house, a wash house, a brew house, and a turf house. Workshops, a forge, the stable, and kennels shared space with the thatched roof homes of the residents.