pursed, prepared for the next round of verbal jousting.
“I understand,” he said, lifting his gaze to where her freckles danced a merry path across her narrow nose. Unlikely as it seemed, he found the flurry of tiny dark spots against Meggie’s ivory complexion endearing. What some might consider an imperfection, Cameron regarded as a gift that saved the Irish vixen from the blandness of perfection, like a nod from God.
“Ye are a formidable woman,” he agreed, realizing agreeing with Meggie was the only way to end this argument. Silently, he vowed to keep an eye on her as much as possible while he remained at Dochas. She would be under his protection, like it or not. Realize it or not. “And your dogs most fortunate.”
The cowards!
She whirled about, lifting the musket again. Cameron leaned heavily on his walking stick as she took aim.
Carrom! Meggie fired the musket, and the impact immediately knocked her back and down. She landed on her bottom. Smoke billowed from the muzzle as she gave out a squeal of frustration.
Unable to hold back, Cameron chuckled softly as he made his way to the stump of a fallen holly tree. He could not remember the last time he had truly laughed. But to do so now would only stoke the redhead’s already simmering anger.
“Are ye mockin’ me?”
“Not I. Never.”
“Ach! Ye scoundrel! May the devil find ye before ye cross into heaven. May he walk with you into the fire. May snakes burrow in the thatches of your roof and fleas infest the rushes on your floor. May the wee people turn ye to stone and curse ye with a twenty-year itch behind your ear.”
She had left nothing out.
Cameron fully expected to feel an itch behind his ear before long. “I shall rest here until you are ready to return to Dochas,” he said, brushing dried leaves from the tree stump. He clamped down hard on his lip to prevent the escape of even a twitter of the belly laugh he felt building.
“Now!” Meggie pushed herself up and brushed her skirts with vigor, as if furious with the dirt, grass, and clover clinging to the folds of the saffron fabric. “I am ready to return now.”
The duchess ended target practice.
* * * *
Meggie held a candle as she climbed the steps to her bedchamber later that eve. She felt tired through and through. For the past two days Barra’s small band demanded food, mead, whiskey, and music. They told long, contrived stories of their bravery against the English traveling the roads in Westmeath. They made it plain that only featherbeds would do. Barra boasted of the risks they took and the rewards they should rightfully claim. Meggie grew weary of their blarney long before she was able to bid them good eve and escape.
She paused at the threshold of the bard’s chamber. There was nothing so revered in Ireland as a poet, especially one who possessed the magnificent body and fine chiseled features of an immortal as Colm did. Meggie likened him to one of the legendary figures in Irish folklore, half man, half god. But the bard was complete and compelling in every way.
The demands of Barra and his men had forced her to neglect the bard for several days. In her stead, Meggie had dispatched her grandfather to serve as companionship for Colm and Deirdre to carry the compelling poet his meals. The young girl always returned with a glazed look in her eyes and a soft smile upon her lips.
A beeswax candle burned low on the stool beside his featherbed. The bard appeared to sleep soundly. Without a thought to it, Meggie lingered. She listened to the steady beat of Colm’s breathing. She inhaled with him, exhaled with him, in perfect rhythm. He did not snore or make strange noises. A hank of disheveled dark brown hair fell across his forehead. One arm was flung up above his head. Inhale. Exhale. Breathing. Breathing as one. One.
His mouth parted slightly, and the small jagged scar that ran from his lower lip beckoned to her. Here. Let your lips touch mine here.
A fluttering warmth
“I understand,” he said, lifting his gaze to where her freckles danced a merry path across her narrow nose. Unlikely as it seemed, he found the flurry of tiny dark spots against Meggie’s ivory complexion endearing. What some might consider an imperfection, Cameron regarded as a gift that saved the Irish vixen from the blandness of perfection, like a nod from God.
“Ye are a formidable woman,” he agreed, realizing agreeing with Meggie was the only way to end this argument. Silently, he vowed to keep an eye on her as much as possible while he remained at Dochas. She would be under his protection, like it or not. Realize it or not. “And your dogs most fortunate.”
The cowards!
She whirled about, lifting the musket again. Cameron leaned heavily on his walking stick as she took aim.
Carrom! Meggie fired the musket, and the impact immediately knocked her back and down. She landed on her bottom. Smoke billowed from the muzzle as she gave out a squeal of frustration.
Unable to hold back, Cameron chuckled softly as he made his way to the stump of a fallen holly tree. He could not remember the last time he had truly laughed. But to do so now would only stoke the redhead’s already simmering anger.
“Are ye mockin’ me?”
“Not I. Never.”
“Ach! Ye scoundrel! May the devil find ye before ye cross into heaven. May he walk with you into the fire. May snakes burrow in the thatches of your roof and fleas infest the rushes on your floor. May the wee people turn ye to stone and curse ye with a twenty-year itch behind your ear.”
She had left nothing out.
Cameron fully expected to feel an itch behind his ear before long. “I shall rest here until you are ready to return to Dochas,” he said, brushing dried leaves from the tree stump. He clamped down hard on his lip to prevent the escape of even a twitter of the belly laugh he felt building.
“Now!” Meggie pushed herself up and brushed her skirts with vigor, as if furious with the dirt, grass, and clover clinging to the folds of the saffron fabric. “I am ready to return now.”
The duchess ended target practice.
* * * *
Meggie held a candle as she climbed the steps to her bedchamber later that eve. She felt tired through and through. For the past two days Barra’s small band demanded food, mead, whiskey, and music. They told long, contrived stories of their bravery against the English traveling the roads in Westmeath. They made it plain that only featherbeds would do. Barra boasted of the risks they took and the rewards they should rightfully claim. Meggie grew weary of their blarney long before she was able to bid them good eve and escape.
She paused at the threshold of the bard’s chamber. There was nothing so revered in Ireland as a poet, especially one who possessed the magnificent body and fine chiseled features of an immortal as Colm did. Meggie likened him to one of the legendary figures in Irish folklore, half man, half god. But the bard was complete and compelling in every way.
The demands of Barra and his men had forced her to neglect the bard for several days. In her stead, Meggie had dispatched her grandfather to serve as companionship for Colm and Deirdre to carry the compelling poet his meals. The young girl always returned with a glazed look in her eyes and a soft smile upon her lips.
A beeswax candle burned low on the stool beside his featherbed. The bard appeared to sleep soundly. Without a thought to it, Meggie lingered. She listened to the steady beat of Colm’s breathing. She inhaled with him, exhaled with him, in perfect rhythm. He did not snore or make strange noises. A hank of disheveled dark brown hair fell across his forehead. One arm was flung up above his head. Inhale. Exhale. Breathing. Breathing as one. One.
His mouth parted slightly, and the small jagged scar that ran from his lower lip beckoned to her. Here. Let your lips touch mine here.
A fluttering warmth
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