Seducing the Spy by Sandra Madden Page A

floated through her, like a feather on the wind. Resisting the temptation to crawl into the bed beside him, Meggie simply watched as he slept. Her mind took flight. How would it feel to be loved by a poet? In particular the poet with one name, the man called Colm? A man skilled in whispering words of sweet arousal.
    She had thought to swoon when he held her in the valley, demonstrating the correct way to level her musket. But as her body warmed and melted into his, he had stepped away. Meggie thought she might weep. What had put him off from her?
    Ah, ’twas no longer any doubt about it; she was a wicked woman, shameless in every way. But she could not recall ever entertaining such wanton thoughts about a man, nor feeling a need for him. Not even for Declan, a winning lad in every way, but never a full-grown man. Nor Niall.
    Meggie turned away, upset with herself for allowing sinful thoughts to creep into her mind.
    A stumble and fall on the steps not far below brought her to a halt in the dimly lit corridor. A torch on the wall shed the only light over the stony walls and rush-covered floor.
    She held her candle toward the sound, peering through the shadows to the curving steps. “Who’s there?”
    “’Tis only me, Meggie.”
    She did not mistake the voice. “Barra?”
    His head appeared around the bend. “Aye.”
    He gave her a foolish smile.
    The wispy hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was an odd, instinctive reaction. She had never feared Barra before. She drew a shallow breath.
    “Are ye lost, then?” Meggie demanded in a fearless tone.
    Shaking his head, he stumbled and lunged up the stairs toward her. The candle he held flickered as it wobbled from side to side in his hand. Spittle caught at the corner of his mouth.
    “Your bed’s laid out in the great hall,” she reminded him.
    He had reached her side. And in a whisper the dead could hear, Barra hissed, “I’ve come to lie with ye.”
     

Chapter Four
     
    “Merciful Mary!” ’Twas all she could say ... and it was but a whisper beneath her breath.
    Stunned by Barra’s audacity, Meggie remained rooted to the spot, unable to move as she felt the blood drain from her head.
    He belched.
    Certainly, she must have misunderstood. “What say ye?”
    Her mouth had gone dry, tasting quite like she had just swallowed a bushel of straw. And while her body might be immobilized, her brain was not. A jumble of scenarios passed through her mind. None of them good.
    Setting down her candle, Meggie squared her shoulders and hitched up her chin. There was nothing to it but to confront him, here in the corridor between her chamber and the poet’s. Barra stood less than six feet away. With one arm he braced himself against the wall. Drunken desire glazed his eyes.
    Meggie chose her words carefully, seeking to soothe him, the wild beast. “You’ve had too much to drink this night, Barra.”
    “Aye?”
    “Aye,” she said, advancing on him, attempting to conceal her trepidation.
    Barra appeared to be in a trance, sleeping with his eyes wide open. He regarded her without so much as a blink. Forcing a smile, Meggie gently turned the rugged rebel by his shoulders so that he faced the stairs. He complied with a silly grin, until he pitched forward, coming dangerously close to falling over face first. Meggie caught him, staggering beneath his weight.
    “I tripped.” He burped.
    “Go on with ye now” she coaxed, pushing the lecherous warrior upright.
    But Barra was in no mood for gentle prodding. He swung back unsteadily. An angry frown replaced what he evidently had mistaken for a seductive grin. “I’ll be givin’ ye what many a woman would have.”
    “I do not want what you’re offerin’, and you’re gonna feel bad in the morning for this,” Meggie warned quietly.
    Paying no heed, the rebel leader grabbed her wrist roughly. Apparently, he had broken through his trance-like state and had done all the wooing he meant to do. His flinty gray eyes