Seducing the Spy by Sandra Madden

Barra,” she told Cameron as she strolled toward him. “They are longtime friends.”
    “And you are longtime friends with O’Donnell?”
    “Nay. He sought to comfort me after the death of Declan.”
    Thick curls fell forward across her shoulder. Strands of the silken stuff gleamed like golden ribbons beneath the flickering torchlight. A strange yearning took hold of Cameron. He longed to crush a fistful of her wondrous locks in his hand. Her lips were parted as if she would speak again. He would eagerly kiss those lips. If she were not Irish. If he were not an English spy.
    “Will ye marry O’Donnell?” he blurted. “It’s rumored he is a rare rich Irishman.”
    “Deirdre shares secrets with ye.”
    “’Tis no secret given the way the man looks at ye, Meggie.”
    She lifted her chin an infinitesimal degree. Cameron recognized stubborn defiance when he saw it.
    “I must wait until my father returns before I wed,” she said.
    “Do ye not have your father’s blessing?” Cameron hated himself for pressing her, but he could not seem to stop. He blamed the devil whiskey at work.
    She lowered her head. “Aye, I do.”
    “Then, why must ye wait?”
    Meggie raised her eyes to his, large and brilliant blue. They pinned Cameron to the spot. A warm, melting sensation stirred in the center of his chest.
    He vowed never to take another drop of whiskey.
    The hushed tones of Meggie’s reply did not mask the ache in her voice. “I do not love Niall.”
    “Ye desire a husband and love?” Her demands never ceased.
    Cameron vaguely wondered what it would be like to kiss each freckle on Meggie’s fair face.
    “Of all men, ye should understand love ... the meaning of love between a man and a woman.”
    Never. He had never loved a woman. Cameron had no knowledge of what the Irish beauty wanted, but he did not mistake the passion in her breathless entreaty.
    The devil will have me before this mission is over. I’ll be walking through flames of fire. Cameron knew well he had broken every rule. He stood before the enemy, a drunken spy. His thigh ached and his leg trembled and his heart cavorted in his chest, causing Cameron to waver like a hoary old man.
    With her usual alertness, Meggie must have observed the quivering of his wounded leg. “Ah, the excitement of this eve has been too much for ye.”
    Before he could protest, she took his arm, bracing him against her soft, warm body.
    “Aye, excitement,” Cameron repeated. “’Tis been disquieting, ye are right. I have stood too long this night.”
    Another fabrication. He could conjure many excuses, but Cameron knew the true cause of his disquiet. Meggie Fitzgerald. In his debilitated condition, the Irish vixen’s very presence excited him. The fresh, sweet fragrance of her, the furtive glimpses of her cleavage, threw him into an unfamiliar turmoil. “Come,” she urged.
    He had not the will or strength to do other than what she bid.
    Meggie led him slowly into the stable, guiding the bard to a corner where the light barely reached. He held his body stiffly, but the heat and hardness of him brushed against her in an enticing manner. Shivers of warmth skittered down her spine.
    She blamed the unbidden reaction on her weariness and stepped away from the bard as soon as they reached their destination. Closing her eyes, Meggie breathed deeply of the fresh scent of hay, so much more intoxicating than the odor of mead and whiskey which permeated the great hall - and everyone who had dined or danced there. Even the poet smelled of whiskey. He stood very still. Only his dark eyes moved as he surveyed the surroundings.
    “’Tis an unused corner where ye may rest for the night,” she explained.
    He nodded slowly, somberly.
    Meggie took Colm’s walking stick and tossed it aside. As she attempted to ease him down into the pile of hay, he wavered. It all happened quickly after that. Meggie reached out to steady the swaying poet, but before she could blink, he had pulled her