Seducing the Spy by Sandra Madden Page A

down with him. She landed atop the bard, her face against his neck. His warm, male, musky flesh.
    Her body thrummed.
    Merciful Mary! She could not lie so. Gasping, Meggie jerked upright. She straddled Colm’s hips.
    His eyes were closed; a grimace fixed on the dark, rugged planes of his face.
    “Have I hurt ye?” she whispered.
    He did not open his eyes. “Nay,” he replied in a hushed, dreamy tone.
    His lips were dangerously close, his steely body motionless beneath her. Meggie’s heart beat furiously. A feverish warmth, liquid and languorous, invaded her being. She dared not breathe.
    This was her opportunity to discover if what Niall had intimated about a poet’s preference was true. Could Colm not bear to be this close to a woman? Was that why he grimaced?
    If Meggie kissed him now, would she learn the truth? Certainly a kiss would tell. If he responded with passion, she would know the handsome rover might learn to love a country lass.
    It was not a decision to be debated. Action was required.
    Meggie dipped her head and brought her mouth down on the unsuspecting bard’s. She kissed Colm deeply, pouring her soul into her kiss. For a moment she thought she might whimper aloud from the hot, sparky tingling that started between her thighs and raced through her body.
    She tasted his salty lips, sighed as they parted beneath hers. Man, all man. Delicious.
    Meggie’s doubt vanished. Her body roared like a fire in winter. Alive with desire, she waited eagerly for what the rock of a man beneath her would do next.
     

Chapter Six
     
    Cameron dreamed that the wild Irish beauty straddled him. With wanton abandon, she’d kissed him. He tasted lips as warm as sun-kissed clover, berry soft, and sweet as honey from the comb.
    Dipping into his rather experienced past, Cameron could not recall ever partaking of anything quite so delicious. Never before had a woman’s lips triggered a craving for more ... of her. Only her.
    But then, he had heard the Irish women were not so reserved as the English.
    Red-gold tendrils softly grazed his cheeks like a silken web. The scent of her enveloped him as if he lay in fields of lavender. And when she brought her lips down on his, her breasts pressed against his chest, sweet buds taut with arousal strained against her gown.
    A flood of warm pleasure rushed to his loins. It mattered not whether she was Irish or English; the feel of Meggie, her taste and scent, aroused him to an almost unbearable state of desire. For a suspended moment in time, Cameron came dangerously close to losing his head, his resolve, his sense of purpose. ’Twas an exceptional dream. He had made love to the wild Irish woman. He’d had Meggie.
    But when Cameron awoke the next morning, all he had were fleas.
    Fleas posed a danger to any who slept in hay.
    A dull ache in his head matched the dull throb of his leg.
    Without even knowing he was a spy, Meggie Fitzgerald had contrived to prevent him from seeking information that could be used to the English advantage. She had shot him.
    And when he’d recovered enough to listen, to eavesdrop, and to ask questions during the Lughnasa celebration as was his duty, Meggie had provided him with whiskey. She’d directed Deirdre to serve him enough whiskey and mead to make him pass out before he could learn anything of import.
    With so many in attendance and loose lipped from drinking, Cameron had hoped to learn how the Irish rebels planned to defend Ulster. Instead, he had become annoyed with O’Donnell’s sudden appearance and subsequent dalliance with Meggie.
    When Cameron should have been keeping his ears open for information, he had fallen into a sulk when the duchess and O’Donnell left the great hall. With Deirdre’s help, Cameron had turned to the whiskey for cheer too often. The evening had ended ingloriously when he had collapsed in a pile of hay.
    He was a disgrace to his country. He had failed in the simplest of tasks. Worse, he feared what the Irish harridan