Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (11 page)

Tillie tensed as she fell, expecting to have the air driven from her lungs by the solid wood floor as it rushed up to crush against her spine. Instead she found herself cradled in Captain Morgan’s strong arms. It was his back that had absorbed the fall, his lungs that expelled a sharp breath in a
whoosh
.

And then he was rolling, pulling her along with him until he lay atop her, his long form covering her completely, his arms and hands shielding and protecting her face.

“Cass!” he yelled.

“Here!”

“Where is he? Can you see him?”

Glass crunched beneath Cass’s feet as he eased toward the window. “No. He’s gone. The street’s clear.”

The words instantly released the tension from the captain’s muscled frame. His eyes as he peered at her were pools so deep she felt herself drowning. “Are you all right?”

Still breathless, she nodded.

She felt him relax, and then he moved off her and gently helped her to stand. And then helped her to sit, for as soon as she was on her feet, her knees gave way and she sank to the settee.

“Did . . . did someone . . . ?”

Tears flooded her eyes, washing away the sight of him. She felt him leave her side, and through blurred vision she saw him striding to the window and drawing the curtains shut.

“Cass, go take a look. See what you can find, but be careful.”

“Aye.”

She only heard Cass leave. The tears were coming too hard now for her to see the door close. A second later, the cushions on the settee dipped as the captain sat beside her and pressed a handkerchief against her palm.

“Someone tried to shoot me!” The words burst from her lips and with them a fresh onslaught of weeping. “Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing. You’ve done nothing.”

His arms wrapped around her, gently this time, instead of hard and powerful like the steel bands she’d felt before. The effect was no less traumatic. For several minutes she could do nothing more than soak the front of his shirt with her tears.

“I do . . . not . . . understand.”

Each word was punctuated by a catch in her throat, which made it almost impossible to breathe, much less speak. Despite this, the questions struggled for release. “Why? Who?”

Captain Morgan caught her chin and lifted her face to his. “Tillie, listen to me. The others will be coming soon. ’Tis imperative that you be verra careful how much you say, for their sake as well as your own.”

“What?”

“I promise you, I will explain what I think is going on here, but for now—”

“Tillie?” The door to the parlor burst open, and Amelia hurried in, with Laverne and Giles close on her heels. “Captain Morgan!”

Rendered speechless by the sight that met them, the three skittered to a halt.

Only Meg, who entered behind them, found her voice. Eyes wide, she scanned the shattered glass strewn across the carpet. “What on earth happened?”

The front door slammed, and Cass joined those already assembled. “No sign of him, Morgan. No one on the street seems to know what happened, either. Lucky for him, most of the vendors had already gone home for the night.”

“’Twas hardly luck,” Morgan growled.

Raring up like a great shaggy bear, Giles stomped across the parlor and motioned toward Cass and Morgan. “I think you lads had best explain what in the blazes is going on.”

“We will,” Morgan said, “but first I suggest we move to the back of the house, away from the street.”

“The library,” Amelia said, a quiver in her voice.

“But the window . . .” Tillie began.

Morgan directed a sharp glance at Cass, who took up position next to the window, one hand guiding the curtain aside so that he could watch the street. One by one, the others filed toward the library, with Morgan bringing up the rear. Once they were all seated, Tillie listened while he explained what had happened earlier that morning, and then later in the parlor.

“But why?” Meg asked. “Why would anyone want to hurt Tillie?”

Her defense melted a bit of the frost from Tillie’s bruised heart. She shot her friend a grateful smile.

“All of this took place in broad daylight.” Amelia’s fingers shook as she pressed them to her temples. “It’s all so unbelievable.”

Tillie looked around at the faces gathered near—Meg, Laverne, and Captain Morgan. Reflected there, she saw the same
sentiment Amelia expressed. Indeed, it resonated deep within her own heart. Were it not for the steadying glance Captain Morgan flashed her way, she might have burst into tears.

Circling to stand before Amelia’s chair, he clasped both hands behind his back and dipped his head. “I’ll let Tillie fill you in on the rest. For now, I think it best if I help Cass keep an eye on the house. In the meantime, we’ll need to send someone after the police. Giles?”

“Going.” He whirled and strode for the door.

Lowering her hands to clutch the mangled handkerchief in her lap, Amelia said, “I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you and your brother were here to keep Tillie safe.”

Instead of accepting her thanks, he grimaced, and why not? Thanks to her, both he and his brother had been forced into the path of danger. No doubt he was already regretting the decision that had led him to check on her in the first place. Before he left, he paused at her side.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

The words were hardly more than a whisper, yet they reached to Tillie’s soul. “Aye, thanks to you,” she whispered back. “I kinna thank you and Cass enough. I owe my life to the two of you.”

A shadow flitted over his face—regret and something more. Her breath caught as he reached out to clasp her shoulder.

“Keep to the rear of the house, either here in the library or the kitchen. It’s safer than the front. The others, as well. Do you understand?”

“And what about you? Or Cass and Giles?” she added. “What if whoever tried to shoot me . . .”

The words withered on her lips. There was no doubt now. Someone had tried to kill her . . . twice. Likely they’d be back. Could she live with herself if they killed him instead? Or anyone in the boardinghouse, for that matter?

She drew a shuddering breath, cut short by the touch of his finger below her chin.

“It’ll be all right, lass. We’ll give our statement to the police and then figure out where to go from there.”

He spoke with such confidence she was tempted to believe him. Almost. His next words squelched the flicker of hope as nothing else could have done.

“Tillie . . . say nothing about speaking to Braedon before he died, to the police or anyone else.”

She frowned. “What?”

“When you tell the detectives what happened, be cautious in how much you reveal.” He drew closer, shielding her from Amelia’s sight and lowering his voice so only she heard. “Please. I promise you, I will explain everything.”

Only when he moved away did she release the breath trapped in her chest. Immediately, Amelia and Meg flocked to her side. Even Laverne, who seldom hovered, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it in Tillie’s face.

“Poor, sweet lass,” Meg crooned.

“Had to have scared the wits out of ya,” Laverne said.

“Yes, yes.” Amelia grasped Tillie’s arm and led her to a nearby chair. “Now, what else isn’t the captain telling us? Anything?”

She shook her head. Despite their concern, she knew the captain was right. For their own safety, the less they knew, the better.

She grimaced at the irony of the thought. She hardly knew more than they. But Captain Morgan?

Her only hope would be to follow his lead and pray that somehow they would discover who was harboring a vendetta against her.

Her life depended on it.

Morgan waited until the detectives had left and everyone had gone to bed before seeking out Tillie. Like him, Cass figured it best if they took turns guarding the boardinghouse, at least for the first few nights, and had agreed to take the first watch. As Morgan walked down the hall from the library to the parlor, he thought once again how glad he was to have his brother by his side.

Especially now, when very little else made any sense.

Tillie made a wraithlike figure, standing with her hand to the boarded-up window. By the light of an oil lamp, unshed tears sparkled like jewels in her eyes. For several seconds he could only stare, his feet rooted to the floor outside the door. And then she moved, releasing him from her spell.

He blew out a breath. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Her hand fluttered to wipe her eyes before she looked at him. Somehow, knowing she didn’t want him to see her vulnerability made her all the more endearing. He gave himself a mental kick. The last thing she’d need or want was to have a man ten years her senior thinking of her in that way—or any way.

He squared his shoulders and crossed to meet her. “How did it go with the detectives?”

She shrugged. “As well as could be expected, given what little I could tell them.” She widened her eyes. “What’s happening? What have I done that would make someone want me dead?”

He sighed and motioned to the settee. Her hands trembled as she sat. She clasped them tightly in her lap. “Well?”

Morgan struggled for words. Finally, he said, “I kinna be certain.”

“But you said—”

He covered her hands. “That is, I think I may know why someone has been sent to kill you, I just dinna know
who
.”

Closing her mouth, she drew back and motioned for him to continue.

“Tillie, you remember I told you that someone had paid Doc to poison Braedon? And later, I told you that before Doc died, he confessed all of that to me?”

“Aye?”

He shook his head. “What I didn’t tell you was that Donal overheard Cass and me talking—at least I think he did.”

“But I thought you said his death and Doc’s weren’t related.”

“That was before we knew someone really was trying to hurt you.”

Bewilderment cast a shadow over her face. “I don’t understand.”

Of course not. It hardly made sense to him. He drew a slow breath. “I think all of this goes back to the day Braedon died. I think my letting you in to see him is what put everything into motion.”

“What harm could it have possibly done for me to be at his side when he passed? Unless . . .”

“Unless he possessed knowledge that someone wanted to keep hidden. Someone powerful. Someone wealthy.”

“Wealthy enough to hire Doc,” she finished, realization dawning on her face.

Morgan nodded. He’d drawn the same conclusion, only the attack at the boardinghouse had kept him from sharing it.

“And then Donal overheard and went to that same person to tell them what he knew?”

“I think so.”

She sank back against the settee. “So they figured they had to kill me, in case Braedon had shared the secret from his deathbed.”

“That be my reckoning.”

She shook her head, as though unable to fathom such a heinous plot. “But he didn’t tell me anything.”

“They don’t know that.” Morgan turned to face her. “Tillie, something Braedon knew was worth killing over. Have you any idea what that could be?”

“No. He was a farm boy, from a poor family and with few connections. He didn’t have any enemies . . .”

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

“What is it?” Morgan asked. Then, remembering why they’d left Ireland in the first place, he clenched his jaw. “Was it his family?”

“No, not them. They didn’t always agree, but they loved him, of that much I’m certain.”

“But you thought of something else, didn’t you?”

She lowered her hand. Before she spoke, she cast a glance over her shoulder, almost as if she expected a figure to materialize from the shadows gathering in the corner of the room. “Braedon . . .” She swallowed and lowered her voice. “Braedon belonged to an organization called the Fenians. Have you heard of them?”

He frowned and wracked his brain for what little he knew of the group. “Only in passing. Something about establishing home rule?”

“Aye.” She rose and began pacing, her long dress rustling
in the quiet room. “It started a long time ago, before you or I or Braedon were even born.”

“The famine?”

She nodded. “People were starving. They looked to the English for help, but when others started grumbling that it was too slow in coming, they rebelled and fought to be free. When the uprising failed—”

“They came to America, like Braedon.”

“And me,” she added. “But not just America, Canada and South America, too. I think they thought once they were free from the fear of retribution, they’d be able to redouble their efforts against England.”

“It worked?”

“Somewhat. The opposition of the church proved a hindrance.”

“Why?”

“People were afraid to join their ranks, afraid of what the church would do to those who showed support of the Fenians.”

Suspicion took root in his brain. “People?”

She sighed. “My parents.”

That explained why she’d left her family behind. They hadn’t approved of Braedon’s political ties. He motioned for her to continue.

“Rumors of actual plots against the British government began to circulate as the movement became stronger. They had no choice but to take steps to crush it. Many Fenians were imprisoned, including Braedon’s older brother.” She winced. “It was after he was executed as a traitor that Braedon joined the group.”

Morgan drew a long breath and then expelled it. While it didn’t explain why Braedon had been killed, or why that same person had now set his sights on Tillie, at least she’d given him a lead to follow.

He left the settee and went to stand beside her. “Tillie, do you remember what Braedon said to you before he died?”

Her eyes took on a faraway look. Finally she gave a slow nod. “He told me that he loved me.”

The hitch in her voice tore at Morgan’s heart. “What else?” he prompted.

“He gave me a ring and told me . . .” She paused and looked up at him, her eyes wide and frightened. “He told me if I ever needed anything, to sell it.”

He gave a curt nod and moved to turn. “All right—”

She grabbed his arm before he could finish. “Wait. That’s not all.”

“Aye, lass?”

She dropped her hand, and he could see that she was shaking.

“What is it, Tillie? What else did he say?”

His eyes moved to the pale line of her neck, which convulsed as she worked to swallow.

“He said if anything happened, if I were ever in danger . . . I was to take the ring to an old friend of his—a man named Jacob Kilarny.”

Speaking Jacob’s name again after so many years left a bitter taste on Tillie’s tongue. Memories washed over her of late nights spent gathered around tables in dimly lit rooms; cryptic messages that caused Braedon to be secreted away for days on end; fear that rose and fell like the tide every time she knew he’d been sent on another mission from which he might not return.

Worst of all, the worry that he’d meet the same fate as his brother.

She shuddered.

“Are you cold?”

Reminded of Morgan’s presence, she ripped free of the grip of the past and raised her eyes to his. “Not cold. Just . . .”

His lips curved in the barest of smiles, yet the sight drove all else from her thoughts.

“No need to explain, lass.”

Seconds passed, and then she dipped her head in thanks.

With no light penetrating the boarded-up window, the parlor had grown dark earlier than normal. Morgan turned up the wick on the oil lamp and then motioned her back to the settee.

“Please, tell me about this Kilarny. Who is he and how well did you know him?”

“Truth be told, it’s been years since I’ve seen him, long before Braedon and I left Ireland. As for who he is”—she blew out a heavy sigh—“I suppose the best way to explain would be to say that he was one of the most outspoken of the Fenians. He became verra powerful within the organization.”

“So he was one of their leaders?”

“You could say that.”

A frown wrinkled Morgan’s brow. “And Braedon told you to go to him? Why?”

She bit her lip. Why indeed? It wasn’t as though the two men had been particularly close. They’d been more like business associates. “I have no idea,” she admitted finally. “I’m sorry.”

“No, dinna apologize. None of this be your fault.”

As he spoke, his eyes darkened to a deep blue. Ach, but how she wished for the ability to read the man’s thoughts. He braced both hands on his knees. “I suppose our next move will be to search out this Kilarny. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

She shook her head. “’Tis been so long since I even gave a thought to the Fenians. When Braedon died, my ties to them died, too.”

Instead of the disappointment she feared, he set his jaw
and lifted his chin. “Then finding him will be our first order of business. In the meantime, do you think I might see this ring Braedon gave you?”

“Of course.” Rising, she went to fetch it and, a few moments later, returned with the ring clutched in her palm. Entering the parlor, her breath caught. In her absence, Morgan had removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his white cotton shirt to his elbows. With the seams pulling slightly at the shoulders, he was a sight to turn a woman’s head.

But not hers, she reminded herself grimly. She’d not allow any man to turn her head again. Not now or ever.

Grimacing, she bore the ring to where Morgan stood and laid it on the table. “There. That’s the ring Braedon gave me.”

Morgan’s long fingers curved around the gold band as he raised it high to examine it by the light of the lamp. Concentration furrowed his brow. “Unusual design.”

Tillie nodded, then plucking the ring from his fingers she showed him how it opened.

His reaction was similar to hers the first time she saw the ruby heart tucked inside. His lips parted in amazement. She handed it to him so he could once again examine the ring more closely. “’Tis beautiful.” He lowered it to look at her. “And yet you do not wear it.”

“No.”

He stared at her, unblinking. “Was it because Braedon died before the two of you could be wed?”

Guilt and sorrow for the decisions she’d made pressed like a stone upon her heart. “No, that’s not it. I think Braedon always intended to give me a ring to wear, but not this one.”

She frowned, remembering the urgency in his voice and the fevered pleading in his eyes as he pressed the ring into her hand.

“Not this one,” she repeated. “I do not wear this ring because on the night Braedon died . . . he asked me not to.”