Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (15 page)

“That’s why we’re here,” Tillie said, “to tell you what we’ve learned and to ask your advice.”

“My advice?”

“On how best to proceed.”

Turner looked at Morgan. Returning to his seat, he said,
“You should know, I spent many years trying to track down my father’s killers and not because I wanted justice. It was revenge I sought, pure and simple.”

Well he understood the concept of revenge. Most men lived by it, especially on the sea. Morgan clenched his jaw and said through gritted teeth, “Ought not your father’s death be avenged and his murderer brought to justice?”

“Justice? Aye. But revenge? That is the Lord’s.”

The humbleness of his speech pricked Morgan’s conscience. Another time and place, he might want to learn more about this Rourke Turner. For now . . .

He jerked his chin toward Tillie. “And what think you of the matter at hand? Any ideas of how we can go about uncovering if and how these deaths are connected?”

Turner scratched his head. “Possibly, but it will mean speaking with Kilarny—something he’ll not likely consent to, save with someone he trusts.”

Tillie’s brows rose. “Like me?”

Morgan’s guard rose. He hadn’t liked that she’d gone to see him the first time.

“Not you,” Turner said. “Someone like Eoghan.”

“Cara’s brother?”

At Turner’s nod, Morgan relaxed against the back of his chair.

“I’ll send word to him in the morning and see about making other arrangements for Ana and Cara and the baby.”

Concern flooded Tillie’s face. “Cara’s days are too close to being accomplished. Traveling won’t be good for her or the baby. And Ana won’t leave Cara alone now.”

“No,” Rourke agreed. “I’ll have to send someone to them.” He reached out and patted Tillie’s hand. “Dinna worry. I’ve still got family here who can help.”

His reassurance seemed to appease Tillie, but Morgan was
nowhere near as certain that they could trust Rourke Turner. The man had already admitted he’d spent years trying to assuage a thirst for vengeance. Who was to say his thirst would not be revived once they came nearer to uncovering the truth about his father’s death?

And if that truth involved Tillie . . .

Eyeing the man across the way, Morgan made a silent vow. He’d let Turner do whatever plotting he thought necessary, but only if it would not pull Tillie into further danger.

And there was only one way to accomplish that. He’d have to keep her close by his side. Very close. In fact, he intended to keep a watchful eye on her every minute until the threat against her life was resolved.

He studied Tillie’s upturned face and there read courage, determination, even a bit of impertinence. But hemming all those emotions was a ragged fringe of fear, enough to stir up every protective instinct he possessed.

Lowering his eyes, Morgan sighed. Sure, keeping her close was the only way to guarantee her safety, but the threat to his heart? That had never been more real.

The days from Sunday to Sunday sped by, with the routine becoming at once familiar and familial. Tillie enjoyed leaving the stresses of her new job to find Cass waiting to walk her home each evening. His lighthearted banter made the trip enjoyable, and she found she could chat easily with him about the challenges of work and her ideas for the orphanage. Today, however, he had agreed to accompany them to Mass, an idea she found both exciting and amusing.

Dressed in her finest muslin with ruffles that capped her shoulders and tapered down to fit snugly at her wrists, she felt stylish, even attractive. Her navy skirt fit closely over her hips and flared just above the knee, while the braided bodice and high neck made her look taller than her five-foot-four inches. The dress had been an extravagance, and the stitching had taken her weeks to complete, but it was the one bit of finery she possessed, and she wore the dress proudly every Sunday.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cass waited for her, his face upturned and smiling as he watched her descend.

“Ach, but you be a vision.” When she reached him, he held out his hand and helped her dismount the last stair, but
instead of letting go of her fingers, he kept a tight grasp and motioned toward the door. “Ready?”

Tillie looked around them in confusion. “What about Amelia and Meg? Or Laverne and Giles?”

“Already gone ahead.” Cass’s smile broadened. “I told them I’d be happy to accompany you, and they agreed not to wait, as Mrs. Matheson had something she wanted to discuss with the priest.”

Amelia wanted to talk to Father Ed? She hadn’t mentioned needing to speak to him before, or had she said something and Tillie was too preoccupied at the time to realize it?

Determined to seek her out the minute they returned to the boardinghouse, Tillie clenched her jaw as she reached for her bonnet and shawl.

“Allow me to help you.”

Cass’s steps carried him swiftly to her side. He lifted the shawl from her fingers and laid it over her shoulders. Though he lingered, she felt no flash of excitement the way she had when Morgan had acted the same. Instead, her face heated with discomfort and she moved away, adding to the space between them.

“Tillie.”

Startled by the hoarseness of his voice, she looked up at him. “Aye, Cass? Is something wrong?”

His head shook. “Not wrong. Just . . . I’d like to speak with you this afternoon, after we get back from the church. If you’re not opposed to the idea, that is.”

Why on earth would she be opposed to talking? They did that every day. She shot him a wry grin. “No, I’m not opposed.”

“Good.”

Her answer seemed to spur too much elation, but she thrust the thought away and glanced back over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “I dinna suppose . . .” Clearing her throat ner
vously, she adjusted the buttons on her cuff. “Has Morgan already left the house, as well?”

“Aye, he left early this morn. Said something about seeing to an errand.”

Disappointment at his answer flooded her heart. Ever since leaving Rourke’s office, he’d been attentive, even protective of her, and she’d come to appreciate his quiet, careful ways. It was because of his concern that Cass walked her home, she was sure of it, and deep down a part of her had wanted him to see her in her finest dress.

Smoothing the frustration from her face, she lifted her chin and forced a smile. “Shall we go, then?”

Laying hold of his proffered arm, she allowed him to lead her into the warmth of the sun outside. A light breeze blew the length of Ashberry Street, stirring the striped awnings above many of the shop windows and sending bits of paper scuttling along the cobbles.

Before they’d gone far, curiosity drove her to glance sidelong at her companion. “Cass, tell me about you and your brother. You’ve only recently joined him aboard the ship, at least that be what I’ve gathered from your conversations with him.”

Shoving his cap higher on his forehead, he grimaced and gave a rueful nod. “Aye, that’s true.”

“May I ask why?”

For a lengthy span he stared at the clouds drifting lazily between the buildings. “I always thought it was because I was too busy having fun with the lads. Now I realize I was angry.”

“With Morgan?”

He shook his head. “With Da for dying and leaving us to fend for ourselves.”

Sorrow squeezed her chest. “And Morgan? Did he feel the same way?”

“No. At least I dinna think so. He never let his emotions show.”

Ach, and was he any different now? She didn’t think so. She pressed Cass’s arm. “Why doesn’t your brother allow anyone to call him by his Christian name? Seems odd, given you are both Morgans.”

“Keondric was our father’s name. I suppose Morgan doesn’t use it because he doesn’t feel he measures up.” Tilting his head to her, he reached out and covered her hand. “He’s never said as much, but I know. Ma’s the only one who still calls him Keondric, even though it grieves him.”

The sorrow Tillie felt curdled into a deep and familiar ache. Well she knew the guilt Morgan carried, and it pained her to think he was as acquainted with shame as she.

Gone was the brilliance of the summer morning. Cass seemed to sense her mood and walked with her in silence the rest of the way to the church. Once they were inside, they found their place on the pew next to Meg and the others from the boardinghouse, but it was only after the final prayer was said that Tillie felt a bit of her peace return.

Spying Sister Agnes, she begged Cass’s leave and scurried over to greet her.

“Tillie McGrath, it be good to see you, girl. You’ve been missed at the shelter.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Tillie said, gripping the older nun’s hands. “Please tell me everything here is all right.”

Sister Agnes’s lips spread in a kind smile. “Everything is fine. Dinna worry your pretty head. That doesn’t mean we dinna long for a familiar face now and again.” She then lowered her head to whisper in Tillie’s ear, “How come the plans for the orphanage? Any luck?”

“Not yet,” Tillie whispered back. She’d not told the sister about Braedon or the plot against her life out of concern for
her and Sister Mary. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door where Cass waited. “I should be going.”

Sister Agnes clasped her arm and gave a nod toward Cass. “That your young man?”

“No . . . just a friend.”

“What about the other one, the one with the broad shoulders and ruddy skin? He looks a wee bit older, but they favor one another just the same.”

“Morgan? How do you know him?”

Her brows formed surprised peaks. “Why, he’s been by, lass. Twice, in fact. Both times he asked to speak to Father Ed, and both times he left a generous gift for the ladies at the shelter. Figured you’d know that.”

She didn’t. Tucking the information away, Tillie wrapped Sister Agnes in a hug and bid her farewell. “And tell Sister Mary hello for me, too, will you?”

“Of course,” Sister Agnes said, giving her arm a pat. “Come by when you can. We miss you.”

After assuring her that she would, Tillie turned and made her way down the long aisle toward the rear of the church. Most of the parishioners had gone, but a few lingered, and one figure in particular caught her eye. Though the man wore a tweed coat and a cap pulled low over his ears, something about the set of his jaw seemed familiar.

She looked to the door. The spot where Cass had stood a moment earlier was now vacant. Neither was he among the people clustered around the prayer candles. Her eyes darted back to the figure in the coat and cap. For a brief moment he lifted his chin, and she thought she recognized him.

“Jacob?”

Once again, his head lowered, hiding his face from view. He half turned as if to leave. Moving quickly, Tillie skirted the last row of pews and crossed toward him. “Jacob, wait.”

She had nearly drawn even with him when he whirled around. Grabbing her arm, he dragged her into a room off the vestibule.

“What are you doing?” Tillie demanded, more than a little frightened by his strange behavior.

Once the door was shut behind them, he turned and tugged the cap from his head. One eye was purple and swollen. Above the other, a long gash ran from his eyebrow to his ear.

Tillie gasped. “What happened to you?”

“The ring, do you still have it?” he growled.

Eyes wide, she nodded.

“Good. There’s something I need you to do.” He stepped closer, his eyes wild with excitement. “The pub where you met me the other day, you remember it?”

“Aye,” she rasped.

“Just down from there is an apothecary shop owned by one Patrick Bligh. I want you to find him and show him the ring just like you showed me.”

He shoved from the door and strode toward her. Tillie stumbled back. She resumed breathing only when he halted a couple of feet from her and jammed both hands into his pockets.

“This is important, Matilda. You must not leave the ring with him, but ’tis verra important that he see it in case . . .” His features hardened, and the one eye he could still see out of twitched.

“Jacob,” Tillie whispered, “what happened to you?”

The breath he drew whistled between his lips. “Be verra careful, lass. Dinna be alone if you can help it, and watch what you say and to whom you say it.”

“Why?” she insisted.

He motioned to his bruised eye. “So the same thing doesn’t happen to you.”

“What?”

He shook his head and put a finger to his lips. “Someone saw the two of us talking. This was the result.”

Remorse washed over her. “Oh, Jacob . . . I’m so sorry.”

“No apologies. It wasn’t me they was after. Just what you told me.”

“They?”

“I didn’t recognize them,” he said.

“Then I dinna understand. How do you know it was me . . . ? Oh.” She eyed the ugly bruises once more.

“Dinna trouble yourself, lass. They didn’t get anything out of me, and I got in a few licks of me own before the cowards ran off.”

Assaulted by a bout of trembling, Tillie reached for the wall, found it, and inched sideways to rest her shoulder against it. “You want me to show the ring to someone else in case something happens to you, or to me.”

“Aye.”

So curt was his reply, she blinked.

“You know who this ring belongs to.”

Jacob neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

“Do you know who is after us?”

“Not yet.”

Outside the door, Tillie thought she heard someone call her name.

“But you’re looking?” she pressed.

“I am now.”

Again, the voice calling her name sounded, only close enough now that she recognized it as Cass’s. “I have to go.”

Jacob nodded. “Remember what I said. Be careful, and show the ring to Patrick as soon as you can.”

“Tomorrow,” Tillie promised, opening the door a crack and then sliding through.

“There you are.” Cass strode toward her, his face a thundercloud of worry and fear. “What were you thinking, disappearing like that?” He eyed the closed door. “I thought Morgan and I made it clear that you weren’t to be alone.”

“You d-did,” she stammered. “I was looking for you.” It was partly true, enough to appease her conscience.

“I went outside to help Giles with Meg and Amelia.”

Her face grew hot. “Oh. Sorry.”

Cass heaved a sigh and offered his arm. “You ready to go?”

Aye, she was more than ready. He accompanied her outside, but even with his confident presence by her side, she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder. That, combined with angst over how she would accomplish the orders Jacob had given her, made for a very long walk home.