Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (23 page)

For several heart-pounding seconds, Morgan said nothing, his face an angry mask of torment and disbelief. When he did speak it was one word only, but uttered with such force that Tillie’s knees quaked.

“No.”

Rourke half rose from the bench. “Morgan—”

He whirled to him. “How could you even think of putting her in such danger?”

Rourke spread his hands, palms up. “It wasn’t my choice to make. She dinna ask my permission, Morgan, and I dinna think she’s asking yours.”

She steeled herself as his attention swung back to her, a look of disbelief in his eyes. Slowly, she began ticking off the evidence that had led to her conclusion. “We have to identify who The Celt is, Morgan. If indeed the ring belongs to him, we have to know why Braedon had it, and why he was so determined to give it to me.”

Though he still glowered, and the unsavory expression on his face had not changed, he said nothing. She forged on.

“I dinna deceive myself. I know asking questions about
the leader of the Fenians is risky. I am sure to run into more than a few who will count my probing a threat.”

Seeing Morgan’s mouth twitch, she pressed on before he could interrupt. “That’s why I had to enlist Jacob’s help.”

She strode across the room to peer up at Morgan, earnestly pleading for his support, though deep down her decision had already been made. She owed it to Braedon to discover why he’d died. And if this was the only way . . .

“To be sure, Jacob has his faults,” she whispered. “But even I know how much he loves his country, how m-much he desires for Ireland to be free.”

“And?” Morgan growled. “What has that to do with you . . . or Braedon?”

“Jacob is suspicious of The Celt’s involvement with Daniel Turner’s death.”

Morgan turned to Rourke. “Your father?”

He nodded.

“But Jacob kinna ask questions,” Tillie continued. “He’s too deep in the organization. Every move he makes is watched. The most he can do is help me to be accepted, smooth any suspicions, and perhaps see to it that I’m included in the meetings.”

At this, Morgan recoiled.

“’Tis the only way,” Tillie insisted. “You must know we tried to find another, but—”

He cut her off with an upraised palm. “Fine. I’m going with you.”

Tillie had already begun to shake her head when Rourke said, “That wilna work, Morgan. The whole point is to insert someone the Fenians already trust. She wilna be able to get close enough to The Celt to do any good otherwise. If we try to bring you in—”

“It’s too dangerous to let her try this alone.” Morgan
looked at Cass, who lay motionless and silent on the bed. “Well? Do you agree?”

A troubled frown etched lines around Cass’s mouth and on his forehead. “If she doesn’t do this, if we dinna allow her to take the chance . . . she dies. Probably we all do. Ain’t so?”

Tillie looked at Morgan. He’d gone as lifeless as a statue, his face hard and frozen.

Cass panted as he pushed up in the bed. “You said it yourself, Morgan. I’m lucky to be here. I for one . . . am sick of being on the defensive . . . not when we still aren’t any closer to knowing who the enemy is.”

Drops of sweat rolled down the sides of his face. Tillie hurried to the basin and retrieved a towel, wringing it in the bowl before positioning it on his brow.

“Maybe you should lie down,” she urged softly.

Cass glanced up at her. “If we’re wrong—” he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing—“I’d never forgive myself if you were to come to harm.”

She feigned a smile. “You can hardly blame yourself for something that wasn’t your decision. Besides, I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“You dinna know that,” Morgan said flatly.

Tillie half turned and frowned at him. “Neither do you know that I’d be any safer sitting in this house. I kinna hide forever. Better I take matters into me own hands and leave me fate to God.”

Though she made the claim with more courage than she actually felt, Tillie sensed a glimmer of truth to the words. Perhaps it
was
time she put her life squarely into God’s hands. After all, it wasn’t like she’d done a fine job of it on her own. At least then she’d be able to rest, knowing she’d accomplished the one thing she never thought to do again—achieve peace with her Maker.

Bending low, Tillie pressed a kiss to Cass’s forehead. She then straightened and faced Rourke and Morgan.

“I suggest we proceed downstairs. We can grind out the details of this scheme without Cass. I think it best we let him rest a while now. Agreed?”

She looked to Rourke first, who gave a nod and shifted toward the door. Morgan, however, stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, refusing to meet her gaze. She walked to him and laid her hand on his arm.

“Morgan . . .” She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Keondric, please.”

More words piled upon themselves inside her head, but with fear clogging her throat, the simple plea was all she could manage. She waited, her heart beating like a surge of tumultuous waves inside her chest.

Finally he looked up, and in that brief glance she thought she read anguish, mingled perhaps with grim determination.

Without another word, he spun and strode for the door.

The pub that had been assigned as the meeting place was dark and crowded, even though it was well past the supper hour. Smoke as thick as fog choked Tillie when she stepped inside and stung her eyes as she squinted for a glimpse of Jacob. Several faces turned toward her when she entered, but none were the one she searched for. Nervously she wound her way inside and selected a table near a tall multi-paned window.

“Not there,” a deep voice growled.

Startled, Tillie cast about for the owner and spied a gnarled old man with graying beard and a ragged cap tugged low over his ears.

Pulling a pipe from between his lips, he gestured toward a table near the back. “Over there. Someone’ll join ya soon enough.”

“Thank you,” she said. She bumped several tables on her way to the one the man indicated and received several scathing stares in return. Finally she pulled out a chair and slumped into it to wait.

A short while later, a waitress appeared and plunked down a mug. “You’ll draw too much attention sitting there without something to drink,” she hissed before slipping away.

“Thank . . .” Tillie began, but the woman was gone as though she’d never spoken.

She curled her fingers around the mug. What was in it, she didn’t know and didn’t care to find out, since she’d never manage to slide anything past the fist-sized lump in her throat. Spying a clock in a dimly lit corner, she checked the time.

Jacob had said he would meet her at exactly eight thirty. He was five minutes late. Worry shook her at the possibility that he’d been detained, or worse.

“C’mon.”

The urgent whisper caught her completely by surprise. Liquid from the mug sloshed onto her dress as she was jerked from the table and half led, half dragged out of the pub.

“Jacob—”

“Quiet!” he ordered, glaring at her over his shoulder.

With a heavy wool coat and dark cap on his head, plus a scraggly beard covering half of his face, she barely recognized him. They wound down the street, making several turns through a series of dark alleys until Tillie’s head spun. How Jacob was able to keep his bearings, she could only guess, for her sight wasn’t nearly keen enough to penetrate the gloom. Finally they emerged onto a less crowded street. Gas lamps cast flickering shadows on the walk, but even that feeble light was better than the stench and murkiness they left behind.

Tillie gulped as she struggled to regain her breath. “Where are we?”

“Better you dinna know.” His eyes gleamed in the half-light. “Certain you still want to do this, lass? ’Tis not too late to back out. I wilna be able to promise the same later.”

She scanned the brick walls on both sides of the street, the buildings packed so tightly together there was no telling where one began and the other ended. Above, dark windows stared down at her like blank, gaping eye sockets. That’s how
she would live her life if she turned back now, always feeling like someone was watching but never knowing who lingered in the shadows.

She thought of Braedon, of the orphanage and all the children she hoped to help. She squared her shoulders. “I’m sure.”

He grinned. “Good girl,” he said, then thrust his chin up the street toward a wooden door, its paint peeling off in strips and littering the threshold. “In there. I’ll go first. You come in close behind. Let me do the talking. I’ll introduce you about, let the lads know who you are and where your interests lie. If you see something that spooks ya, give me a nod. I’ll try and get ya out.”

He was turning to go when Tillie grasped his hand. “Jacob?”

“Aye?”

“Why are you doing this? ’Tis not just to help me.”

He sobered and drew back his head. “No. It’s not just to help you, Matilda. I wish I could say it were.”

“Why then?”

He paused, peered up and down the street. Finally his eyes settled back on her. “You know why I came here—to America? It was to carry on the struggle. To find a way, any way, to keep as many men alive as I could, but still fight for Ireland’s freedom. But then . . . well, things got all twisted. Motives became clouded, and I was no longer certain who I could trust.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he crushed her fingers until she almost winced.

“I am many things, Tillie McGrath, some not so noble as I’d like.” His chin lifted. “But I am not without honor. I love my country and I’d do anything to protect her, even if it’s from some of her own.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

His jaw worked, but he said nothing. Somewhere, a horse
neighed. Jacob flinched at the sound. “We should get moving. ’Tisn’t wise to linger too long.” He moved closer to the wooden door. “You ready?”

Swallowing hard, Tillie nodded.

“Remember what I said. And try to stay close.”

Inside, the glow of a half-dozen oil lamps lit the dingy room. What chairs she saw were already filled. Where there was space, crates had been upended and stacked on their sides to serve as seating. Several pairs of eyes looked up at their coming—some questioning, a few most definitely hostile.

One ape of a man, with bulging biceps and eyes that protruded from his skull, stepped forward. “Hold up, Kil. What be the meaning of this?” He jerked a beefy thumb in Tillie’s direction.

At his words, an uneasy hush descended over the room. Never had Tillie wanted more to flee. She even doubted her knees would hold her, except that Jacob shot her a reassuring wink before motioning to the men and handful of women that packed the place.

“You all remember Braedon McKillop?” A couple of uneasy nods trickled about the group. “Well, this here be his woman, Matilda McGrath. They were to be wed before Braedon died, God rest ’im.”

Hands lifted here and there in the sign of the cross. Tillie’s breathing deepened.

“So she’s Braedon’s girl,” the ape man said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Braedon and I believed in the same things,” Tillie blurted. “I want to help.”

Silence filled the room.

“Help with what, dearie?” the ape man asked, his eyes narrowing to slits.

For a moment, only Jacob’s glare kept her frozen in place.
Having forgotten his warning, she wanted to bite off her tongue. Instead she pleaded with her eyes for him to continue.

“All right, Seamus,” Jacob said, directing his attention to the ape man. “That’s enough. I told ya, she and Braedon were betrothed. That in itself is endorsement enough for me.”

“Well, it ain’t just up to you, is it?”

“What are ya saying?”

“We kinna have people coming in here all willy-nilly. You’re the one who’s always spouting off about being careful. ‘Tell our plans to no one,’ that’s what you’re always saying. And now look at ya, dragging in this here girl without a word to anyone.”

Like Tillie, heads rotated back and forth between the two men. By the charged atmosphere in the room, it was obvious that disagreements between him and Jacob were not all that uncommon. Tillie’s hand inched toward the waistline of her skirt and the short dagger that Morgan had insisted she carry there.

Jacob drew himself up straight, his clenched jaw and bunched fists a warning to everyone that his mood for trifling conversation was long past. “She’s not just any girl, Seamus. Her man was a friend of mine. We fought alongside one another in more places than I can count—more than you’ve seen in your lifetime. Now, I say she’s all right, and if you”—he glanced around the room—“if any of you have a problem with that, speak up. I’ll be happy to take this argument outside.” He waited a moment, his chin thrust out. When no one answered, he gave a nod. “Good, then I say we get started. That all right with you, Seamus?”

With a bob of the man’s bushy head, Tillie’s lungs resumed working. Jacob moved to the front of the room while she eased off to the side, into the shadows yet near enough to Jacob to feel relatively safe.

Perhaps Morgan had been right all along. Perhaps she hadn’t really taken into consideration the danger she’d be facing, even with Jacob’s support and Braedon’s reputation as protection. Sinking onto a rickety crate, she pressed her hands against her midsection and willed the trembling in her limbs to cease.

She’d ask no questions tonight, make no move that might cause the people gathered around to take notice. Tonight, she’d simply be thankful that she was alive and count the minutes until she could make her escape.

Morgan eased from the cobblestone street into a dark alley. Kilarny had led Tillie this way, of that much he was certain, but after that? He eyed the row of doors lining the narrow passage. Above his head, shuttered windows with iron balconies stretched three stories. Tillie could be in any one of those rooms.

Casting one last glance at the street, he turned and delved deeper into the shadows. It was a dank place where he ventured, the stench almost unbearable. He could only imagine what the place was like in the heat of the day, when the sun streaming down between the clustered buildings baked the odor into the cobbles.

He took another step, squinting in a futile attempt to penetrate the gloom. Thrusting out his hand, he felt for the wall, found it, and eased his way up the alley. On his left, two doorways gaped black and empty with rusted hinges hanging haphazardly from their jambs. Ahead, the glow of a streetlamp cast a flickering semicircle on the mouth of the alley.

Could they have traveled that far? Indeed, Jacob had the advantage of knowing where he was going, but the fact that he’d managed to lead Tillie so far ahead was astonishing.

Eager to leave the alley behind, he quickened his steps. He was just shy of halfway to the street when he heard the subtle scrape of leather against the cobbles.

Morgan stiffened. The walls of the alley amplified every sound. He had no way of knowing for certain from which direction the sound came. He darted sideways, using the brick wall of the building to his left to protect his flank, then remained motionless, waiting.

Nothing.

He searched the shadows in both directions.

Still nothing.

Separating from the wall, he pressed toward the mouth of the alley. A few feet from it, intuition prickled the skin on his neck and forearms. He was being watched.

No,
hunted
was a better term, for no voice called out in greeting, and no figure hailed him from the darkness. Reaching for his waistband, he pulled out a slim dagger. He carried a pistol as well, but given the confines of the alley and the deep, almost impenetrable gloom that shrouded it, he doubted the weapon would be of much use.

He forged ahead another step and waited. Another three steps and he’d be on the street, yet something warned him that even there, the danger might not be past.

His back flattened against the wall, Morgan covered the last few steps and was just about to cross onto the street when a wooden club came crashing down on his forearm. The dagger clattered from his limp fingers.

The attack had come from the street. Morgan crouched low, but before he could spring, scuffling sounded behind him. He jerked his head that way in time to see a heavyset man barreling toward him.

Neither assailant made a sound as they knocked Morgan to the ground. Rolling into a crouch, he managed to avoid
a booted foot, then whirled to grab the man’s leg, and with one savage yank dropped him to the street.

He had no time to press his advantage, however. The second man flung himself on Morgan’s back. A blade glinted in the pale light. Morgan threw up his arm, felt the bite of steel against his flesh. He twisted. With one hand he grabbed the man’s arm. Hunching low, he drove his shoulder into the man’s stomach. His legs pumping, he knocked the man against the wall, heard an “oomph” as the air was driven from his lungs.

A fist like a hammer struck Morgan’s side just above the kidney. Stars exploded in his vision. He sucked in a breath. Another blow. He felt his knees weaken. If he didn’t defend himself, he’d pass out.

He spun, his own back pressed to the wall. Willing his vision to clear, he spotted a familiar glint atop the cobbles.

His knife.

He sensed, rather than saw, when the next blow came. This time it was aimed at his head. He plunged sideways, heard the unmistakable crack of bone against brick.

A howl of pain.

Morgan dropped to his knees and rolled.

A muttered curse.

He groped for his knife and found it.

A shadow loomed.

Raising the knife, he plunged it into the man’s thigh. Jerked it back. The man screamed and dropped to his knees.

Morgan struggled to his feet. Wielding the knife, he faced his attackers. The streetlamp cast just enough light for him to make out the jagged scar that marred the first man from his brow to his cheek. Glaring at Morgan, he cradled his shattered fist against his chest. The other man pulled a handkerchief from around his neck and knotted it around his thigh.

“Who are you?” Morgan snarled. “Who sent you?”

Neither man responded.

He stepped closer, the end of his dagger thrust toward them. “I said, who—?”

A thud above his right ear. Pain. Excruciating.

Then the man with the broken hand flashed him a smirk. Morgan sank to his knees. Shoving from the wall, the man bent over Morgan as he slid to his side on the cold, hard street.