Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (27 page)

Lively music reverberated throughout Shanahan’s Pub, originating from the fingertips of a fat fellow seated at an ancient piano and carrying all the way to Morgan’s seat. Scattered about the pub were familiar figures: Rourke and his kinsmen playing cards at a table to his left, Eoghan at the bar, and faces Morgan recognized as Jacob Kilarny’s men. None of them, however, belonged to the one they all searched for—the man Kilarny had told Eoghan was named Neil Dunahoe.

Morgan caught Rourke’s eye and tilted his head toward the door. A moment later, Rourke shoved back from the table, stretched, and begged a reprieve. Though teased for it, he joked good-naturedly before ambling for the exit.

Morgan waited until the card play resumed before joining him outside in the alley. It was dark there, and by the smell of it had been frequented by others in need of a “reprieve.”

“Anything?” Rourke asked as he approached.

Morgan shook his head in frustration, though with the gloom it was unlikely he saw the motion. “Nothing. No sight of Dunahoe or the woman who was helping him.”

“Mary.”

Morgan nodded. “I dinna like it. We’ve been gone too long.”

“I agree, but to leave now . . . we may not have another chance.”

“What then? We sit twiddling our thumbs, hoping the man turns up?”

“You have a better idea?”

Morgan whirled and jammed his fist against the bricked side of the pub. Pain shot through his knuckles, but he welcomed the sensation, welcomed the release of tension squeezing his muscles. “I dinna understand! This is the place where Kilarny told Eoghan he’d find Dunahoe. Why isn’t he here?” Apprehension trickled over him. “Do you think maybe Kilarny lied?”

“Why would he do that? He has no cause.”

“He didn’t like us asking questions about Dunahoe. If it hadn’t been for Eoghan, he probably wouldn’t have told us anything at all.”

Shuffling sounded from the street. They fell silent as a bent figure staggered into the alley toward them. The man fumbled for some time before accomplishing his business and then weaving back the way he’d come.

“Well?” Morgan continued once they were alone.

“I say we wait a while longer. If Dunahoe doesn’t show up, we’ll try another way.”

Reaching into his pocket, Morgan pulled out the ring Tillie had given him and held it high. It glinted, even in the deeply shadowed alley. “I have a better idea.”

Thinking of his crew, Morgan grinned. For sure and for certain they’d be plenty riled if they knew what he had in mind.

He slid the ring back into his pocket. “Rourke, me lad,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder, “how ’bout you join me in a game of cards?”

“Cass, go!” Tillie hissed.

She shoved him toward the window, then darted for the door. Throwing it open, she barreled out and slammed it behind her. She’d gone just a few steps before plowing into a man’s solid chest. The impact drove the wind from her. Had the man not reached out to grab her by the arms, she’d likely have fallen.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

The confusion and shock she felt were only partly feigned. Her mouth fell open and she twisted her head from side to side to search the hall.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Where’s Amelia?”

The man grinned, revealing teeth that were too large for his mouth and gapped at the center.

“Dunahoe, Mary, come see what I found,” he hollered, his raucous voice echoing down the stairs.

Tillie struggled to free her arm, but the man only squeezed tighter. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Let me go. Who are you? What do you want?”

The man clucked noisily. “Come now, lassie, no need to play ignorant. I think you know what we want.”

And what she wanted—nay, what she needed—was time for Cass to make good his escape and for Keondric to return to the boardinghouse.

Raising her foot, she slammed it down as hard as she could on the man’s instep. He howled in pain yet somehow managed to maintain his grip on her arm. She kicked again, this time connecting with his shin. The blow was not as effective, thanks to her heavy skirt, but she managed to rip her arm free and tear off down the hall.

“Dunahoe!” the man roared, limping after her.

Tillie started for the stairs, skittering to a stop a couple
of feet shy of them. Approaching was the man in the gray cap, with Mary at his heels. Tillie rushed into Meg’s room and barely had it locked before a heavy fist began pounding, rattling the door against the jamb.

“Open it, woman, or I’ll wring your neck.”

The gun she’d snatched from Giles contained one shot—useless against three intruders. Aside from that, a small voice inside told her to wait to reveal it. Tillie cast frantically about the room for another weapon. The fireplace poker!

Yanking it from its stand, she rushed to a nearby window and smashed out the glass. A second later, the door behind her crashed open and three figures with murderous intent carved upon their faces bore down on her. She swung the poker wildly. It made a brief, fleshy connection and then someone snatched it out of her hands.

She let out a scream, but even that was short-lived. The man in the cap drew back his fist.

A second later, everything went dark.

The area around the poker table had grown more crowded as the game of cards intensified. With each hand, cheers went up from some, jeers from others. Morgan fidgeted with his collar, tapped his fingers on the table, even tried to appear warm—not too difficult a task with so many bodies pressed up close.

“All right,” he blurted, scowling at those seated around the table, “let’s see ’em.” He jabbed his finger at Rourke. “You! Turner. What have you got?”

His lips stretching in a thin smile, Rourke laid down a pair of eights and three queens. Eyes narrowed, he stared at Morgan across the table. “Well?”

Morgan hesitated a moment, then feigning disgust he threw his cards facedown on the table.

Rourke barked a laugh as he leaned forward and raked in the pot. “Just not your night, eh, fella?” He yawned, then packed up the coins and bills and shoved them into his pocket. “My thanks for the game.”

Morgan bolted out of his chair and stood swaying, his finger jabbed at Rourke’s face. “Hold up there. You mean to say you’re not going to give me a chance to win me money back?”

The instant he rose, several of Rourke’s kinsmen also stood and gathered at Rourke’s shoulder. Quiet fell over the pub as all eyes swung toward the circle of glowering faces.

“Well?” Morgan demanded. “Are we gonna play or not?”

Rourke gave a snort. “With what? Last I saw, you were nigh unto broke, and I dinna do credit.”

Uneasy laughter rippled through the room.

Morgan blustered a bit, then reached into his pocket, drew out the ring and set it on the table. “Broke, eh? Take a look at that. It’s gotta be worth something.”

He fidgeted while Rourke scooped up the ring and gave it a close examination. Morgan had begun to think he might be overdoing it when Rourke at last laid the ring in the center of the table and gave a nod.

“Nice piece of jewelry. Where’d you get it?”

“None of your business. Are you in or not?”

Rourke scratched his head as though thinking. “I’m not sure. Not all that into rings, even fancy ones. Besides, how do I know you didn’t steal it?”

By now, heads had begun to swivel back and forth as people followed the confrontation between the two men.

Good. Now to up the ante.

Leaning forward, Morgan grabbed the ring and then braced both hands on the table, palms down, and growled, “Same way I know you’re not a cheater.”

Boots scuffled the floor as Malcolm strode forward and threw his coat onto the floor. “Did I just hear you accuse my nephew of cheating?”

Rourke grabbed Malcolm’s arm, keeping him from circling around to where Morgan waited. “Easy, Uncle. Not worth the time.”

“Not worth the time, or worried I’ll kill the old man and then start on you?”

Rourke looked genuinely angry as he shoved back his chair. “That’s enough.”

“You’re a coward,” Morgan sneered, “on top of being a cheat.”

The whole Turner clan looked mad enough to fight. Hopefully they’d gotten their instructions right or the rest of the scene would play out very badly.

Sucking in a breath, Morgan counted to three, then jumped up onto the table and over the other side. Rourke caught him in midair, twisting so that both of them crashed to the floor. In the same instant, the rest of the Turners descended. Fists flailed and bodies rolled over and past him. Though the fight was staged, more than one of them landed a solid punch. Morgan narrowly escaped a heavy boot to his skull.

Tucking his elbows in tight, he had gotten off a couple of hard licks of his own when a loud boom split the air. Instantly the fight was over, and the men who’d pretended to bludgeon him now stood shoulder to shoulder with him, but what had drawn their attention, he could not see.

Breathing heavily, Morgan straightened and pushed forward until he cleared the crowd. At the door, he drew to a shocked halt. Cass stood weaving at the entrance, his face waxen and covered with sweat, a pistol dangling from his limp fingers.

“Morgan?”

Morgan leapt forward as his brother began to fall. With one arm he caught Cass; with the other he grabbed the pistol from his hand. Rourke hurried over, and together they laid him on the floor.

“What happened?” Rourke said, his voice low.

“I dinna know. Cass?” Morgan grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. Sweat dampened his body, and the wound that the doctor had taken such cares to stitch had broken open, staining his white shirt.

Morgan lifted his head and saw Rourke over Cass’s body. “The boardinghouse.”

Cold fingers closed around Morgan’s hand. He looked down.

“Morgan,” Cass panted, his lips white and his eyes wild to the point of delirium, “they have Tillie.”

“Tillie? Tillie, lass, are you all right?”

“You shouldn’t have hit her so hard.”

“What should I have done, let her scream her head off? How long do you think it would have taken for the neighbors to come a runnin’ if I’d not done it?”

Bit by bit, Tillie began sorting the voices out—from Laverne’s worried crooning to Mary’s strident rasp.

She struggled to come fully awake, and then groaned as pain radiated up from her cheekbone all the way to her eye socket.

“She’s waking up.” A tremor shook Laverne’s voice.

“Praise God.” That from Amelia, followed by, “Meg, bring me that water.”

“Hold up. I dinna want either one of ya going any nearer.”

Tillie managed to peel open her eyelids to see Mary clutching a pistol and holding both Amelia and Meg at bay. Behind her stood the man in the gray cap and two others she didn’t recognize.

One, she realized. The other was the man she’d kicked, and he still looked decidedly angry.

Laverne’s face bobbed into view. Beads of sweat rolled over her cheeks and neck, and tears welled in her eyes. “Thank God you’re all right, dearie. We tried to warn you and—”

Jerking up, Tillie grabbed her hand and gave a frantic shake of her head. The motion caused white spots to flash before her eyes. Dizzy from the pain, she clutched Laverne’s fingers.

“G-Giles?” she managed through gritted teeth.

“They’ve got ’im tied up in the parlor.” With each word, Laverne shuddered harder. She turned disapproving eyes to their captors. “Shame on you all, coming in here and terrorizing a bunch of helpless women and one old man.”

“Shut up!” Mary screeched, pointing the gun at Laverne. She turned the barrel toward Tillie and waved it at her. “You there. Get up.”

“She’s hurt, thanks to ’im.” Laverne jerked her chin at the man in the cap.

“She’ll be hurt a lot worse if she doesn’t do what I say.”

Placing her hand on Laverne’s arm, Tillie tried to will confidence into her touch. “The four of us, and Giles, we’ll be all right as long as we do what they say.”

Tillie struggled to her feet. She dared not risk a glance at Meg and Amelia, but could only hope as she crossed to Mary that they’d understood her silent message.

“The ring,” Mary demanded. “Where is it?”

“I do not have it.”

“Neil?” Mary motioned to the man in the cap, who took hold of Tillie’s arms and jerked them behind her back.

“Where is it?” he growled, his breath hot against her neck.

Tillie shook her head. “I gave it to Keon—Captain Morgan. He was going to use it to try and lure you out.”

Neil’s grip on her arms loosened, and he shoved her out of the way. “They lit out of here a while ago. We’ll kill the girl and get the ring when they come back.”

Tillie’s heart leapt to her throat as Mary nodded her agreement. Raising the gun, she said, “You heard him, lass. You’re of no further use.”

A small part of her brain heard and recognized Meg scream, and Laverne and Amelia gasp, but another part struggled for a way of escape.

The money.

Where the thought came from she couldn’t say, only that it was there, and with it a plan.

She held up her hand. “I have s-something else. Something you want.” When no shot rang out, she spoke slower, measuring each word. “I have some money . . . hidden upstairs.”

“Liar. How would a snip like you come by money?”

“I’ve been saving it to buy an orphanage.” She blinked. “I mean a house. I was going to make it into an orphanage.”

“It’s true,” Amelia said, speaking up for the first time. Though Mary swung the gun her way, she refused to look away. “She works for a milliner on Ashberry Street, just down from—”

“Enough,” Mary snapped.

She cut her gaze to Neil. Moving to stand before Tillie, he studied her for a moment. “How much money?”

Nervousness clutched her throat. “Almost ten thousand.”

Going by his expression, she’d obviously captured Neil’s interest, but Mary hissed over his shoulder, “She’s lying. She couldna have earned that much.”

“I didn’t earn it all,” Tillie said. “My fiancé and I brought most of it with us from Ireland.” She turned her attention to Neil. “Please, I’ll give it to you, all of it, if you’ll just leave us alone.”

She saw the calculation in his eyes. Finally he nodded and motioned for Mary to step out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked. “You heard what he said. If he finds out—”

Neil spun, silencing her with a look. “But he wilna find out, because you wilna tell him.” He raised his brows at the other two men, who’d watched the exchange in silence. Both men nodded, their eyes gleaming as greedily as his.

He swung back to Mary. “See? He won’t find out.” He jerked his chin at the men. “Keep an eye on the women.” To Tillie, he said, “You come with me.”

Though her feet felt carved from stone, she had no choice but to obey. Walking slowly only earned her a cruel shove to the back. She stumbled over the hem of her skirt and nearly fell.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Neil eyeing her with suspicion. “No tricks, eh, lassie? Or I’ll kill ya with me own bare hands.”

“No tricks. But I’m not a fool. You’ll kill me anyway.”

“Aye, I will. But get me that money, and maybe I’ll be quick about it.”

His words alone were enough to strike terror into her heart, but added to the matter-of-fact way in which he spoke them . . .

Tillie shuddered and groped for the lamp.

“No! Leave it.”

She strained to see his face in the dim light. “’Tis dark down here. It’ll be darker upstairs.”

“Fine.” He picked up the lamp and tipped his head toward the hall. “Move.”

Her knees quivering, Tillie ascended the stairs, mentally noting their number.

One. Two. Three.

So this was what a condemned person felt like when approaching the gallows.

Four. Five
.

Where were Keondric and the others? It had to have been an hour or more since Cass had gone for help.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Her throat tightened as she approached the top of the stairs. That money was her last hope. Once Neil had it . . .

His coat rustled. At the top of the stairs she turned and watched him mount the last two. In his free hand, a knife glinted. Surprisingly, the fear she’d felt while climbing the stairs had settled into determined resolve.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I want your word,” Tillie said, the waver fading from her voice.

Settling onto his heels, he grinned in the face of her bravado. “My word? On what?”

“Whatever you’re doing here, and whatever you intend to do with that knife, I want your word that you will not hurt them. Amelia or Giles or . . .” She felt tears threaten and blinked them back. “You were sent here to kill me. Not them.”

She finished on a whisper, the truth of her plea stunning her into silence. They’d been sent to kill
her
. Why? What had she done but sit by her fiancé’s side as he lay dying? And what had his death been worth? She realized then she would never know.

Instead of the softening she’d hoped to see caused by her speech, Neil seemed incited by it. He raised the lamp, the flicker of the flame reflected in the depths of his eyes. “The money. Now.”

“They dinna know anything,” Tillie begged. “They’re innocent—”

“Now!” He thrust his face into hers. Gasping, she fell against the wall and jerked her head away.

“Where is it?”

She pointed a shaking finger toward the first bedroom. Grabbing her by the arm, he dragged her down the hall and thrust her through the half-open door.

“Show me.”

Averting her face lest he see through her ruse, Tillie made her way past Meg’s bed to her wardrobe.

“What are you waiting for?” Muttering curses beneath his breath, Neil shoved past her, set the lamp aside, and threw open the doors. The muttering continued, growing louder as he yanked out shirts and dresses, tossing them on the floor.
The deeper he dug into the wardrobe, the more violent his movements became, until finally he whirled and pointed the knife at her throat.

Cringing, she braced for the agony of the blade. Instead, Neil let out a breath, gathered himself, and then smiled.

Touching his temple with the tip of the knife, he said, “Smart girl, ain’t ya? Thought you’d stall for time?” The smile disappeared, replaced by a reptilian coldness that sucked the strength from her limbs.