Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (16 page)

Monday morning, Morgan departed the boardinghouse early and made for the dock. After speaking with Bozey, he left the noise of the shipyard and veered left toward a crowded part of town. Crowded, and far more dangerous.

Reaching inside his coat, he adjusted the harness over his shoulder so that the pistol fit snugly against his side. At least Bozey knew where he was going, or where to look if he disappeared.

He quickened his pace. Some twenty minutes later he arrived at Cherry Street, which Bozey insisted was the best place to ask the kinds of questions for which Morgan needed answers.

Cutting straight through the Lower East Side, Cherry Street was home to hundreds of immigrants, many of them Irish. They lived and worked in the bricked tenements and shops packed side by side and stretching in all directions. Metal fire escapes snaked up the walls, their barred landings forming ready-made clotheslines on every floor. On the street level, people teemed around businesses of every sort. One brightly painted window boasted butter and eggs. Next to it, a ragged awning fluttered over a sign touting custom-made
coffins. Farther down, women dressed in suggestive silk dresses lounged around the entrance to a dimly lit pub.

Easing into the flow of human traffic, Morgan wandered until he spotted a run-down hotel with a battered door that swung from rusty hinges. Inside, the lobby swarmed with men and women of all ages, many of them still looking inebriated from the night before.

“We’re full up,” the proprietor grunted from behind the counter. Hefting a basket stuffed with soiled linens, he propped it on his hip and circled the counter.

“Not looking for a room,” Morgan replied, crossing to him.

The proprietor lifted a snowy eyebrow. “What’re you doing here, then?”

“Hoping you can help me.” Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture he’d begged off James Finch from among Donal’s things. “Have you seen this man?”

The proprietor spared only a cursory glance. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Shifting the basket higher on his hip, he squinted up at Morgan. “Who is he?”

“One of my crewmen.”

“Jumped ship, did he?”

Morgan returned the picture to his pocket. “No, he died. Someone killed him.”

“Sorry to hear that. Can’t help you, though.”

He scurried away with clipped, mincing steps. Morgan followed. “Can you tell me where I might ask—?”

“Nope.”

Pushing through a swinging door, the proprietor ducked his head and disappeared.

Morgan caught the door as it swung back. Even had the man known something, he wouldn’t have been willing to
help, a conclusion Morgan drew from having made several such visits yesterday. Disgusted, he turned and left the hotel.

Two more stops yielded similar results. The third place—a noisy restaurant catering to a distinctly Irish crowd—was only slightly more hopeful, with a waitress who claimed she thought she remembered seeing Donal but who was unable to pinpoint how long ago or who he’d been with.

His frustration growing, Morgan thanked the woman and returned to the street. He’d gone only a few steps when he felt something prod him from behind.

“Dinna turn around.”

Morgan tensed. The pressure against his ribs increased until he felt the uncomfortable pricking of a blade.

“Up there. Green door on yer right. Take the alley next to it and keep walking.”

Away from observing eyes? Not likely.

And yet the man wasn’t a pickpocket or he’d have lifted Morgan’s money pouch and disappeared into the crowd. What then did he want?

“Who are you?” Morgan hissed, resisting the painful prompting of the man’s knife.

“Walk or I slit ya open where you stand.”

For a heart-pounding second, Morgan debated the wisdom of obedience, but to confront the man on the street would mean risking injury to innocent bystanders. He started walking.

The door the man indicated belonged to a butcher. The alley alongside it reeked of slaughterhouse remains. Crates and boxes leaned at odd angles. A little push would send them toppling. Fingers flexed, Morgan sucked in a breath and entered the alley by three paces. One more and they’d be out of the sight of passersby.

The man behind him had inched closer, tension rippling from him in waves. He’d asked no questions, made no demands.
Probably not a good thing and certainly not something Morgan was willing to leave to chance.

He curled his hands into fists and feigned the last step. The man moved with him, but faster. Too fast.

Instead of walking straight ahead, Morgan ducked to his right and whirled. The man’s arm flashed downward, the knife clutched in his hand grazing Morgan’s arm.

Palm out, Morgan struck the man’s nose and sent his head flying backward. Blood gushed over his lips and chin, but that only slowed him for a moment. Eyes watering, the man crouched low and circled Morgan, the knife swaying in lazy circles.

“You’ll pay for that.”

“Who are you?” Morgan demanded, his confidence returning now that the field had been leveled a bit.

“Somebody that wants you dead.”

“Why?”

Barely had he spoken when the man lunged at him again. This time, Morgan thrust both hands out. With his right he caught the man at the crook of his elbow, buckling his arm. His left he balled into a fist and landed a punch on the man’s back just above the kidney.

The man let go a yowl of pain and dropped to his knees. Grabbing hold of his wrist, Morgan twisted until the knife fell to the street with a clatter. Kicking it away, Morgan wrenched the man’s arm around his back and up until he squealed.

“I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”

“McDermott. My name’s McDermott.”

“Why were you following me?”

“I was paid to kill you.”

“By who?”

Screwing his eyes shut, the man grunted and thrust himself forward.

“Who!” Morgan demanded, increasing the pressure against the man’s wrist until he groaned again.

“Don’t know who. Some bloke met me in a bar last night and offered me fifty dollars.”

Tempted to snap the man’s wrist, Morgan drew a shuddering breath and leaned hard over the man’s shoulder. “Liar. Yesterday was Sunday. The pubs were closed.”

All trace of surrender melted from the man’s face. Sweat poured over his brow, and a snarl rent from his lips. Craning his neck, he peered up at Morgan. “Go ahead, break it. I’ll hunt you down anyway. You and that sniveling brother of yours. And the girl? I’ll take me time with her—”

He broke off, and for a moment Morgan thought it was from pain, but then his eyes widened, and Morgan realized he wasn’t staring at him but at something behind him. The hair on his neck rose. Instinct took over. Flinging the man’s arm away, he dove for the stack of crates piled along the wall of the alley.

A second later, a barrage of hot lead split the air.

Wearily, Tillie slid her shawl from her shoulders and hung it over a peg in the hallway. Once again, business at the millinery had been heavy. Cass had attempted cheerful banter, but with her heart grieved over the trouble Jacob had encountered because of her, and her thoughts preoccupied on how she would separate herself from Cass long enough to show the ring to Patrick, she’d hardly paid attention.

Tugging the knot free on her bonnet, she deposited it on the peg next to her shawl. Down the hall, Cass’s laughter rang, and Giles and Laverne’s echoed back.

Good. Perhaps he’d be engrossed elsewhere long enough to give her time to think through her dilemma.

Behind her, the door banged open, letting in a burst of balmy afternoon air. Expecting Meg, she turned and was surprised to see it was Morgan, leaning against the frame. Relief flooded over her. She’d not seen him since yesterday morn, but rather than confess what had happened at the church to Cass, she’d waited, hoping for a chance to speak with Morgan alone.

She stepped toward him, her hand outstretched. “You’re home—”

Morgan slammed the door shut, then whirled to face her. “Where’s Cass?”

Recoiling, Tillie yanked her hand back. “In the kitchen. Why?”

“Away from the door,” he said. Then, grabbing her arm, he pulled her toward the rear of the house and the library.

“Morgan, what’s happened?” Tillie demanded.

Only when they were inside the library and the drapes drawn did he slow down enough to look at her, and still he gripped her arms tightly. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“And Cass? The others?”

“All fine, so far as I know. I just got home myself.”

She glanced down at his fingers where they pinched into her flesh. Blood stained the back of his hand. Her heart leapt to her throat. “You’re bleeding.”

“A scratch. I’ll be fine.” He pulled her closer. “Tillie, did you see anyone today? Anyone unusual?”

She shook her head.

“What about at the shop or on the walk home?”

“No one.”

At her response, a bit of the tension drained from his face, and his hold slackened until finally he released her. “Wait here.”

He reached for the knob, but this time it was she who grabbed his arm. “Morgan.”

For several heart-pounding moments, neither of them spoke but only stared into each other’s eyes. At last he took her hand from his arm and walked with her to Amelia’s favorite settee in an alcove left of the door. When they sat, he kept hold of her hand, a fact that both frightened and thrilled her.

Lines of worry creased his brow. But it was the intensity in his expression that held her bound.

“I went into the city today,” he began.

Her fingers tightened around his. “Why?”

“I was searching for someone who might have seen Donal before he died.” Pulling a picture from his pocket, he leaned forward to show it to her.

She took the picture, studied it, then returned it to him and clasped her hands in her lap. “And? Did you?”

He grimaced. “No.”

“Was that where you went yesterday, too?”

“Aye. I was hoping I might find some clue as to who he was meeting.”

Unable to argue with the logic of his quest, she turned instead to the danger he’d faced. “But why go alone? Wouldn’t it have been better to let Cass or Rourke . . .” She paused. Though she couldn’t say it, the thought that she might have lost him filled her with dread. Unbelievably, he seemed to sense the feelings stirring within her, but she read no revulsion in the gentle touch he placed against her cheek. His warm palm loosed the tears gathering in her eyes so that they streamed over her cheeks and chin.

“Tillie,” he breathed, pulling her to his chest.

Though she longed to savor his embrace, she resisted, bracing both hands against his shoulders until he looked at her, surprised.

“You . . . you have to tell me the rest.” She forced her eyes to the crimson stain on his jacket. “What happened to your arm?”

He blew out a sigh. “I was asking around Cherry Street. Someone came up on me from behind with a knife.”

She widened her eyes, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

“He forced me into an alley.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “He was going to kill you.”

“Either that or he wanted to ask me some questions.”

He seemed reluctant to voice the rest, and deep down she was reluctant to hear it. Wrapping her arms around her middle, Tillie squeezed her eyes shut. “’Tis my fault.”

“No.”

“It is. Yesterday, Jacob Kilarny met me at the church. A couple of men waylaid him, too. Beat him and almost killed him. He said it was because they saw him talking to me.”

He did pull her to his chest then, even though she resisted, even though at first she would not allow her arms to encircle his waist.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should never have gone to Jacob.”

“Shh.”

“I should never have let you help me.”

“No, Tillie.” Pulling away, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. “You couldn’t have stopped me.”

“But—”

Laying a finger to her lips, he shook his head. “I lied, Tillie. It wasn’t my ma what convinced me to come. I wanted to help you. Wanted to see you. And when I did, when I knew that someone . . . that you . . .”

He trailed off, but she knew there was more he wanted to say, and more she wanted to hear. His gaze fell to her mouth.

She held her breath, waiting.

He drew closer.

She let her eyes drift closed and lifted her chin.

“Tillie?” The library door banged open and Cass’s voice boomed in the quiet room. “You in here?”

In the span it took for her to jerk her eyes open, Morgan had pulled away and stood to his feet. She stared up at him, her heart pounding as he raked one hand through his hair. A second later he snapped his mouth closed and dropped both hands to his sides.

“We’re here, Cass.” He spared her one last glance before stepping from the alcove.

Cass dipped into her sight, his brow wrinkled with confusion. “You’re back?”

“Aye. I got back a few minutes ago.”

“What’d you find?”

Morgan looked at her and then his brother. “We need to talk. Can you sit with Tillie while I fetch the others?”

“Aye, but—”

Before he finished, Morgan disappeared out the library door.

“What was that all about?” Jamming his fists to his hips, Cass peered down at Tillie. “Say . . . are you all right?” He frowned, dropped onto the settee next to her. Collecting her hand, he pressed it between both of his. “Your fingers are cold, and you’re trembling.”

She could only shake her head.

“Tillie, what happened?” he demanded. “Was it Morgan? Did he say something?”

“No—”

Standing, Cass stalked the length of the library and back. “That brother of mine, so thickheaded. Always trying to draw blood out of a turnip. I told him not to push you.”

“Cass, wait. That’s not what happened.”

“No? Then why are you so upset?”

“Because something happened today. And yesterday. Oh . . .” She pressed her fingers to her temples.

His eyes widened. He strode to her and, clasping her hand, lifted her fingers up to see them better. “You’re bleeding!”

“What?”

“Your hands. You’ve been hurt.”

Indeed, dried blood stained the tips of her fingers, but it wasn’t hers. She shook her head again. “No. I’m fine.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

“Someone’s hurt?” The questions piled up as first Laverne, then Meg and Giles filed into the library, followed by Amelia and Morgan.

“No.” Tillie rose to her feet. “That is, Morgan’s hurt, but I’m not.”

“Morgan’s hurt!” Amelia spun to stare at him. “You didn’t tell us you were wounded. Laverne, fetch some bandages.”

Before she could leave, Morgan held up his hand to stop her. “A scratch only. I’ll be all right.”

She didn’t argue, but it was Cass’s response that Tillie found surprising. He said nothing but stood with his arms crossed, glaring at his older brother.

Morgan motioned toward the various chairs scattered about the library. All were situated so as to create cozy reading nests, but right now, Tillie knew he’d want them gathered close. She grabbed one and drew it closer to the settee. Soon the others followed suit. Except for Cass. He remained standing at the window.

“So? What happened, lad?” Giles asked, propping both elbows on his knees.

As concisely as he’d explained to her, Morgan told the others about his venture and how it had evolved. Having been interrupted before he could tell her of the shooting, Tillie was as shocked as the rest.

“And the bloke who attacked you?” Giles said. “What happened to him?”

Morgan’s face reddened and he looked at neither Tillie nor Cass. “Killed by a stray bullet.”

Amelia’s soft gasp resounded in the silent room.

“And the shooter?” Meg asked, her eyes wide.

“He ran off before anyone could stop him.”

“Anyone get a good look at him?” Cass said, his clipped words making Tillie wince.

Morgan nodded. “A couple of witnesses. None had seen him before. They gave his description to the police.”

“Heaven help us,” Amelia whispered, pressing both hands to her mouth. “Thank God you were not seriously injured.”

“Might have helped if you’d told someone where you were going,” Cass said.

“I did,” Morgan grunted. “Bozey.”

Whether he realized it or not, his answer only seemed to infuriate Cass further. Inhaling a deep breath, he shook his head and then strode from the room. Silence reverberated in his wake.

Finally, Tillie rose to her feet. “Rourke should know what has happened.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Morgan snapped. “Not alone. ’Tisn’t safe.”

Amelia crossed to wrap her arm around Tillie’s waist. “I agree.”

“I’ll go.” Giles flashed a quick glance at Laverne, who nodded.

“I’ll fetch me cape.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “You’re going, too?”

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.” She jerked her thumb at Giles and grinned. “I’d like to see anyone try and lay a hand on him while I’m around.”

“No, Laverne,” Morgan said, rising. “Better if Cass or I go.”

“Right, and ain’t you and him the ones they’re after?”

“She’s right,” Amelia said. “Besides, your arm still needs tending.” Crossing to Laverne, she grabbed one of her hands and one of Giles’s and held them tight. “Hurry back.”

When they’d gone, she bade Meg to ready the bandages while she went into the kitchen to heat water, leaving Tillie alone to wait with Morgan.

She motioned to his coat. “You should take that off. Meg and I will see that it gets laundered and repaired.”

To her surprise, he did as she asked without argument, wincing when it came time to slide his arm from the sleeve.

Tillie hurried to help, her eyes widening at the width and depth of the cut on his arm. “I thought you said it was a scratch,” she scolded through tight lips.

“’Tis less than it could have been,” he replied.

“And more than it should have been,” she retorted. Her fingers shaking, she laid his still-warm coat over her arm.

As though she had not spoken, he moved to stand before her. “I meant what I said earlier. You couldn’t have stopped me from trying to help.”

She would have formed a reply had not his next action robbed her of logical thought. Bending low, Morgan claimed her free hand and brought it slowly to his lips. She held her breath as he pressed a kiss to the back.

“Guess I’d best see about getting this thing tended to.” Releasing her, he hitched his shoulder and walked to the door, pausing there with one hand on the jamb. “You’ll fetch me when Giles and Laverne return?” At her nod, he ducked out of the library.

Her heart racing, Tillie stared for several seconds as the door slid closed. It was only then—when he’d gone and his steps had faded down the hall—that she realized she still hadn’t drawn a breath.