Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (19 page)

Frustration and rage simmered in The Celt’s gut and licked like fire along his veins. Even the gentle rocking of the coach taunted him, reminding him that while all seemed secure on the outside, on the inside, one slip, one misspoken word could spell his downfall.

His grip tightened on the head of his pearl-handled cane, a gift he’d received long ago from a person he barely remembered. How could it be that after everything he’d been through, every move he’d made to ensure his success, one tiny lass could be his undoing?

No. He lifted the cane and drove it against the floor of the coach. No, he’d not let some foolish child rob him of everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. Too much blood had been spilled to let her spoil things now. Even his own son . . .

Regret washed over him and then faded.

His son had always been aware of the stakes. His death had been unfortunate and untimely, nothing more. Given the chance, he’d no doubt lay down his life all over again if it meant they would move one step closer to their goal. Despite
his flaws, his rash and idealistic ways, his son had always been loyal. A good and brave lad.

“We’re close,” he said, willing the whispered words across the ocean to a narrow grave and his son’s lifeless ears.

But first, there was something he needed to do, needed to know.

The coach slowed, its wheels rumbling over the cobbled street. At last, it stopped altogether, and his driver peered at him over his shoulder.

“Here it is, sir, 1364 Ashberry Street.”

The home of an old friend and acquaintance. Reining in his emotions, The Celt rose, adjusting for the pitch of the coach as he climbed down. By the time he’d traveled up the walk and mounted the stairs leading to the front door, he no longer shook from struggling to contain his rage. By the time the door swung open in response to his knock, he had a pleasant smile fixed to his lips.

“Surprised?” The Celt said, opening his arms wide and inviting a hug. “It’s been a long time.”

Amelia Matheson stared, her eyes wide and unblinking, and her lips parting in a slow, pleased smile. “Well, for heaven’s sake, look who’s here.” Her hand fell from the knob as she stepped from the entrance into his embrace.

After a moment, she pulled away, her hands gripping his arms, and tipped her head to peer up at him. “Douglas Healy, you old goat. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Weariness began to surface from somewhere deep within Tillie—not just weariness but a great deal of worry mingled in, as well.

At least the boardinghouse was peaceful, with everyone either ensconced in their rooms as they changed for dinner or not yet home from work. Tillie made her way down the hall toward the stairs. Maybe she could catch a quiet moment alone in her room. To think. And pray.

Low voices drifted from the parlor. She paused with her hand on the banister. One belonged to Amelia, but the other was most definitely masculine. Giles?

No, this voice was much deeper.

She left the stairs and eased toward the parlor door. It opened before she reached it, and Amelia stepped out.

“Oh, Tillie. I thought I heard someone stirring.”

“I thought I heard voices.”

“Yes . . . ah . . .” She glanced behind her at the partially open door. “That was just . . .”

A flush crept over Amelia’s cheeks, startling against her cap of snowy white hair. Yet it wasn’t a pleased flush or even the pale pink of shyness. She was embarrassed.

“Amelia,” Tillie said, grasping her friend’s arm, “is everything all right?”

“Of course.” Lifting her chin, Amelia stepped back into the parlor and pushed the door open wide. “You remember Douglas Healy?”

Tillie’s breath caught. Aye, she remembered him, and his daughter-in-law, Deidre, who last year had tried to kill Rourke and Cara.

Hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt, Tillie gave a curtsy. “Welcome back, Mr. Healy.”

“Thank you, Miss . . . McGrath, is it?”

“That’s correct.”

Mr. Healy’s full mustache wiggled as his lips turned in a broad smile. “Mrs. Matheson and I were just about to indulge in a cup of tea.” He gestured to a tray sitting on the table in the center of the parlor. “Will you join us?”

Tillie directed a glance toward Amelia. Despite his jovial air, she still seemed flustered. Her fingers were red from wringing, and damp tendrils had escaped from her normally perfect bun to cling to her temples and neck.

Turning her back to Mr. Healy, Tillie lowered her voice and clasped Amelia’s fingers. “Are you all right?”

Amelia’s attention shifted to the figure looming over Tillie’s shoulder. “I . . . would appreciate if you helped with the tea.” She smiled weakly and moved toward the table. “Shall we?”

“There are only two cups,” Tillie said.

Amelia rang a small bell on the table. “I’ll have Laverne fetch another.”

Tillie marveled as Amelia poured first a cup of tea for Mr. Healy and then one for Tillie. Though there was no doubt that she was upset, the cup barely rattled as she pressed it into her waiting hands.

Amelia removed the lid from the sugar bowl and held it high for Mr. Healy. “Still like your tea sweet?”

Such a benign question, yet every word, every syllable, seemed electrically charged. How did Amelia know how Mr. Healy liked his tea? Catching him staring at her, Tillie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Why had his gaze been pinned on her since the moment she’d entered the room? She barely knew the man.

Lifting her cup, she took a sip, allowing the warm liquid to calm her frayed nerves. A light knock sounded on the parlor door, and Amelia rose to answer.

“Another cup, please, Laverne,” she said, “and some of those marmalade cookies I like so much.”

Her quiet murmur faded as Tillie’s eyes locked with Mr. Healy’s over the rim of her cup. She lowered it slowly. “So, Mr. Healy, how long are you in America?”

“That depends,” he said, reaching for a pearl-handled cane resting against the arm of his chair and worrying the tip of it between his fingers. “I’ve some business that needs attending before I can think about going back.”

“Business?”

He brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, yet his eyes remained fixed on her. “Aye. Unpleasant, and all that, especially since I thought it was something I’d taken care of long ago, but that is the way of things now and then I suppose.”

Tillie replaced her cup in its saucer with a clatter. It wasn’t the words he spoke, for truly he made lighthearted chatter. It was his steady stare she found so unnerving and . . . threatening.

Setting aside her cup, she stood. “I should help Laverne with dinner.”

She glanced at the door, where Amelia stood holding the empty cup and saucer Laverne had supplied.

“Forgive me for not staying. I hope you dinna mind.”

“Not at all.” Amelia looked past her toward Mr. Healy.

He too set aside his cup and rose. “I think it’s about time I was going, as well.” Picking up his cane, he went to Amelia and took the cup from her loose fingers. “So nice to see you again, my dear. You will think on what we discussed?”

“You know I will, Douglas.”

Though she smiled, it wasn’t the kind to reach her eyes. Tillie noted lines of strain around her mouth, and a stiffness to the set of her shoulders.

Leaning slightly, Amelia stood on tiptoe to wrap Mr. Healy in a hug. “Good-bye, Douglas. Come and see me again soon.”

“I will. Good day, Amelia.” Rescuing his fedora from the ladder-back chair where he’d hung it, he plopped it onto his head and bowed first to Amelia and then to Tillie. “Ladies.”

Only when he’d let himself out did Tillie feel free to breathe again. Amelia also let out a long sigh.

“What was
he
doing here?” Tillie asked.

Reaching for her empty cup, Amelia shook her head and shrugged. “Douglas and I are old friends.” Tillie followed as Amelia carried the cup to the tea tray and deposited it next to the still-steaming pot. “Despite what happened last summer, the two of us share a history. It is difficult to explain.”

“Did you speak about what happened?”

“Only briefly. The loss still grieves him.”

“Why then did he visit?”

A worried frown creased Amelia’s lips. “To be honest, Tillie, I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

Amelia motioned toward the chair Mr. Healy had vacated. Tillie took it while Amelia sat opposite her.

“He was very charming as always, very warm and friendly, but this time he asked so many questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

Her frown deepened. “About the boardinghouse, who I have staying here and the like, but then . . .”

“Aye?”

Amelia lifted troubled eyes to Tillie. “He asked about Cara and Rourke—if I had seen them and whether they corresponded with you.”

“With me?” Tillie pressed her hand to her throat.

“Yes. I thought that was odd, but then Douglas has always tried to look out for me. . . .” She trailed off, her thoughts apparently shifting to some faraway time.

Tillie leaned forward to clasp her hand. “Amelia, how long have you known Mr. Healy?”

Slowly her eyes came back into focus. “Thirty-five years or more. Ever since I was a young woman.”

“And how did the two of you meet?”

As though driven by a stiff wind, a shudder closed over Amelia’s expression. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, but even so, Tillie read tension in the white skin stretched across her knuckles.

“Amelia?” she prodded. “Is something wrong?”

When Amelia finally looked at her again, tears glistened in her eyes. “I’ve been lying to you, Tillie. Douglas Healy is more than just an old friend.”

Tillie’s throat tightened, yet somehow she managed to push the words past her stiff lips. “What do you mean, you’ve been lying? If he’s not a friend, what is he?”

Her hand limp, Amelia gestured around the room. “This . . . the boardinghouse. I suppose you could say he’s a benefactor.”

“What do you mean, Amelia? What did Mr. Healy do?”

For several long seconds, she merely stared. When she did speak, the words were almost impossible for Tillie to comprehend.

“Douglas Healy brought me here, to America. Tillie, he paid for this boardinghouse.”

“The Celt. Bligh said the ring belonged to The Celt?” Rourke paced the length of the library and wound up back at the fireplace, where Morgan sat with two of his kinsmen. The older one, a crusty old soldier named Malcolm, held up a gnarled hand.

“Hold on, lad. We still dinna know what any of that means to us, if anything.”

“He’s right,” a younger version of Malcolm added. “Given Braedon McKillop’s connection to the Fenians, it does seem likely, but we’ve come too far to act rashly now.”

“But if they were involved, Clive . . .” Rourke dragged his hand through his hair, then lifted his head to stare at his uncle. “If the Fenians killed Da . . .”

Malcolm rose, unfolding his length like a wave that grew and built until it crashed upon the shore. Morgan watched him warily. Rourke’s admiration for the man was obvious. He suspected it was his counsel that would determine Rourke’s course of action.

“Dinna forget, we accused someone wrongly of that same crime once before. What would that bonnie wife of yours say if she were here listening to us now?”

A heavy sigh ripped from Rourke’s throat. Morgan’s gaze
bounced among the three men. Finally he stood and crossed to Rourke.

“Do you think your uncle and your cousin can help me keep an eye on the boardinghouse?”

Rourke glanced at his uncle, who nodded.

“Aye, we can see to that.” Malcolm motioned to Clive. “Round up a few of the lads; have them take turns staking out the place. Tell them to report back to us if they see anything suspicious, and be careful, son.”

There was no hesitation in his step as Clive moved to clasp his father’s shoulder and then slipped out to do his bidding. Watching them, Morgan felt the smallest flicker of regret fan to life. He missed his own da, missed that they’d never had the opportunity to work side by side as men.

He shook the notion aside and focused his attention on Rourke. “What about your wife’s brother?”

“Eoghan is on his way,” he said. “I expect him tomorrow or the day after.”

“Good. And Kilarny? Any word?”

The two men shook their heads.

“No one’s seen him since he spoke with Tillie,” Rourke said.

Malcolm gave a low growl. “Kinna be good. We may need to scour the morgues.”

“I’ll see to it.” Rourke scribbled something across a sheet of paper, folded it in half, and stepped into the hall and handed it to his butler. With a few whispered words, the man was off.

When he returned, Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well? What now?”

Rourke and Malcolm exchanged a glance that sparked a troubled ember in the pit of Morgan’s belly.

“Now,” Rourke began, “we talk about how we’re going to uncover who this Celt is and what ties he has to Father.”

“I thought you said you and your uncles have been trying
to figure that out for a while. What makes you think it’ll be any different now?”

Again, a shared glance. Morgan set his jaw. “What?”

“She could be the key,” Malcolm said, his voice low.

Rourke’s head bowed. “I know.”

“Know what?” Morgan removed his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms. Shooting a sharp glare at Rourke, he said, “What is he talking about?”

Worry clouded Rourke’s countenance. “Morgan, I think . . . we need to talk to Tillie.”

The muscles in Morgan’s gut clenched. “Why?”

“We have an idea, but it may require her help.”

“What kind of help?”

“She may be the only one who can reason with Kilarny. He trusts her or he never would have sent her to Bligh.”

“So?”

“So, if we can find him, get him to talk to her, he may be able to point us to The Celt.”

A bit of the tension eased from Morgan’s body. “And that’s all you need from her?”

“For now,” Malcolm interjected with a shrug. “Later, who knows? We’ll have to see where this lead takes us.”

Morgan turned on his heel and paced the room. He didn’t like using Tillie even if it was only to glean information, but at least he could appreciate the man’s honesty.

“She has as much cause as either of us to want these questions answered, lad,” Malcolm continued. “Perhaps you should leave the depth of her involvement up to her.”

The words bit like iron into Morgan’s flesh. Gritting his teeth, he turned to glare at the two Turner men. “I’ll not allow you to use her as a pawn. If I think she’s in any danger—”

“Neither of us would risk her life unnecessarily,” Rourke cut in. “You can count on that.”

Morgan frowned. While he didn’t know Malcolm, what he’d come to learn about Rourke was that the man could be trusted. He relented with a nod. “Fine. We’ll talk to Tillie, see what she can find out.”

A look of understanding passed between him and Rourke. Morgan moved toward the window, hiding his face before either of the Turners wrested any more secrets. For now, all they knew was that it was important to him that
they keep Tillie safe. That’s all they would know, so long as he kept his blasted emotions under control. It was all anyone would know. Except for him. He could no longer lie to
himself.

He loved Tillie. More than he’d ever loved anyone. More than he’d loved Moira.

His back to Rourke and his uncle, Morgan’s hands closed into fists.

Well he understood the Turners’ loss, even felt a twinge of kinship in that both he and Rourke had lost their fathers. But if protecting Tillie meant shielding her from the Turners, that was exactly what he’d do.

Smoothing the concern from his features, he turned to face Rourke. “Now that we’re done with your questions, I have one of me own.”

Rourke nodded and motioned for him to continue.

Morgan drew a breath. “You’ve quite a collection of books.”

Rourke followed his gaze to the rows of shelves and back. “Aye?”

“Inside them, have you ever found any mention of the phrase ‘memento mori’?”

Tillie rocked back on her heels as the meaning of Amelia’s words penetrated the fog clouding her brain. Pacing did
nothing to dispel the confusion her confession had caused, and yet it was all Tillie could do.

“It was many years ago,” Amelia continued, holding out her hand and inviting Tillie to sit. “Please, dear, allow me to explain.”

Dragging her heavy feet across the floral rug, Tillie sank back into the chair she’d vacated. “Why have you said nothing about this? Even last summer, after we found out who Deidre was, how she and Mr. Healy were connected, you said nothing.”

Sorrow lined Amelia’s face. “Douglas asked me not to, but even if he hadn’t, I owed it to him to protect him.”

“Owed it to him?” Tillie widened her eyes. “Why?”

Amelia sighed. “I will tell you,” she said, her chin quivering, “but first I must know about the danger to you, Tillie. Who is trying to hurt you?”

Tillie hesitated a moment before revealing everything she and Morgan knew—from her final conversation with Braedon to Doc’s recent death.

“The poor boy,” Amelia said, shaking her head when Tillie explained the details of his murder.

“Braedon was a Fenian,” Tillie finished. “Morgan thinks all of this may somehow be tied to them.”

“A Fenian!” Amelia’s mouth fell open. “I thought . . . I knew your parents did not approve, but I never thought . . .” She trailed into silence and covered her face with one hand. “It seems we have more in common than I knew.”

Tillie drew back, confused. “I dinna understand.”

When she pulled her hand away, Amelia’s face was pale. “My husband was a Fenian—that is, he supported their cause.”

“But your husband was British.”

Amelia nodded. “It all started when Henry was a boy. I don’t know all the details, just that they met the day Douglas
saved Henry from drowning. The Mathesons were so grateful to him for saving their son, they took him in as one of their own. The two became great friends after that, hardly left each other’s side, despite their differences. When the potato famine struck, so many died of starvation during those terrible years, but the Mathesons never forgot what Douglas did. They saw to it that he and his family survived. It was shortly after that Henry and I were wed.”

She blinked as if struck by an onslaught of painful memories. “I always knew there was more to their relationship than Henry was telling.”

“What do you mean, Amelia? What didn’t he t-tell you?” A quaver she could not control shook Tillie’s voice.

Amelia drew a sharp breath. Despite the trembling of her chin, her expression remained steady. “Henry became a spy for the Fenians. He frequented various London circles and reported what he learned back to Douglas. It was during one of the Irish uprisings that Henry was killed and I finally learned the truth about his activities.”

“From Douglas.”

“Yes.”

The tension in Tillie’s chest made breathing difficult. She tugged at the buttons of her high-necked collar. “And the boardinghouse?”

“Douglas knew when the authorities found out about Henry’s involvement, suspicion would be cast upon me. He was determined to help, said he owed it to Henry to protect his widow.”

“So he brought you to America.”

“It was the only way to keep me from facing an inquisition, one we both knew I would not survive, at least not socially. No one would believe I had no knowledge of my husband’s actions. I would have been viewed as a traitor to England,
just as he was. At least here”—she encompassed the room with a wave of her hand—“I could live peaceably, even earn a living for myself and Laverne.”

“Laverne came with you from England?”

“She refused to leave me, even after she learned the truth about Henry.”

For several seconds, Tillie said nothing as she struggled to absorb all that Amelia had said. Finally she lifted her head. “Today . . . Mr. Healy . . .”

Amelia refused to meet Tillie’s gaze. “He checks on me from time to time—when he can, when he’s in America.” Pulling a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse, Amelia proceeded to wring it between her shaking fingers. “I was surprised to see him this time. I thought . . . I simply thought that somehow he had heard and . . . come to help.”

“Heard what?”

“Why, that—”

Amelia broke off. Deep furrows slashed across her brow, and a troubled frown tugged at her lips. At last her shoulders sagged, and she gave a weary wave of the handkerchief. “The financial situation here at the boardinghouse is far worse than I’ve let on, I’m afraid. Laverne is the only one who knows. I didn’t want to worry you or the others.”

“Amelia, what are you saying? How bad is it?”

Fear, deep and agonizing, brimmed in Amelia’s eyes.

“Oh, Amelia.” Leaning forward, Tillie pulled her into a hug. “You should have said something.”

A tremor shook Amelia’s frame. “I wanted to, even started to once or twice, but you and Meg were working so hard. And then I heard about your plans from Sister Agnes.”

The orphanage.

Tillie swallowed back a lump in her throat. She’d planned and scrimped and saved for so long. The idea of surrendering
her dream stabbed like a physical pain. Clenching her teeth, she gave herself a shake and lifted her chin. “None of that matters now. What matters is helping you—”

Amelia shook her head before she could finish.

“Now, Amelia, surely you dinna think I could let—”

Amelia rose from her seat and, taking both of Tillie’s hands, pulled her up. “Absolutely not, my dear. I simply refuse to accept your money, not when you have such worthy plans for it. Besides, Douglas’s coming could not have been more timely. Surely his visit was provision from the Lord.” She sniffed and drew a few deep breaths, calming herself. “Douglas has offered to help before when business was slow. I know I can count on him now.”

But did she want him to? Unease crept up through Tillie’s midsection. “Amelia, a man like Douglas Healy . . .”

“Yes?”

Tillie ran her tongue over her dry lips. “The two of you share a past, this much I understand, but what do you know of Douglas Healy now? Who he is and the kind of business he runs, I mean? Are you sure you can still trust him?”

Amelia crossed to the window and stood looking out.

Watching her, Tillie said, “You
are
worried, aren’t you?”

Amelia turned from the window, her features strained. “Deep down, Douglas is a good man, I’m sure of it. He never would have helped me after Henry’s death otherwise.”

“That was many years ago. People change.” She sucked in a breath, gathering courage. “Do you know if he’s still involved with the Fenians?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never asked him about his dealings, business or otherwise. Just like Henry. I suppose I didn’t want to know.”

She looked so fragile outlined in the glow of the afternoon sun streaming from the window. Tillie went to her and pulled
her into a hug. “Amelia, promise me you’ll wait to speak to Mr. Healy. Let me talk to Rourke first, see if there’s anything he can do to help. Maybe he can suggest another way to help you raise the money you need to keep the boardinghouse running.”

Uncertainty bunched the skin around Amelia’s eyes. “I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll speak to him this afternoon,” Tillie said, lifting her chin. “In fact, I’ll have Cass drive me over in the wagon right now. What do you say? Will you wait?”