The Angel (14 page)

“Lucky you didn’t land on a rock.”

“I suppose I am.”

He hopped down next to her, without having to drop down onto all fours to break his fall. “Where did you learn how to land like that?”

“Police academy.”

He shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask.”

“One of my false starts in life. Thank you,” she added.

“I appreciate the backup.”

“Backup?” He seemed amused, but he gave her a quick, professional appraisal. “Should I check you over for injuries—”

“I’m not hurt.” Keira imagined his big hands on her and felt a rush of heat, but attributed it to relief and adrenaline and changed the subject. “Did you have any trouble finding me? My directions were okay?”

“What directions?”

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“In the note I left at my cottage. I assume you went there first.”

“I didn’t see a note.”

“No? It was on the counter. Maybe the wind blew it onto the floor. How did you find me, then?”

“I used your drawings.”

She digested the notion of him going through her sketchbooks, but decided that, given the circumstances, she had no complaints.

“I found the rope and a flashlight in the kitchen,” he said.

“You’re good at pulling people out of messes, aren’t you?”

“First time I’ve come to the rescue of an American in Ireland.”

He wasn’t making fun of her, she realized, dusting herself off and wondering just how awful she looked. Filthy hair and nails and scraped knuckles. She could imagine her face—dirty, smudged, probably pale—and she ached, as much from the tension of her ordeal as hauling rocks and crawling around in the ruin.

“What happened?” Simon asked quietly.

The ruin looked downright eerie in the gathering darkness, and Keira didn’t know how she could accurately explain the past twenty-four hours to this feet-flat-on-the-floor man.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” she said.

He eyed her, and she could sense his questions, his doubts about her judgment, but he picked up his rope, slung it over his shoulder and didn’t press her to explain. “You’ve had a hell of a time.” He nodded up the stream toward open pasture.

“Let’s get you back to your cottage.”

“One quick thing first.”

Without waiting for his response, Keira pushed through the tall grass down the slope, then carefully approached the front of the hut. As she’d suspected, the half-dead tree had

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fallen across the open doorway, either because of the cavein or the cause of it. Simon stood next to her and toed a sprawling branch of the tree, its sparse leaves withered. “This tree looks as if it could have given way at any time. Any wind last night?”

“Not really, no.”

“You can see the ground’s eroded under this corner of the ruin. When the tree fell, it probably triggered this entire section to give way. Lucky the whole thing didn’t just come down on top of you.”

“I was never afraid,” Keira said. “At least not after the first hour.”

“Adrenaline’ll do that.”

“It wasn’t just adrenaline.”

“Ah. Fairies?”

She was almost relieved at his cheerful jibe, because it meant he was no longer keeping an eye on her for signs of injury or mental distress. But she didn’t respond as she leaned over the fallen tree and tried to peer into the hut.

“I want to check on something,” she said, half to herself, then glanced back at Simon. “Can I borrow your flashlight? Mine’s in there with my backpack.”

He handed over a small flashlight. “Don’t push your luck. I can’t save you from a rock falling on your head.”

“If a rock falls on my head, it’ll be my own fault.”

“Only I’ll be the one explaining it to your cop uncle back in Boston.”

A fair point, but Keira had no intention of going back to her cottage until she checked the fireplace for the angel. She grabbed a small branch of the tree and pulled it away from the door’s opening. “I think I can see what I need to without actually having to crawl back in there.”

“There’s a reason I didn’t try to rescue you this way.”

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“Yes, because I was inside and you didn’t want to make my situation worse. But I’m not inside anymore. As a matter of fact, I was about to get out on my own when you arrived.” She smiled at him, hoping she came across at least reasonably sane. “I’m not going to quibble, but ‘rescue’

isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Are you going to help me?”

He pointed to the hut. “What’s in there, Keira?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know what to make of this man; even less, her reaction to him. But she’d slept only fitfully last night, and she hadn’t had enough to eat or drink, especially given the amount of hard physical labor she’d performed. Her judgment could be off. She knew he was a volunteer with Fast Rescue, but that meant he could be anything. A firefighter, a paramedic, an engineer. He had an easy manner about him, but she wasn’t fooled—he was intense, alert and obviously very good at search-and-rescue. He deserved at least an honest response, even if it was incomplete.

“I’m not sure,” she said finally. “Let’s just say that I saw something I want to have another look at.”

She tried to pull back the branch far enough to allow her to shine the flashlight into the ruin, but realized she wasn’t going to manage on her own. She’d need three hands, or at least more energy. “Could you help?”

He sighed. “All right.” He eased in behind her. “But if I decide the structure’s too unstable, that’s it. We’re done, and we head back to your cottage.”

“Fair enough.”

He took hold of a larger, thicker branch and lifted it, creating enough of an opening for Keira to squeeze

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between the branch and the trunk. She planted her middle on the rough bark and switched on the flashlight, direct

ing its beam into the ruin. But it didn’t reach the fireplace, and she had to lean farther in over the tree. As she did so, she was aware that Simon had a perfect view of her butt.

“Why did you come out here alone?” he asked. She wrestled her way another few inches over the tree trunk. “Why did you?”

“I had to rescue a pretty damsel in distress.”

There was no condemnation in his tone. Not a lot of amusement, either. He sounded as if he was simply stating what he regarded as a fact. But Keira didn’t feel like a damsel in distress, and pretty? Not tonight.

“I had something I needed to do,” she said. “I took sensible precautions in case I got lost or injured.” She scooted forward another inch. Any farther, and she’d go right over the branch and headfirst into the ruin again. “I brought an emergency whistle with me.”

“Did you use it?”

“No. It ended up…” But she didn’t continue. She went still, her beam of light hitting what looked to be part of the fireplace. “Hold on.”

Gingerly edging forward, Keira tried to direct the light toward the hearth where she’d seen the angel. She felt Simon’s hand on her hip, steadying her, but pretended it was her imagination. She didn’t need any distractions. The smell of the mud inside the ruin, the taste of it, the thought of slugs and spiders, and the feel of the cool, rough stone against her free hand brought her back to the first moments of the collapse. But she didn’t stay there, refused to.

She steadied the flashlight and moved forward another 132

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few inches, until just her upper thighs were on the tree trunk. Simon’s grip on her tightened.

“Keira,” he said, his tone itself a warning.

“One sec.”

She squinted at the remains of the fireplace and hearth, picturing the hermit monk out here alone on just such a night, sitting in front of a peat fire, waiting for the fairies as he contemplated the mysteries of the stone angel. Keira moved the flashlight up and down the fireplace. Maybe the upheaval of the stone and mud and mortar—of trees and ivy and dead leaves—had thrown her off and she had the wrong spot. She’d been inside when she’d spotted the angel, and she was coming at it now from a different angle. She’d only had a few minutes inside the ruin before it had started crashing down on her.

On her third sweep with the flashlight, she was con

vinced she had the right spot. There was no need to squirm all the way inside for a closer inspection. It wouldn’t change the simple fact that nothing was there. The stone angel had vanished.

If, Keira thought, it had ever been there. But it had, and as she withdrew, backing up over the tree trunk and under the branch, she pictured its simple, stunning beauty. She hadn’t imagined the statue. Simon kept his hand on her hip until she was clear of the tree and back up on her feet. He narrowed those amazing green eyes on her. But she saw him tense. “Stand still.”

The sharpness of his tone made her heart jump. She followed his gaze to her middle and saw what was wrong. She was covered in blood.

It was smeared from her breasts to her waist. She could feel it now, more sticky than wet, and she gasped in shock.

“Simon—I don’t—I can’t…breathe…”

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“Did you cut yourself?”

“I’m okay.” She gripped his arm above his elbow, forcing herself to get her emotions under control. “I’m not hurt.”

“Keira—”

“It’s not my blood.”

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
10:00 p.m., IST

June 22

Sheep’s blood.

Keira tilted her head back and let the hot water of her cottage shower flow through her hair and down her back, her skin red from where she’d scrubbed the blood and mud off her. She’d used a citrus bath gel and shampoo. She breathed in the tangy scent and turned off the water, reaching for a towel as she stepped out of the shower. She’d resisted the impulse to strip off her clothes after seeing the blood. Simon had remained crisply efficient, showing little reaction when he discovered entrails and bits of sheep’s wool in the undergrowth on the chimney side of the hut. Keira had checked out the grisly scene herself and promptly vomited in the grass. She wasn’t embarrassed. Simon had more experience with such sights.

It was getting dark when they headed back to her

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cottage. She’d broken into a run and made a beeline for the bedroom, grabbing fresh clothes, then for the shower. All she’d thought about was getting clean. She wrapped her towel around her and took another for her hair, drying it as best she could and pulling it back into a loose ponytail. She got dressed, welcoming the feel of her clean, dry jeans and sweater.

When she returned to the kitchen, her good-looking rescuer glanced up from his inspection of the side door.

“This door’s locked. Front door isn’t.”

“I locked both doors, or at least I tried to. They’re not great locks. Maybe the front-door lock popped open.”

“Where’s your key?”

“In my backpack in the ruin. There’s a spare— I’ll get it.” She pulled open a utility closet off the kitchen and grabbed a key from a hook above the washer. “There’s no sign anyone broke in here. Maybe my note just blew under the refrigerator.”

He shrugged. “We could check.”

She gave him a cool look. “You don’t believe I wrote a note, do you?”

“You’ve just been through a trauma, Keira. Telling yourself you wrote a note describing your location helped you get through it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I wrote the note with my favorite drawing pencil. I sketched a little shamrock on the bottom for fun.”

He was undeterred. “In your head, you did.”

“I also locked both doors.”

He stood back from the side door. “All right. First things first. You’re done in. Why don’t I cook you up something? Toast, eggs—”

“We can get to the pub before it closes. I want lights, people.” She took a breath. “And warm rhubarb crumble. 136

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All last night, all day today…I kept thinking about warm rhubarb crumble.”

“Then let’s go see if Eddie O’Shea has some.”

As they headed out to the lane, Simon asked if she wanted him to drive her to the pub, but she shook her head. She preferred walking. It was just after sunset on the long June day, the night not yet fully dark. And it was so quiet, she thought. There was barely any wind, and she could hear only the distant bleating of sheep far up in the hills, nothing from the sheep and cows in the pens close by the lane. Keira wasn’t fooled by his silence as he walked beside her. “I know you must have a lot of questions,” she said.

“They can wait.”

When they reached the pub, he settled at a table with three local men chatting among themselves. They seemed surprised, but when he called for a round of drinks, they warmed right up to him.

Keira eased onto a high stool at the bar. Eddie O’Shea shook his head at her. “You got yourself into a fix, didn’t you?”

“I did, indeed,” she said. “Please tell me you have rhubarb crumble, Eddie.”

“Fresh this afternoon.”

“Perfect. And a shot of Irish whiskey.You pick the brand.”

He splashed whiskey in a glass and set it in front of her.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I had a mishap in an old ruin up in the hills above my cottage.” She drank some of her whiskey. It burned all the way down, but she welcomed it, nonetheless. “I’m sorry if I worried anyone.”

“You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

Behind her, Simon adopted a remarkably natural Irish accent and made an inflammatory comment about Irish

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weather. The men roared, and the good-natured fight was on. He could get away with anything, Keira decided. He was charming and convivial, a hale-and-hearty type who fit right in with the Irishmen. They all sat with their arms crossed on their chests, legs stretched out, comfortable with each other as they laughed and argued. If it’d been a group of Wall Street investment bankers he had to drink with, Keira had the feeling Simon would have fit in with them, too. He wasn’t a chameleon so much as a man at ease with himself.