Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (21 page)

A commotion stirred in the crowd ahead of Morgan.

“Someone’s been shot!”

He slowed his steps at the excited cry. Such crimes were not unusual in the city, which was one of the reasons he preferred life at sea. Still, hearing the panicked voices sent sweat rolling down his neck into his collar.

The brick buildings and stone streets trapped the August heat, radiating it onto the swollen crowd. Combined with his brisk pace . . .

He scowled. He wasn’t far from Rourke’s house. Perhaps he could cut across another street and avoid the mob gathered on the corner.

An older gentleman with a pipe protruding from a corner of his mouth questioned the crowd, “Who is it? Anyone know?”

“A man,” another answered. “Heard someone say the woman with him wasn’t injured.”

Dread came to life inside his chest as Morgan crept closer.

A woman, her flowered bonnet quivering, craned her neck to see over the taller men in front of her. “Was it a robbery?”

“Can’t say,” the man with the pipe said. He removed it and used it to point down a side street. “Is that their wagon?”

“I think so. I saw them barreling past me. Looked as though the devil himself was on their heels.”

“Has anyone called the police?”

“What about a doctor?”

“Heard it was too late for him. Better fetch someone from the morgue.”

The chatter continued to roll through the crowd, melding into a steady, quiet drone. A shiver traveled Morgan’s flesh. He needed a glimpse of that wagon.

Pushing through the crowd, he emerged on the other side of the street and stopped dead. Amelia’s mare stood quivering, her head and back covered in froth and her sides heaving.

His stomach roiling, Morgan grabbed the arm of the man closest to him. “Where are they? The man who was shot and the woman with him . . . where are they?”

The man pointed to a spot where the crowd was thinner. “Down there. In the alley.”

Morgan broke into a trot, then a full run. “Cass? Tillie!”

At the mouth of the alley he skittered to a stop. The crowd split before him, like a wave parting around a stone. At the center of it were Cass and Tillie.

For one full, heavy second, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Tillie was kneeling next to his brother, her dress soaked in blood.

He staggered forward. She lifted her head, tears soaking her eyes, her cheeks.

“Morgan.”

“Cass . . . ?”

“He’s been shot. We need a doctor.”

Behind her, a figure separated from the crowd. Kilarny.

“Already sent for one.” Kilarny motioned toward Cass’s prone body. “He’s lost a lot of blood. If that doc doesn’t get here soon—”

Lunging forward, Morgan dropped to his knees next to his brother, the cobbles cutting into his flesh. “Where was he shot?”

“His back,” Tillie said through white lips. “Someone followed us, chased us here.”

“Get him up,” Morgan barked, jerking off his coat. He glared at Kilarny. “Help me.”

Together, they managed to lift Cass’s shoulders off the dirty street. Morgan shoved his coat into Tillie’s shaking fingers. “Hold that. When we get him to the wagon, use it to slow down the bleeding.”

She nodded.

Morgan motioned toward Kilarny. “Grab his feet.”

Bracing himself, Morgan carefully lifted Cass’s torso. Kilarny gestured toward the crowd. Instantly several more hands came alongside to steady his back and shoulders.

“Out of the way!” someone yelled. “Clear the way!”

In minutes they’d reached the wagon and laid Cass inside. Tillie hunched beside him, Morgan’s coat pressed to the wound. Around her, Kilarny’s men hovered—a sturdy, rough-looking lot with pistols in their hands and their eyes alert.

Morgan climbed into the driver’s seat while Kilarny handed him the reins.

“Where you taking him?”

“Rourke Turner lives nearby. Do you know it?”

“Aye, I know the place.” He stepped back from the wagon. “I’ll wait here—tell the doctor where you’ve gone.” He got the attention of one of the men in the wagon. “Stay with ’em.”

The man gave a curt nod. Who he was, or who any of the men in the back of the wagon were, was of no concern to Morgan. Right now, he was grateful for their help.

Morgan sucked in a breath and gave the reins a snap. Urgency roared through his veins as he screamed for pedestrians and vehicles to get out of his way. Twice, he glanced over his
shoulder at Cass’s still body, then returned his focus forward and urged the mare faster.

Finally they thundered to a halt at the gate. Morgan vaulted from the seat, his throat and chest aching. “How is he?”

Tillie stared up at him, strain twisting her features. “We need to get him inside.”

The front door opened, and Rourke stepped outside. “Tillie?”

“We need your help!”

He ran down the steps. Peering over the side of the wagon, his lips thinned. “What happened?”

“He’s been shot,” Morgan said.

Rourke waved toward the men. “Quick, get him inside. Follow me.”

He led the way through the house, up the stairs, and into a lavish bedroom. Several servants clustered close—a maid,
the housekeeper, the butler. Morgan vaguely heard as Rourke barked orders for clean towels, hot water, food for Kilarny’s men.

He stared down at his brother’s ashen face. “Cass? Can you hear me?”

The maid who’d taken Tillie’s place discarded a blood-soaked towel in a bowl on the nightstand, then pressed a clean cloth to Cass’s shoulder.

A shudder rumbled through him. So many red towels. So much blood.

The next half hour passed in a blur. The doctor’s arrival. The ping of a lead bullet as it dropped into a glass bowl. Cass’s groan of pain.

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut at the last. At least his brother was still alive. And Tillie?

His eyes flew open. Rourke was there, and the doctor, but she was nowhere to be found. Rourke crossed to him.

“You all right?”

“Have you seen Tillie?”

He nodded. “She’s downstairs with the others.” He hitched a shoulder toward the door. “Go check on her. The doctor’s almost finished here. I’ll send for you when it’s over.”

At his hesitation, Rourke clapped his hand on his back. “Tillie needs you too, Morgan. Go. I’ll stay with Cass.”

Leave his brother? Not hardly. He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut just as quickly. Tillie was probably a mess of ragged tears and frayed nerves, wondering if Cass was alive or dead. Added to the attempt on her own life—third attempt, he corrected with a grimace. Puffing out a sigh, he turned for the door.

Downstairs, a quiet stirring and the subdued murmur of voices drifted from the hall. Among them he thought he heard Tillie’s delicate tones. He took a moment to steady himself at the rail before descending the stairs, then followed the hum to an expansive library.

All heads lifted at his arrival, Tillie’s included. She hovered near the hearth, Jacob Kilarny at her side.

Her eyes widened as she tore herself away. “Is he . . . ?”

Her mouth worked, but no more words came out. The sight of her face filling him with fresh courage, Morgan strode to her and pulled her into a hug. She resisted at first, her back rigid and tense.

“Morgan, is Cass—?”

“He’s alive,” Morgan whispered against her hair. “He made it through the surgery. The doctor is stitching him up now.”

As though a cork had been pulled, all resistance drained from Tillie’s body and she sagged against him.

“Thank God. Oh, thank you, Lord.”

Morgan’s hold tightened as the dam burst and her tears began to fall in earnest. “Shh,” he crooned, but she only cried harder.

“Morgan, I’m so sorry. He was protecting me. The man
followed us . . . and then we tried to get away . . . but the road was blocked . . .”

Dropping her head against his chest, she gave in to a fresh round of gut-wrenching sobs.

The sound birthed a new ache in Morgan’s heart. Tillie’s depth of feeling for Cass was far greater than he’d imagined, for only the thought of losing someone dear could have rendered a person so distraught.

Steeling himself, he reached into his pocket, fished out a handkerchief, and pressed it to her cheek. Her own fingers trembled as she took it from him, then lifted watery eyes.

“I’m sorry, Morgan.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tillie. You and I both know that.”

“But—”

“Come. I have a few questions I’d like to ask your friend.” He claimed both of her hands and led her back to the hearth, where Kilarny waited.

“How fares your brother?” Kilarny asked.

“He’s alive, so far.” He gave Tillie’s hand a squeeze, his eyes on Kilarny. “You discovered them?”

“He saved us,” Tillie interrupted, reaching for Kilarny’s hand. “We’d both be dead if it weren’t for Jacob and his men.” She managed a wavering smile of gratitude.

Morgan moved a half step closer to Kilarny. “How did you know where she was?”

His grizzled chin lifted. “We’ve been keeping an eye on her for several days now. Following her about, making sure she came to no harm.”

Morgan motioned toward the fading bruise over his eye. “Is that how you came by that bruise there?”

Kilarny’s lips parted in a wry smile. “This here bruise is what made me think I’d better keep me sights on her, no disrespect to you or your men.”

Whatever had led the man to be present when Cass and Tillie were attacked, Morgan had no cause to be anything but grateful. He extended his hand, albeit grudgingly. “Thank you.”

Kilarny accepted the handshake, then shot a wink at Tillie. “See? I told ya he wouldn’t be pleased.”

Morgan scowled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Is that so? And what else have the two of you been discussing?”

The two exchanged a glance, one that fanned the unease roiling inside Morgan.

“Well?” he said, crossing one arm over the other.

Kilarny ducked his head and motioned to his men. “Think I’d best leave the explanations between the two of you.” He paused at the door to look at Tillie, one eyebrow lifted questioningly. “You know how to reach me?”

Morgan watched in fascination as she nodded. “You do?”

“I do now.”

Giving one last nod, Kilarny slipped out, his men close on his heels. The front door closed with a click, and then the butler’s heavy tread faded down the hall.

With the house restored to quiet, Morgan found himself at a restless standstill.

Fool
, he chided himself. So much to say and yet he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to speak—not with his emotions running so rampant, and Tillie’s tears still damp upon her lashes.

He strode to the window where she stood looking out at the lawn, now washed in moonlight. How could he hope to control what he said to Tillie when he could hardly control his own thoughts? She did not deserve to be burdened with the futile pining of a decrepit old sailor. Just today, hadn’t he proved himself as unworthy as he feared? Who had stepped into the path of a bullet for her, had laid down his life in order to protect her? Not him. Cass. His brother, who at that very
moment lay upstairs, battling for his life while he struggled just to string together a handful of words.

In the end, it was she who broke the silence.

“I’m glad Cass is all right.”

He let go a long breath, the air from his lungs fogging the windowpane for a second before dissipating. “As am I.”

He turned. Tillie stood facing him, her small fists clenched at her sides.

“I have to do something, Morgan.”

He offered a sad smile. Hadn’t he felt the same way? “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing either of us can except wait for word.”

“No. I mean about . . .” Her lips trembled. She lifted her hand and let it fall. “Morgan.”

Hearing the plaintive note in her voice struck him to the core. In spite of his misgivings, he crossed to her. He’d barely reached her before she finished closing the gap. His breath caught as she ran to him and then pressed herself against him, her slender arms like silken bands around his waist.

Reason. If he were to have any chance at keeping his wits, he’d have to seek reason.

She tensed in his arms, tipping her head back to look up at him, exposing the sweet, pale line of her neck and cheek.

Blast. This was hardly better.

The haze cleared from her expression, and fervor claimed her dark brown eyes. She slid her hands up to grip his biceps. “Today, at the boardinghouse, I nearly forgot with everything that’s happened.”

Like a rusted hinge, his mind slowly began working. “The boardinghouse?”

“Douglas Healy was there, when Cass and I got back from dropping you at Rourke’s house. He was talking with Amelia.”

Morgan shook his head. “Slow down, Tillie. Who is Douglas Healy?”

He led her to a rust-colored settee and sat listening while she peeled away the layers leading up to her conversation with Amelia earlier that afternoon.

“Douglas Healy was a Fenian, Morgan,” she finished, an excited flush blooming on her cheeks. “He had to have known my Braedon was, too.”

“Aye, that would seem likely,” Morgan agreed. “But what does any of that have to do with what happened to you and Cass today?”

She stiffened at this and drew her shoulders back. Sensing he wouldn’t like what she was about to say, Morgan too braced against the settee’s plump cushions.

“I think we should try and infiltrate the Fenians, figure out how deep Mr. Healy’s ties go.”

“Infiltrate! Tillie, do you have any idea . . . Have you considered how dangerous . . .” Morgan sputtered to a stop.

She put up her hand. “Wait. Just listen. Jacob and I were talking earlier and—”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “So this was his idea?”

“Not just his. Jacob and I both feel Mr. Healy’s involvement warrants investigating.”

His ire rising, Morgan jumped to his feet. “Dinna be ridiculous. Do you realize what would happen if the Fenians mistook you for a spy?”

“Of course I do.” She stood too, and stared at him belligerently, her fists planted on her hips.

“Well then?”

“Do you have a better idea?” she demanded.

“Anything would be better than this.”