Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (74 page)

She looked down and saw a small gray mouse up on his hind legs, looking inquisitively at her. She glared at him, silently cursing his timing. The mouse, however, merely blinked bright black eyes at her, and being obviously in possession of a wisdom far superior to her own, scurried off to his warm dark hole somewhere in the wainscoting.

After an exclamation from inside the study, a deadly silence filled the narrow keyhole along with the flickering firelight. She stepped back, not even daring to breathe. Jamie would be furious if he found her lurking out here in the hall.

“Nothing I’m sure,” she heard Jamie’s tone, soothing and reassuring the man in his study, “I’ve been having a wee problem with mice snooping about for crumbs—rather large mice.”

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the door, knowing that the last remark had been for her benefit and that Jamie was fully aware of her presence on the freezing flagstones.

She waited a moment for the conversation to resume inside the study, then she slowly crept back to the stairs, her legs numb with cold, feet aching from the bare stones.

She climbed partway up and sat in the curve of the stairs, where shadows clustered thick and deep enough to hide in.

The Trustees—those were the two words Jamie had spoken that had sent a shock through her system. Words that were enough to chill the very blood to ice in her veins. She had, of course, heard the rumors—a group of affluent and highly placed men, all Protestant, lawyers, bankers, accountants, clergy, and CEOs that funded and directed a Loyalist assassination squad in a campaign of terror and murder. Though it would now seem that it was more than a simple rumor. She was suddenly terrified for Jamie. He was walking on a knife-edge precipice where one mis-step would result in certain death.

She tucked her arms tight around her body, as if she could quell the fear that welled up dark and cold from her depths by the mere act of doing so.

Her head was spinning with too many questions that didn’t seem to have any easy answers—the mysterious notes with their dark-inked rings, the Trustees and all the other innumerable splinter groups that had split off from the main bodies of idealism, and its flip side—hatred. There were too many to keep track of, some half rumored, some acknowledged, some existing only in the hissed whispers and dark corners of seedy pubs and cold meetings in the empty countryside.

She shivered, thinking of the meeting she had agreed to two days hence, in a very lonely corner of the countryside. She hadn’t told Pat that it was on, as the low voice on the telephone had told her to come alone or there would be no meeting at all. Pat would be furious when he found out, but she would deal with that later.

A hand gripped her knee hard. Her hand flew to her chest, heart going like a trip hammer. “Christ! You scared the bejesus out of me!”

Jamie, standing three stairs below her, lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

“You didn’t do a great deal for me either. What the hell are you doing sleeping on the stairs?” His eyes raked over her, and she flushed hotly, aware suddenly, that in her curiosity, she’d not paused to pull extra clothing on, and that the jersey rather inadequately covered her thighs, which were glowing milkily in the dim light of the stairwell.

She pulled the jersey down as much as possible, unable to meet Jamie’s eyes. His sharp tone had not only startled her, but had rather hurt her feelings as well. Jamie rarely got annoyed with her, and so when he did, it always came as an unpleasant surprise, like being flicked with a leather strap when you weren’t expecting it. She looked up, meeting the chill green of his eyes, and realized suddenly that not only was he angry, he was also afraid.

“Your feet must be freezing,” he said dryly, “the stones outside the study door get very cold this time of year.”

“I—I—” she stuttered.

“Yes? You—you what?”

“I saw someone walking up to the back of the house. They seemed to be sneaking. At first I thought it was a burglar and then,” she faltered under the green eyes, which were simmering with an anger he rarely displayed, but that could wither all in its path when let loose.

“And then what? You charged downstairs half-naked, not even stopping for socks to confront the burglar?”

“I’m not half-naked,” she said indignantly, tugging angrily at the jersey to little avail.

Jamie merely raised a gull-winged brow.

“I’m going back to bed,” she said, “I’m freezing and—”

“Oh no you’re not,” Jamie smoothly interrupted her. “You’re going to come back to the study with me and tell me exactly what you were doing outside the study door, and how much you heard of the conversation.”

She considered protesting his highhandedness, but taking a look at his expression, rather meekly followed him down the drafty hallway, the flagstones so cold that her feet ached.

The study by contrast was a haven of warmth and coziness. Jamie threw a blanket at her and shoved a pair of slippers across the carpet with his toes. “Cover up,” he said curtly.

She could feel the hated flush flooding her skin to her hairline, but nevertheless put her icy feet in the slippers gratefully. The blanket had been draped over the chair by the fire and was hot to the touch. She wrapped it around her waist, the heated folds clinging to her chilled skin.

Jamie took the chair across from her, looking preternaturally alert for such an ungodly hour. Whatever had been the genesis of the meeting in the study, the result of it had obviously agitated him. The golden hair, falling uncharacteristically long over his collar, was disheveled, and the green eyes were hectically bright. His attic profile did not discharge its normal aloof elegance, but rather a febrile tension that pulsed in the very air, despite the cat-like stillness of his body.

She realized suddenly what it was that had disturbed her about his near manic energy—she had seen him so before, and knew that the glitter preceded a darkness that was so profound it could take months for him to find his way out of it.

“Exactly how much did you hear?” he asked, the tone deceptively mild, though the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Only snatches,” she said, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl who’d been caught
en flagrante
with the gym master.

“Enough to gather exactly what we were talking about. I’ve warned you before what happens to nosy little girls who stick their face too close to the fire.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “And who is likely to be burnt in this particular fire?”

“Me,” Jamie said calmly. “And possibly the man you overheard, though I hope I can prevent that.”

“Stealing government documents though,” she said, “that seems an insane risk to take.”

“When the stakes are this high, so are the risks.”

“You really are an implacable bastard,” she said in frustration.

“We’re talking about government sponsored murder for hire here, I rather think an implacable bastard is exactly what’s called for.”

“It’s true then?”

“It seems to be.”

A needle of ice pricked at her heart. Every time she thought she had seen the worst this country had to offer, it inevitably surprised her by taking the game down to a more frightening and murderous level. Her husband and brother-in-law were in the category of highest risk—male and Catholic. Which included Jamie himself, a fact of which he was no doubt uncomfortably aware.

“If you knew I was out there the whole time, why didn’t you say something?”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers hard against the lids. “Because I didn’t want my visitor to
know
you were out there. I trust you, him I’m not entirely certain of just yet.”

“You trust me? Despite what you know about my past?” she asked softly.

“Shouldn’t I? Besides I rather thought you’d given up spying on a professional level.”

“I think you rather showed me up for a rank amateur last time I played Mata Hari. Besides, I would never intentionally do you harm, Jamie.”

“Good.”

“Will telling your contacts help?”

Jamie shook his head. “It might help, or it might open a can of worms that I’m not able to handle. They may be involved, I don’t know. Half the time I don’t know with whom I’m dealing on the other side.”

“So you’ve chosen a side then, Jamie?”

“The only side I’m on, Pamela, is that of peace. It’s just that peace tends to make for some odd and fairly undesirable bedfellows in this strange little war of ours.”

“The man tonight—he was one of those undesirables?”

Jamie shrugged, face inscrutable. “Perhaps, perhaps not. It remains to be seen.”

“You’re playing with fire here, Jamie.”

“And you’re not?” He had, with his usual maddening precision lobbed the ball straight back to her. “Investigating Brian Riordan’s death?”

She could feel the blood rush out of her face to the vicinity of her midsection.

“Well aren’t you?”

“Why don’t
you
tell me?” she said tartly, “As you seem to be able to read my mind.”

“Your mind,” he smiled in an annoying manner, “is about as decipherable as the aperiodic crystals of Assyrian cuneiform.”

“Which you’ve probably been decoding since your third birthday,” she retorted, tongue tart as his own.

“Could you try for an instant not to be difficult? You don’t understand what’s at stake here. One false move, one misstep, and the whole house of cards is going to tumble down.”

“Don’t tell me to be careful, Jamie Kirkpatrick, don’t tell me what I can and cannot do when you play with fire on a daily basis.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked as if he’d no notion of what she referred to, but she’d seen the spark of fear in his eyes.

“When was the last time you took your medication, Jamie?” she asked, knowing it was insanity to be having this conversation with him. It wouldn’t help the tension that was growing between them like a well fueled fire.

“Pardon me?” he said, voice calm though the hand around the glass had tightened until the bones showed hard against his skin.

“Your medication, the little pills that are supposed to keep you on an even keel, the ones you’re supposed to take every day without fail. How many bottles are sitting in your medicine cabinet unopened? Don’t tell me to watch myself when you’re risking everything with every day you leave the lid on those bottles.”

“Have you been snooping through my things?” His eyes narrowed and elongated the way they always did when he was very, very angry. The firelight struck gold off his hair and glowed in miniature in the depths of his whiskey, lending him the aura of a fallen angel. She swallowed, thinking she might rather face one of the lesser castouts of heaven than James Kirkpatrick in the grip of a black temper.

“Yevgena told me to check,” she said defensively, feeling the first tremor of doubt as to her motives.

“And as we know you always do exactly as you’re told,” he said, voice suddenly smooth as glass. She knew well enough to be alarmed by this.

“Only when it’s this important.”

“When what is this important?”

“You—your life,” she replied, lips dry and tongue thick with panic.

“And why is my life of concern to you?”

“Because—because,” she stumbled, “I care for you.”

He smiled, though it did nothing to reassure her. “You care for me? How touching, and yet I fail to see how that gives you the right to pry into personal matters and rummage through my things.”

This was patently unfair, Pamela thought fuming inwardly. He was the master of meddling in things that were not his affair. “If you can’t be bothered to keep yourself back from the precipice, why shouldn’t I?”

“Because, quite simply my dear, it’s no longer your business.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice, feeling that she had been put rather sharply in her place.

Jamie had the grace to look shamefaced. “I didn’t mean that quite how it came out. I’m just a bit tired and my head is aching.”

“What else is it?”

Jamie gave her a dry look, and then laughed. “I’d forgotten you always read between my lines.”

She merely raised a sooty brow in his direction, making it clear he wasn’t going to lead her off down a conversational side path.

“I’m maybe a wee bit discouraged. Despite everything I don’t seem to be effecting any real change.” He took off his glasses, rubbing the marks on his nose that they left behind.

“Jamie Kirkpatrick you’re a fool. You’ve done more than anyone else could have for those people. We’re all just caught up in events so much larger than ourselves right now, it’s hard to see that making sure Nelson McGlory has new eyeglasses is still important.”

This bought her a tepid smile. “It
has
stopped him from walking into telephone poles.”

“It all matters, even the small things, and Jamie, you know how important your,” she paused, trying to decide how to most delicately phrase the next few words, “other work is. And I think things are changing, the world press is here in droves.”

He gave her a weary look, as though he saw something in her face that made him profoundly sad. “American innocence, what a beautiful commodity and yet what a price it comes at.”

“You don’t think it helps, all this attention?” she asked, piqued by his comment on the state of her cynicism.

“No, I don’t. We’re just the latest stop on the atrocity tour, Pamela. They’ll hang out at the Europa for a few more months, a few might get addicted to the story and even try to stay and develop an understanding for it, but most will move on as soon as they realize there are no easy answers, if indeed any at all, to the Irish question.”

“Don’t you believe that any change is possible?”

He paused for a moment before answering, fixing her with a weary look. “Change in increments perhaps. But not the sweeping reforms that those people in the streets are looking for. Unfortunately, after eight hundred years of waiting, nothing less than the world turning upside down and inside out is going to satisfy them. But there isn’t going to be a happy ending, at least not anytime soon.”

“Oh Jamie, how can you believe that?” she asked, realizing, even as she said it, that she was confirming his opinion as to her political naïveté.