Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (14 page)

Long after the sound of Tillie’s steps faded from his ears, Morgan stared after her, his heart thumping inside his chest and his thoughts in turmoil. What had he done? He was nearly ten years her senior.

Nine
, his conscience argued.
He was only nine years older
.

Giving his shoulders a shake, he stalked to the window and pulled back the drape to peer outside. Did it matter? She was a child.

His thoughts drifted to the tantalizing softness of her cheek and the sweet tilt of her mouth. Nay. She was young, but she was no child.

But she
was
young.

The reminder firmly in place, he stared out through the glass at the eerie street. With the gas lamps casting flickering shadows, every movement drew his eyes—from a cat leaping off the steps of the tenement across the street to the bent figure of a beggar woman scrounging for scraps among the piles left by the vendors.

Ach, but ’twas a helpless feeling to do naught but stand guard, waiting for something that might not happen and someone who might not appear. Perhaps Tillie was right.
Perhaps seeking out Rourke Turner was the wisest move. At least it involved action.

Grabbing the chair he’d vacated earlier, he spun it to sit near the window. From this vantage he’d be able to keep one eye on the street and the other on the front door. It wasn’t the first time he’d stood vigil thus.

His gut tightened. One eye on the street, watching for the doctor to come, the other on his parents’ bedroom door . . .

At the memory of his failure, he sighed. Da had passed away because he could do nothing. He’d not let Tillie meet the same fate. Somehow he’d find a way to help her.

The vow rumbled round and round inside his head, keeping him awake until the dawn’s first rays peeked over the city’s rooftops. Down the hall he heard Laverne stirring in the kitchen. Somewhere a rooster crowed, and then the back door opened and closed with a snap.

At a creak on the stairs, Morgan looked up and saw Cass rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“How’d it go?”

Morgan stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs and stifling a yawn. “Quiet. Too quiet. I’d rather we were at sea on the
Marie
battling a storm than sitting through a man-made storm on land.”

Cass lingered at the entrance, one hand half raised to scratch his temple and one eyebrow quirked. “Blimey, Morgan. How long did it take you to come up with that?”

Blimey? He’d been listening to Bozey. Or maybe Laverne. Grimacing, Morgan strode past him and made for the stairs. “Never mind. Keep an eye on things for me while I wash up.”

Once again, Cass’s laughter rang behind him. Would he never cease to be a source of amusement for his brother?

Racing up the stairs, Morgan washed and dressed before heading to the dining room for breakfast. By the time he
returned, the other residents and Amelia had assembled, but it was to Tillie’s place at the table that his eyes landed.

Dark smudges colored the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair, normally a bit tousled, today looked neatly combed, as though she’d taken pains to arrange it, or she’d not slept and so had plenty of time to smooth every hair into place. She did not look up when he entered, neither did she glance in his direction when he slid into the chair next to hers amidst a chorus of good mornings. He opened his napkin with a flick of his wrist. The question on his tongue itching to be spoken was for her welfare. Instead he waited until breakfast had begun in earnest and the conversation flowed before he said, “Still want to talk to Rourke Turner?”

She did look at him then, her wide brown eyes so deep and dark, a man could lose himself in their depths. “I do,” she whispered.

Scooping a forkful of scrambled eggs, he brought it to his mouth and pretended to eat. “We’ll go after breakfast.”

So slight was her nod, he almost missed it. But staring at him from across the table was Cass, and there was no mistaking the determined gleam in his eyes or the thrust of his chin signaling he wanted to talk in the other room.

He set down his fork, but not before Cass pushed aside his plate and stalked from the dining room.

Meg’s eyes rounded, and she set down her cup with a clatter.

Amelia lowered her own cup and set it much more delicately in its saucer. “Is everything all right, Captain?”

“Everything is fine. Please excuse us,” Morgan said, following his brother into the hall.

Cass paced from the front door to the stairs. At Morgan’s appearance he strode to him and stood with fists planted on his hips, glowering. “What was that all about?”

Morgan crossed his arms. “What?”

Cass jerked his chin toward the dining room. “In there. Since when do you go making plans without talking to me about them first?”

“You’re not my mother, Cass.”

His expression darkened. “I thought you said we were partners.”

“When it comes to the
Marie
, we are.”

“But not when it comes to looking after Tillie?”

Morgan paused. So that was it? The catalyst behind Cass’s anger this morning was jealousy over Tillie? “Cass—”

“I care about her too, all right? I want to help her as much as you do.”

“Fine,” Morgan said. “You can do that by remaining here.”

“And you? What will you do?”

He straightened and looked his brother in the eyes. “That’s none of your business. You’ll do as I say or you’ll go back to the ship. Understood?”

Anger shadowed Cass’s features, but at last he nodded.

“Good, then let’s go back to breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Cass muttered, spinning on his heel and striding for the kitchen and the back door. “I’ll be in the barn if you need me.”

“Fie,” Morgan growled as the door slammed shut.

Maybe someday Cass would understand that what he was doing was for his own good, but not today. Today, his irritation and arrogance only proved what Morgan had known all along. He was still a lad in many ways.

“Morgan?”

At the sound of Tillie’s gentle voice, he spun. She looked at him and then in the direction Cass had taken. “Is everything all right?”

His heart heavy, he sighed. “Cass and I had a wee bit of a spat is all. Brothers fight on occasion. He’ll get over it.”
His breath caught as her eyes drifted back to him. “Are you ready to go?”

She motioned toward the hall tree. “Let me fetch my bonnet and a shawl.”

She moved to get them, but before she could swing the wrap around her shoulders, Morgan caught hold of it and spread it wide. “Allow me.”

It was a foolish gesture, and one he’d probably regret later, but for the briefest moment he took great pleasure in the scent of Tillie’s hair and the nearness of her body. Finally he let the shawl slip from his fingers onto her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

Did he imagine the warmth in her voice? She turned, but he was already moving to open the door, averting his eyes before she read an uncomfortable truth in them.

The walk to the office where Rourke Turner worked was brief and accomplished without incident. With every step, Morgan gave thanks for the protection of the tall buildings that lined the street to their right. On their left, people hurried to work or chores. Still, he kept his guard up and Tillie close. No time for idle chatter, but given his mood, that was probably a good thing.

“There it is.”

Tillie waved toward a three-story brick building with an imposing set of arched doors. On the side of the building, metal stairs wound like a snake, providing escape in the event of a fire, or a hasty exit in an attack. Morgan took note of their position before ushering Tillie up the steps to the entrance. Gilt lettering on the glass read
Harmon and Barrow, Attorneys at Law
.

Scowling, Morgan reached for the brass door handle. “He’s a barrister?”

She shot him a playful smile. “Among other things. Rourke does a lot of work for city hall.”

He snorted. Politicians were no better than barristers in his book.

Inside, gray marble floors led to an expansive lobby, in the center of which sat a large desk and a balding receptionist. He looked up when they entered, adjusting his spectacles so he could peer at them through the lenses.

“May I help you?”

Tillie stepped forward. “We’re here to see Rourke Turner.”

“Is he expecting you?”

She shook her head. “I’m a friend of his wife.”

The man nodded, then rose and skirted the desk. “Your name?”

“Tillie McGrath.” She gestured toward Morgan. “And this is Captain Keondric Morgan.”

At the sound of his full name on Tillie’s tongue, Morgan startled. He’d never heard her speak his Christian name before. Surprisingly it wasn’t unpleasant. Then again, his refusal to use it had nothing to do with any aversion to the name itself.

“A moment, if you please,” the man said, tugging on his vest to straighten it. “I’ll see if Mr. Turner is available.”

Turning smartly, he disappeared down a narrow hall and reappeared a few moments later with another man in tow.

“Tillie? What a pleasant surprise.”

The second man, as tall as Morgan and handsome in his pleated trousers and coat, instantly set him on guard. He approached with outstretched hand, and were it not for the fact that Tillie knew him, Morgan might have been tempted to intervene.

Was
tempted, he realized, stiffening when Turner wrapped her in an embrace.

The bloke’s
married
, he reminded himself. No threat here. He kicked himself mentally. Not that he had a right to feel threatened.

“My thanks to you for seeing us, Rourke. Forgive me for not sending word first.”

Turner shook his head. “You never need hesitate stopping by, Tillie. You know that.” He turned to face Morgan. “Captain Morgan.”

Morgan nodded and extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Not exactly true, he reasoned as he shook Turner’s hand, but for Tillie’s sake he’d make it appear so.

Turner motioned back the way he’d come. As they followed, the receptionist resumed his place behind the desk, his attention already on something else.

Turner’s office was much like the man himself: neat, sparsely furnished, but with a bookshelf stuffed with volumes. His desk, while large, was not ornately carved or cluttered. He did not sit behind the desk but motioned to a set of leather chairs near a coal stove for Morgan and Tillie, then drew up the swivel chair from his desk to join them.

“How are Cara and Ana?” Tillie asked, removing her bonnet and shawl and passing them into Rourke’s waiting hands.

His face grew troubled as he hung them on a coat-tree situated in the corner of the room nearest the door. “Eoghan is looking out for them. He sends me word now and again when he can, but not often enough.”

Sorrow filled Tillie’s eyes. “And the baby?”

“Due in less than a month. I was hoping we’d have more resolved by now so we could bring them all home.” Sighing, he sat and motioned toward them. “So, what can I do for you this morning?”

Grateful for the questioning glance Tillie shot him, Morgan tilted his head and indicated that she should be the one to fill him in.

Beginning with the journey from Ireland, Tillie explained
how she knew Morgan, and finished with his visit to the boardinghouse less than two weeks prior.

Had it really only been two weeks? Sitting back in his chair, Morgan cleared his face of disbelief. She’d filled so many of his thoughts, it felt like much longer.

Turner locked eyes with him. Caught off guard by the look of understanding that flashed between them, Morgan cleared his throat. “When Doc told me what he’d done, I realized I had to find Til . . . Miss McGrath.” A flush heated his face, though it appeared to go unnoticed.

Turner nodded. “I agree. We should look into this deeper, see if we can’t figure out who it was that hired him, and why.”

Tillie put out her hand and laid it over Turner’s arm. “There’s more.”

“Why do I get the feeling that all of this is somehow tied to me?” Turner said.

Her fingers twisted in her lap. Though she drew a shuddering breath, no words emerged. Unable to resist, Morgan reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She looked at him gratefully.

“Tillie went to see an old colleague,” Morgan said, “someone Braedon was acquainted with back in Ireland. He told her . . .” He hesitated, but after receiving an encouraging nod from Tillie, he forged on. “He and Braedon were present the day your father was killed.”

The second the words were out, Turner’s expression hardened. Before he could speak, Morgan leaned protectively toward Tillie.

“She didn’t know any of this before.”

Turner’s throat worked. After a moment, his lips parted and he drew a deep breath. “So, Braedon was . . .”

“A Fenian,” Tillie whispered, “and responsible in part for your father’s kidnapping and death.”

Morgan clenched his fists. Tillie seemed certain this Turner fellow was a friend, but just in case, he’d be ready.

Turner’s head shook, but not in anger. Deep sorrow twisted his features as he leaned forward to peer into her face. “I’m verra sorry, Tillie. Sorry for what happened, but most of all, that it touched you.”

His answer was surprising. No outrage? Even a trace of bitterness would have been expected. Instead, the man extended understanding.

The two of them reached out to each other, Tillie’s hand swallowed by Turner’s much larger one.

“This man,” Turner continued, “can you tell me his name?”

“I can, but first . . .”

She hesitated, and her chin trembled, making Morgan long to smooth away the worried wrinkles.

She squared her shoulders. “Rourke, I must have your word that his name and identity go no further than this room. I owe him that much.” At Turner’s nod of agreement, she drew a deep breath. “His name is Jacob Kilarny. We think he may have answers about what happened to your father.”

Pulling her hand away, she explained in detail how her conversation with Jacob Kilarny had gone and then finished with, “So? What do you think?”

Rising, Rourke paced the room. “I think this Kilarny might be able to answer a lot of questions except the most important one: how these two events are connected.” His pacing ceased and he spun on his heel. “And they are connected, of that I have no doubt.”