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

The
Caitriona
Marie
’s loud groan rumbled up through the soles of Donal’s feet, as though even she had tired of the argument that had broken out in the hold. Ach, but he’d be glad to leave this infernal yammering crew behind.

A scowl twisted his lips. With the exception of Captain Morgan, the crew was lazy, unorganized, and stupid. He skirted a row of crates stacked haphazardly across the bow—more evidence of the crew’s ineptitude—but dodging them only brought him closer to the bow of the ship and to the rows of freighters moored side by side at the dock. At least at sea a stiff breeze swept away the odor of sweat and rot and fish. Here in the harbor, with the sun beating down on the decks and no wind to riffle the waves, the stench was almost unbearable.

He hopped the last few rungs on a ladder leading to mid-deck and landed with a thump on the solid wood planks—a good sound, the reliable, unyielding echo of quality and craftsmanship. Despite her crew, the
Caitriona Marie
was a fetching vessel.

He paused at the rail, letting his fingers trail the length of cool, hard metal. A ship like this could provide an ample living for him and, perhaps someday, his family.

“Donal!”

He snapped a glance over his shoulder at the ship’s boatswain. “Aye? What is it?”

“Ain’t ya supposed to be seeing to the unloading of them there crates?” The man, Bozey by name, jerked his chin at a stack of cargo plugging the same spot on the deck since they’d anchored.

Donal snorted. “And where do you think I be heading, if not to the harbor master’s office?”

Bozey shot him a dark frown. “You mean the off-load crew ain’t here?”

“You don’t see ’em about, do you?”

Leaning back, Bozey folded his pudgy arms over his chest. “Does the captain know?”

“Ain’t had a chance to tell ’im. He and that first mate of his have been gone since early this morning.”

Bozey gave him a nod and then swung in the direction of the cargo bay. “Fine, be about it then. Infernal . . . slow as a late dinner,” he muttered. At the hatch, he paused and jabbed his cap back from his forehead. “What about the other thing? The mess with the doctor. You seen to it yet?”

The muscles in Donal’s midsection tensed. Aye, the deed was done, no thanks to Bozey. By asking around the harbor, Donal had managed to track down the name of a distant cousin who would be coming to collect the body, but not from here. Not from the
Caitriona Marie. ’
Twas bad luck to keep a dead man aboard a ship for so long. He stifled a chuckle. Even if the cause of death wasn’t unknown as the crew assumed. Better to send the cousin to the morgue for his kinsman’s remains and let him ask his questions there.

Donal tipped his cap in a feigned sign of respect. “All taken care of.”

Bozey grunted and ducked belowdecks. With him out of
the way, Donal resumed his pace toward the dock. True, the harbor master was on his list of stops, but not first. First, he’d take a swing through the city and make his report to the real man in charge.

On a day like today, with the sun bright overhead and the weather balmy and warm, some men might have preferred the countryside. Not Donal. His veins hummed with excitement as he pushed through the throng crowding the wharf. With each creak of rope he felt more alive. Each whistle and barked order along the pier made him hungry for the lure of the sea.

But instead of heading for the row of ships and the open water glinting between flapping sails, he turned and veered down a busy cobbled street. Soon his strides lengthened, and before long the harbor lay far behind. Ahead squatted row upon row of run-down houses and grease-caked pubs. Donal navigated the twisting streets, cutting through their center until he reached a more reputable neighborhood, where he hailed a hack and then settled back for the ride.

In time, grime gave way to grace. Litter along the streets transformed into trimmed hedges and brightly painted fences.

’Tis a façade only, he reminded himself as the hired carriage rolled to a stop in front of one of the more lavish residences. The respectable pretense was a necessary evil to protect the man ensconced inside.

After climbing from the carriage, Donal paid the driver and hurried up the bricked path to a broad door painted green and fixed with a shiny brass knocker. He lifted the ring and dropped it thrice. The resulting bump echoed within, giving indication of the expansive hall on the other side. Before long a black-coated butler opened the door.

Eyeing Donal warily, he said, “May I help you, sir?”

The old fool was too well trained to show his disregard,
but his sharp tone said he’d already examined Donal from head to foot and found him lacking.

Hiding a sneer, Donal dragged the cap from his head and clutched it in both hands. “Good day to you, sir. My name’s Donal Peevey. I’m here to see the master of the house.”

The man’s nose rose higher. “Is the master expecting you?”

“Not exactly.” Donal frowned. “That is to say, not right at this moment.” He then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He will, however, be glad of my arrival, if you ken my meaning.”

The man’s wrinkled lips puckered into a glower. “No, sir, I do not
ken
anything. Do you have an appointment or not?”

Donal squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin. “None needed. Tell your master I’m here and I’ve news to report.” When the old goat refused to flinch, he added a sharp, “Now!”

Inclining his head, the man strode down the hall and disappeared through a set of molded pocket doors. He reappeared a short time later with a larger, more imposing figure in tow.

Donal turned to watch him approach. At first glance, The Celt was a kind-looking fellow, with broad shoulders and a full mustache. It was only after one had known him some time that one saw behind the twinkling eyes and jovial smile.

And Donal had known him some time now.

He swallowed reflexively and extended his hand.

Ignoring it, The Celt turned and dismissed the butler with a curt nod. “That’ll be all, John.” To Donal, he said, “In here.”

He gestured toward a parlor off the main hall and strode inside to a sideboard where a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid waited. He lifted it toward Donal, who shook his head. He didn’t want brandy. Not at this hour and not when he needed to keep his wits about him.

Shrugging, The Celt poured a drink from the decanter, then
gestured toward an ornate writing desk. Seating himself, he took a swallow and motioned Donal toward the chair opposite the desk. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

Donal hesitated. He’d learned to beware that polite tone. “Aye, sir, but I figured it best to move quickly.”

The Celt’s glass lowered to the desk with a soft click. “
You
figured it best?”

For a brief moment, fear squeezed Donal’s chest. Had he been mistaken by acting with such haste?

The Celt leaned back in his chair and laced his long fingers over his midsection. “Suppose you tell me what you’ve been up to, Donal, me boy, and let
me
decide what’s best.”

Ire rose in Donal’s throat. Hadn’t he always done everything The Celt asked, even this last thing?

Clasping the edge of the desk, he pulled forward on the seat until he sat erect with both feet planted flat on the floor. The Celt watched but said nothing.

“The deed’s done.” Donal scanned the room and then lowered his voice. “You’ve no more cause to worry about the doctor. He won’t be talking to anybody ever again.”

The Celt’s head tilted to one side, and his fingers plucked lightly at his mustache. “Really, Donal, did I seem worried to you?”

Again he found himself backtracking. “Well, no. That is . . . I just meant . . .”

The Celt laughed, and Donal flinched when the man rose from his chair and circled the desk to clap him on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, lad. You’ve done well, better than I could’ve asked. I’m pleased.”

Why then did the hair on the back of Donal’s neck rise up and his flesh crawl? Not for the first time he wondered if he’d been wrong to toss his allegiance in with this man.

The Celt then pulled something from his waistcoat pocket
and handed it across to Donal. The wad of bills was thicker than he’d expected. Curious, he lifted his eyes.

The Celt’s smile broadened. “It’s all there—the agreed upon price and then some. I think you’ll find I’m most generous with those who do their job well.”

Resisting the urge to lick his lips, Donal shoved the money into his pocket and stood. Now that their business was concluded, he couldn’t wait to leave. “Me thanks to ya, sir. I’ll be going now—”

The Celt’s hand lifted, halting Donal at the door. “Before you go, there’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you. If you have a moment?” He gestured back toward the chairs. Reluctantly, Donal joined him there.

“There’s a good lad.” The Celt braced both elbows on the table and leaned forward to peer at him intently. “Now, what can you tell me about Keondric Morgan?”

For some time after the boardinghouse returned to stillness, Tillie sat watching Amelia, who watched from the window as the captain withdrew. At long last she pulled her hand from the drape, allowing it to fall back into place, and turned to inquire of Tillie.

“Well, we certainly never expected to see him again, did we?”

“No.” She drew a deep breath and blew it out. “We certainly did not.”

Grabbing her embroidery hoop, Amelia joined Tillie on the settee. “Did he say what brought him, dear?”

Tillie poured a cup of tea from the pot Laverne had provided and passed it across a flowered tray to Amelia. Though she had no reason to doubt him, something about Captain Morgan’s impromptu visit troubled her. Realizing Amelia was
watching her, she shrugged. “Just that he hoped to inquire after my welfare.”

Amelia took the cup and lifted it to her lips for a sip. “Odd, that, after so many months, don’t you think?”

Aye, ’twas very odd, to say the least. She turned toward the tea tray. Apart from the pot and a small bowl of sliced lemons, the tray was empty. She stood. “It appears Laverne forgot to add the sugar bowl. I’ll fetch it.”

Amelia’s cup rattled against its saucer. “Don’t bother.”

Startled by her haste, Tillie paused.

“It’s just . . .” She laughed and patted her slender waist, but her cheeks colored and not with mirth. “You don’t take sugar in your tea, and I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

Tillie retook her seat.

Setting her cup aside, Amelia reached for her embroidery hoop and pulled the needle free of the fabric. “I thought the captain very striking, didn’t you?”

She laughed again, but this time it was high-pitched and unnatural, and Tillie had no doubt it was meant to distract her attention from the tea. She leaned forward. “Amelia—”

“I remembered him as being handsome, but today, well, I can’t say as I recall him looking quite so distinguished. The past two years have been kind.”

“’Tis not only kindness what adds silver to a man’s sideburns or lines to his face,” she said quietly.

The flashing of Amelia’s needle slowed, and her eyes met Tillie’s over the hoop. “Yes, I suppose that’s true enough.”

Pushing the captain from her thoughts, Tillie focused on the friend seated across from her. Amelia looked tired, and strain marred her normally peaceful features. Why hadn’t she noticed before? She reached out to clasp Amelia’s hand, stilling her fingers.

“Is everything all right? Are you well?”

Though she smiled, her fingers trembled. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Tillie thought back over the last week. “I thought I heard you stirring last night, after everyone else went to bed.”

“Oh, that.” She gave a shrug that was surely meant to appease, but to Tillie, it appeared feigned. “Just my old joints giving me trouble, what with all the rain we’ve been having.”

Tillie had not noticed an inordinate amount of rain, but she let the comment pass. “I’ll speak to Dr. Kingsley. Perhaps he could prescribe some liver salts.”

Amelia tugged her hand free. “No need, dear. It’s probably nothing more than a bit of the rheumy. One of Laverne’s lemon toddies will fix me right up.” She chuckled softly. “All these years and I still can’t coax her into telling me what she puts in them.”

“I’ll make sure she has plenty of fresh lemons, then.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Amelia went back to her stitching, but the way her lip quivered made Tillie think she had more she wanted to say. She took another sip of her tea and waited.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Tillie, Laverne and I have been talking. Do you realize winter will be upon us in just a few short months?”

“Aye, and it’ll likely be a long one if the predictions in the almanac hold true.”

Amelia’s needle slowed. “Exactly, which is why we were thinking . . . perhaps the priest at Our Lady of Deliverance—”

“Father Ed?”

Amelia nodded. “Perhaps Father Ed and a few of the other local ministers would be interested in purchasing extra vegetables for their stores. Maybe even a few canned goods.”

Tillie hesitated, her suspicion growing. “I didn’t realize we
had goods to spare. Doesn’t the garden normally supply just what Laverne needs to run the boardinghouse?”