“I don’t believe that,” Keira said.

Neither did Lizzie, but she was staying quiet.

Will glanced at the bound Irishman, then at Lizzie, then shifted back to Keira, his expression giving away nothing of what he was thinking. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m fine, thanks to-” Keira turned to Lizzie with a look of embarrassment. “You just saved my life and I don’t even know your name.”

After what had happened at the stone circle and in Boston, with a possible British spy with them in the pub, Lizzie was even more determined not to get into names. Simon would recognize her, but he wasn’t here-and the attack on Keira and the bomb in Boston changed everything.

She needed a new plan.

She moved away from the fire, out of Will’s immediate line of sight. He was handy in a fight, but she had to get her bearings before she dared giving up her anonymity.

Eddie brought the tray of brandy over to the fire and handed a glass each to her, Keira and Will. For a split second, Lizzie thought the barman’s suspicion of her had eased, but as he stood back with his empty tray, he tilted his head and frowned at her.

Still didn’t trust her.

He turned to Will. “I told Patrick and Aidan I’d wager our black-haired stranger here knew how to knock together a head or two.” He sniffed at the bungee-corded thug. “I see I was right.”

Keira warmed her hands over the peat fire. “I wasn’t much help.” She glanced at Lizzie. “You certainly do know how to handle yourself in a fight.”

“Adrenaline,” she said.

“It was more than adrenaline.”

“I’ve taken a few self-defense classes.” Starting with her father when she was two. “Luck helps. I had surprise on my side. Our friend here had size, strength and experience.”

“And two knives,” Keira said.

“If he’d managed one good punch, he’d have knocked me clear across the bay to the Ring of Kerry.”

Keira smiled, but Will didn’t react at all to Lizzie’s attempt at lightheartedness. The glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, deepening the gold flecks. His control was not, she knew, to be mistaken for nonchalance. He was a very capable, dangerous man on high alert.

“Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?” Keira asked.

“Story of my life,” Lizzie said with a smile.

Will sipped his brandy. “You fought with real skill.”

“A maniac coming at you with a knife’ll do that.”

Keira pushed up the sleeves of her oversize sweater, the hem of her skirt soaked and muddy. She was clearly worried about her family and friends in Boston -about Simon-but she had a kind of inner serenity that Lizzie admired. Serenity wasn’t her long suit.

She took one small sip of her brandy and set the glass on the table. As tempted as she was, she wasn’t about to settle in for the evening with a bottle of brandy and a chat with the Irish police, who would arrive soon.

She moved in front of the man who’d attacked her. He was outnumbered and unlikely to kick her. Nonetheless, she knew how to fight from a bound, seated position and, assuming he did, too, stayed clear of his feet. “You didn’t decide to attack Keira on your own, out of the blue,” she said. “Who hired you?”

He turned his head from her. Even if he didn’t respond, his body language would be instructive and perhaps give her-and Will Davenport-answers. Will undoubtedly had far more experience with interrogations than she did, but her father had taught her basic techniques.

“You didn’t sneak off to the stone circle on a whim,” Lizzie said. “Who sent you?”

The Irishman shifted back to her, cockier and less fearful now that the black dog had gone on his way. “D’you have someone in mind?” he asked sarcastically.

An unexpected coolness eased up Lizzie’s spine and made her catch her breath as she remembered a night in Las Vegas in June, in the last days before the FBI arrived at Norman’s Montana ranch with a warrant for his arrest.

“I do.” She spoke in a near whisper. She’d come to believe Norman wanted to bloody his own hands, but now she realized he’d also wanted the drama of this multipronged attack. He’d needed help to pull it off. “I do have someone in mind. He’s British. Maybe forty, with medium brown hair, gray eyes. About your height. Noticeably fit.”

“How would I remember him?”

She put her palms on her thighs and leaned forward, eye to eye with him. “He’s dangerous and charming and very focused. You’d remember.”

“No one I know,” the Irishman said.

Lizzie had no idea whether or not he was telling the truth, but she was aware of Will studying her, assessing her in steely silence. Her description of his countryman had clearly struck a nerve.

Maybe he was the one she should be questioning.

She tried not to let him distract her. “Why attack Keira with a knife? Why not shoot her? Why not poison her blackberry crumble?”

“Because of the serial killer,” Keira said suddenly, quietly from the fire. “That’s why, isn’t it?”

The Irishman averted his eyes, giving his answer.

Lizzie saw now what he’d planned. “A copycat killing. You wanted to throw the guards off your trail by making it look as if someone was imitating the serial killer who was here earlier this summer.”

He breathed in through his nostrils. “I’ve hurt no one.”

“Not for lack of trying, my friend.” She ran a fingertip along the rim of her glass on the table. “Eddie and his brothers would recognize you if you were a local. Where are you from? Dublin? Cork? Limerick?”

He didn’t react to any of the cities she named.

Will stepped forward and unzipped the Irishman’s right jacket pocket. “Let’s have a look,” he said, withdrawing a battered leather wallet. He opened it up and slid out a bank card with his thumb. “Michael James Murphy. Is that your real name? I expect it is. You thought you had an easy job tonight, didn’t you, Mr. Murphy?”

“I tried to save her. That one,” Murphy said, nodding toward Keira, his tone slightly less sullen. “I saw this black-haired witch meant to do her harm. It’s lucky I happened on when I did.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Such a liar.”

He glared at her. “You can fool them, maybe, but you don’t fool me. I’ll explain myself to the guards.”

“Great. You do that. In the meantime, you’re alone out here on the Irish coast with all of us.”

He smirked at her, unimpressed.

Keira turned from the fire, her cheeks red now from the heat, a stark contrast to the rest of her deathly pale face. “He must have been watching for me on the lane and saw me walk up to the stone circle.” She drank more of her brandy, holding the glass with both hands. “I thought the rain had stopped for good and a walk would ease my restlessness. I was missing Simon. Afraid for him.”

Keira’s love for a man Lizzie had kept at arm’s length for the past year felt as natural and honest as the Irish night.

Michael Murphy-or whatever his name was-snorted at Lizzie. “You almost broke my poor knee. It hurts like the devil.”

She was unrepentant. “What did you expect me to do when you came after me with your knife?”

“I was scared out of my wits, trying to save Keira. Untie me. I’ve done nothing to deserve being trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Nothing?” Lizzie raised her eyebrows, almost amused at his brazenness. “That’s rich, my friend.”

She took her brandy glass to the bar and set it on the smooth wood, resisting a sudden surge of loneliness. She had friends. Family. Why was she doing this on her own? She glanced at Will, his quiet control as he dialed his BlackBerry more unnerving than if he’d been in a frenzy. He would be focused on first things first. He’d see to Keira’s safety.

Then he’d deal with Lizzie.

Her trip to Ireland wasn’t going at all as she’d hoped it would. Instead of disrupting Norman ’s plans for violent revenge, she’d landed in the middle of their execution. She could no longer pretend she’d just stopped by the little Irish village to see Simon Cahill while she was walking the Beara Way. Simon and his friend Lord Davenport had only to put their heads together and, with their resources inside and outside of government, they’d figure out who she was. In the meantime, she had room to maneuver.