“From what I gather, he’s obsessive about safety measures and backup plans. Whatever happened today-whatever went wrong or right-he’ll have various courses of action from which to choose.”

“That won’t make him easier to find.”

She nodded grimly. “Simon and I have only just found each other. I can hear him singing Irish songs now. He and my uncle have beautiful voices. I can’t sing a note. My mother, either. A few months ago, she was living a quiet, solitary life of prayer in the woods, and now she’s back in the city with all this…” Keira snapped her art case shut. “I wouldn’t blame her if she gives up on us and goes back to her cabin.”

“Your mother’s safe, Keira,” Will said. “The Boston police and the FBI won’t let any harm come to her.”

He read her expression, saw that she was as stubborn and independent as Simon had promised she was, and also as brave. Wherever the garda tucked her for her own safety, she’d do what she could to help the investigation. She wasn’t one to sit back.

There was a light knock on the kitchen door, and an officer poked his head in. “Two minutes, and we have to go.”

Keira took a breath. “I don’t even know what I’ve packed, but I suppose I can always ask someone to make a supply run for me if it comes to that.” She raised her eyes again to Will. “You’ll have to come meet the gang one day. We’re supposed to do Christmas in Ireland this year. My uncle, my cousins, my mother and me.”

“It’ll be cold, dark and wet.”

She smiled. “I hope so. I promised to take my cousin Fiona to pubs to hear Irish music. She has her own Irish band. I want to talk to her, see her-Scoop saved her today. Simon didn’t say so outright, but there must have been a lot of blood.” Keira sniffled back more tears, as much from anger and frustration as worry and grief. “I don’t want to run and hide, Will.”

“That’s not what you’re doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer and retreated to the cottage’s sole bedroom, emerging in less than a minute with a brocade satchel, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail. She was lovely, creative and unexpectedly pragmatic. Will wouldn’t be surprised if the garda had found a safe house in the village. She seemed protected there.

“I’ll do whatever I need to do,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“And Simon knows.” Will smiled at her. “You and your fairy prince will soon be reunited.”

Keira took his hand, squeezing it as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever debt you think you owe Simon, he says you don’t owe him anything. You never did.”

“This isn’t about debts owed, Keira.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.” Her eyes steadied on him with just a hint of a spark. “If you end up in Boston, beware of sneaking around under the noses of the police there. You’ve never met my uncle, but he’ll be on a tear after what’s happened.”

“He’s Boston Irish, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Will winked at her. “Then I don’t need to meet him.”

She let go of his hand and whispered, “Be safe.”

He left before the guards could change their mind and take him into custody for additional questioning. He’d parked on the lane, his car spotted with bits of pink rose petals flung there in the wind and rain, a tangible reminder, somehow, of Keira’s ordeal.

As he drove toward the village, he looked up at the wild hills silhouetted against the dark Irish night. He hated to leave Keira, but she would be safe here.

And he had a job to do.

A light shone in the window of the pub, and the door was unlocked. Will found Eddie O’Shea behind his bar, cleaning up for the night. The guards had gone, their investigative work completed, at least for now.

When he saw Will, Eddie said, “A bomb sweep is a fine way to scare off paying customers. Will you be wanting a drink, Lord Will?”

“Coffee, please, if you have it.”

“I’ve water still hot in the kettle.” He set a coffee press on the bar and scooped in fresh grounds. “Next time, ring me when you feel an urge to come to Ireland. I’ll be on my toes for trouble.”

“The trouble started before I arrived.”

“True enough. It was the same earlier this summer with Keira and her stone angel and that other bloody killer.” The barman shuddered. “I’ve pictures that’ll never leave my head from those terrible days.”

“I wish it could have been otherwise, Eddie.”

“As do I.” He poured water over the grounds, replaced the top on the press and set it in front of Will to steep. He got out a mug and a pitcher of cream, his movements automatic, routine. “The guards talked to our friend Michael Murphy. It’s his real name. He’s too dim-witted to make one up. He’s a known thug in Limerick.”

“Good at his work?”

“Not good enough…fortunately for Keira and her black-haired friend.” O’Shea pushed the coffee paraphernalia in front of Will and looked thoughtfully at him. “The guards wish we’d stopped her from leaving the scene.”

Will knew they did. “You saw her for yourself-her torn knuckles, her muddy clothes, the way she handled Mr. Murphy. Would you have wanted to take her on?”

“She wasn’t too quick to give up his knife.”

And she’d disarmed him, weaponless herself. Murphy hadn’t expected her, and even when he saw her, he’d obviously discounted her as a threat, especially a lethal one. He was strong and capable, a veteran fighter, but she’d had his face in the mud and manure before he’d had a chance to land a single blow.

Eddie showed not the slightest edge of fatigue despite the night’s events. “I expect the guards will have to sort through layers of tawdry criminals to get to whoever hired Murphy. Man, woman or animal.”

“I expect so,” Will agreed, pouring his coffee. It was very hot and very strong, and suddenly he hoped he’d have reason to sit here one evening, chatting with the amiable Irish barman over matters that didn’t involve violence.

“You don’t know where the guards have taken Keira, I suppose?” Eddie asked.

Will shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“I’d be wasting air asking them. As long as she’s safe.” He nodded to the coffee. “What else can I get you? I’ve a bit of blackberry crumble left. There’s soup, but Patrick made it, and it’s not fit for the pigs.”

“No food. Thanks.”

“You’re gloomy.”

He was, and he knew why. The evening had launched him back two years, to the cave in Afghanistan and the deaths of men who’d trusted him.

For their sakes, he had to focus on the task at hand.

He drank some of his coffee and addressed the barman. “Did you see Michael Murphy in the village earlier today?” He paused. “Before today?”

Eddie emptied the stainless-steel kettle into a small sink. “I don’t remember seeing him before tonight. I told the guards as much.”

“He could have a partner. I understand that strangers come in here on a regular basis-particularly this time of year, particularly this summer with the publicity over Keira’s stone angel. Did anyone strike you as not belonging? Someone who wasn’t a typical tourist, perhaps?” Will set his mug on the bar and kept his gaze on the Irishman. “Think, my friend. Who stood out to you in recent days?”

Eddie took the still-hot coffee press and dumped the grounds, then rinsed the glass container in the sink and set it to drain. Finally he said, “A Brit like the one our black-haired friend described was here a week ago, maybe more.”

Will got very still. “Tell me about him.”

“He had soup and left.”

“Were Keira and Simon here?”

Eddie shook his head. “Not yet. They arrived from the north five days ago on the boat you loaned them. This man was here before then.”

“Did he ask about them?”

“No. I’d recall if he did. Given his manner, I’d wager he was a military man. He had a self-control that reminded me of you, Lord Will.” Eddie slopped an overly wet cloth onto the bar. “Not that I know about military men.”