Will kept his hands steady even as his heartbeat quickened. So much for self-control. He envisioned Myles, arms crossed on his chest as he lay on his back and gazed up at the starlit Afghan sky and said, quite sincerely, he was as comfortable sleeping there, on the rocks in the open, as he’d have been at Buckingham Palace. In the eight years Will had known and trusted him, Myles Fletcher had never shown a hint of a grasping nature. He’d never shown himself to be a man who could betray his country-his mates.

“What else can you remember?” Will asked, keeping his tone even. “The smallest detail could be significant.”

“He paid with euros and sat alone, kept to himself. He asked for water-no coffee or alcohol. When he left, he walked down to the harbor, then down the lane. Aidan, Patrick and I took turns following him. He knew it and didn’t care.”

“Did he stay overnight in the village?”

“I don’t know where he stayed. We lost him eventually. He brought up Keira’s story about the stone angel when he was in here, but only for a moment, and he wasn’t the first nor the last. It’s been happening all summer.”

“What did you tell him?”

A spark of mischief flared in the Irishman’s eyes. “I told him to find a rainbow and follow it to a pot of gold.”

Will smiled in spite of his tension. Eddie O’Shea enjoyed keeping his pub, but he wasn’t one to suffer fools or intruders gladly. And he liked Keira and Simon. But who didn’t?

Eddie continued mopping the bar with his wet cloth. “Did we do the right thing after all, Will, in letting our black-haired woman go?”

“You’re worried about her,” Will said.

“What if she’s in over her head and a danger to herself? To others? We could have stopped her, Lord Will.” The barman stood back and dropped the cleaning cloth into the sink, then got a dry one and soaked up the excess water on the gleaming bar. “Not without a fight, I’ll wager, one I’m not sure we’d have won. She knows how to put her foot to the right spot on a man, I’ll say that. I could see it when she came in here.” He motioned toward the pegs by the front door. “The way she took off her jacket and hung it…Never mind the rest.”

“From what I witnessed,” Will said, “I’d guess she’s received training.”

“Of your sort?”

He let Eddie’s question slide unanswered.

“Is that why you let her go?” Eddie’s eyes shone with both amusement and suspicion. “A strapping Brit like yourself, worrying a tiny woman would best you.”

“She’d just bested an armed, hired killer.”

“Ah. You wouldn’t stand a chance, would you?”

Will pictured her at the fire with Keira’s book of folktales and smiled. “I didn’t say that.” He passed a business card that Josie had made up for him in London across the bar. “Call me anytime. For any reason.”

“And the same, Lord Will. You call me anytime. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Eddie took Will’s empty mug and set it in the sink. “Who’s the Brit you’re thinking I saw?”

Will knew he couldn’t answer. A lie, the truth-neither was acceptable, and so he said nothing.

Eddie seemed to understand the line his question had crossed. “If I see him again?”

“If you see him again,” Will said carefully, “treat him like a shopkeeper who’s here on holiday.”

“Or he’ll kill me in my sleep?”

Josie Goodwin answered from the door. “It won’t matter if you’re asleep,” she said as she unzipped her coat, its style more suited to London than a quiet Irish village. She walked over to the bar, steady if visibly shaken. “I came as soon as I could. I’ll be of more use here than in London should Keira need a hand, and perhaps I can persuade our garda friends to share information. I miss the city already. It’s bloody dark out there.”

A strongly built, attractive woman in her late thirties, she was as pale as Will had ever seen her. He’d been aware of her presence in the door, but he didn’t know how much she’d overheard. He started to introduce her to Eddie, but the Irishman put up a hand to stop him. “I’ll leave you two to your chat. I can see I won’t be wanting to hear what you have to say.”

As he retreated, Will felt Josie’s emotions, checked, under control but there. “Josie,” he said, “we don’t know-”

She cut him off neatly. “Let me just say my piece and get it done. You should go back to London, Will. Leave this mess to the Americans and the Irish to sort out.”

“You’ve more on our mystery woman?”

“Her name is Lizzie Rush.” Josie eased onto the tall bar stool next to Will. “She’s one of the hotelier Rushes. She’s in charge of their concierge and excursion services and leads quite an adventurous life.”

“What’s her connection to Simon?”

“She was with Norman Estabrook in Montana the day he was arrested. The FBI questioned her but didn’t detain her.”

“Are she and Estabrook romantically involved?”

“No. Absolutely not, according to what little I have managed to learn. He liked having attractive, successful people around him. She was one of them.”

“Does she have a connection to John March?”

Josie sighed. “I’m still digging.”

“March would use anyone to get what he wants.”

“He’s a suffering father right now, Will.”

“I know. The man’s in an impossible position.”

“He often is.” Obviously restless, she jumped down from the stool and went around to the other side of the bar, where she helped herself to a glass and a bottle of Midleton Rare Whiskey. “You can’t let your dislike of Director March interfere with your judgment.”

“It’s mutual dislike, but also impersonal on a certain level since we’ve never met face-to-face. I’m convinced he’s known more about Myles than he’s ever been willing to tell us. He doesn’t believe I can be fully trusted.” Which was more than Will had ever admitted to Josie about his attitude toward the current FBI director and was all he planned to say. “Is Lizzie Rush a rich woman meddling in affairs of no concern to her because she’s bored and has a zest for adventure, or does she have her own quarrel with Norman Estabrook?”

“She could also be on his side in a peculiar way,” Josie said as she splashed whiskey into her glass, adding without sympathy, “If she’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, she could get it cut off.”

“Instead of fleeing, she stopped Keira from being killed.”

“Which by itself means nothing, Will. You know that. What you saw tonight could have been staged, cooked up by her and Murphy to mislead us. This woman could have her own agenda and not give a damn about Keira, Estabrook, Simon or anyone else.”

There was no one on the planet more clear-eyed or more unlikely to let emotion cloud her judgment than Josie Goodwin. Will recognized how much he’d come to rely on her not just for her efficiency, but as a sounding board. “I suppose theoretically she could have her own plans that could get mucked up if Keira and the people in Boston were killed.”

“What about Abigail Browning?” Josie asked, taking a swallow of her whiskey even before she set down the bottle. She choked a little and gave her chest a pound with her fist. “Sorry. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in months. I was crying over my sorrows too many nights and…” She waved a hand. “Never mind. Perhaps our Lizzie Rush, regardless of why she was here, can help find Detective Browning.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “You’ve more information?”

“Not much. I spoke to Simon.” She got a pained look. “It’s not good. There are no witnesses or substantial leads, and so far, there have been no calls for ransom.”

“But no body, either, I gather.”

“Correct. No body.” Josie made a face as she swallowed more of her Midleton’s. “You know I don’t care for whiskey, don’t you?”

Will smiled. “Yes, Josie, I know.”

She coughed, took a smaller swallow this time. Her eyes, a dark blue, were hard and unforgiving, a contrast to the vulnerability her pale skin suggested.