“What did you tell Kevin?” Emma asked when she and Colin turned up the street toward their house. It was dark now, the air cooler but not uncomfortably so.
“Nothing but he knows something’s up with our British art consultant. I’m glad I had the foresight to drop off his truck at his place and walk to the rectory. If I’d left it at the house, he’d have picked it up and had a chance to grill me.”
“One needs to be cautious with a Donovan on your case.”
Colin grinned at her. “Do I look nervous?” But he turned serious. “Kevin won’t bug us tonight. He’ll give us room to maneuver. We have no evidence a crime’s been committed, and I’m not going to get anything out of Jeremy until he’s feeling better.”
“It must have been difficult seeing him so sick.”
“It wasn’t fun, that’s for sure.”
“We won’t get anything out of Henrietta and Oliver until after they speak with Jeremy—at least until after she does.”
“They’re holding back,” Colin said.
“From each other, too, I suspect.” Emma felt Colin’s hand warm in hers. It wasn’t the postwedding evening they’d expected, but he was here with her and that was good. “What about the Aoife O’Byrne painting?”
“I told Georgina Masterson to talk to the police, but she balked. She was in a state. Even if the food poisoning was just one of those things—bad luck, whatever—she feels responsible as the chef.”
They passed houses lit up for the evening, teenagers playing street hockey, a couple walking their yellow Lab. Colin greeted them—he knew most everyone in the neighborhood. Emma was getting there, but she hadn’t grown up in Rock Point. Even through his years with the FBI, working deep-cover missions and away for long periods, Colin had always considered his tight-knit fishing village home.
“I don’t like guessing,” he said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say Jeremy is keeping Henrietta and Oliver in the dark, if not about everything.”
“Would that be like him?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He hadn’t hesitated. Emma had learned Colin wasn’t one to waver when his gut told him something. He was naturally a man of instincts, but he had the training and experience to know what he could trust and what he couldn’t—when he needed to hold back and not rush in. His independent thinking was one of the qualities that made him a good undercover agent, but he was always professional.
They crossed a quiet intersection, their house just up the street. Colin was good at compartmentalizing, but Emma could see the events of the day were still on his mind.
He handed her the bag of cookies and sandwiches. “I need to fetch apples out of my truck.”
“When did you buy apples?”
“Yesterday on my way from the airport with Mike. We stopped at a local orchard. I figured we could make a pie together. You know. Relax. Have a normal weekend. They’re Cortlands.”
“Cortlands?” Emma smiled. “They’re perfect for pies.”
He returned her smile. “I remember.”
While he fetched the apples from his truck, she went inside through the front door and headed to the kitchen. She grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator and arranged the cookies and sandwiches on two plates. Colin came in through the back door and set the bags of apples on the counter. They took the beers and plates to the front room. He got a fire started in the fireplace, and they sat on the floor with their simple meal.
“I spent the past month picturing a night like this,” he said, kicking off his shoes, undoing a few buttons on his shirt. “I could have done without the afternoon with the barfing and the sneaky Brits.”
Emma started with half a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “What can you tell me about your relationship with Jeremy Pearson?”
“We met on my first undercover mission. He was looking into the same network of arms traffickers. That was five years ago now, and he’d done it all even by then.”
“Were you in danger together?”
Colin stretched out his legs and leaned against the base of a chair. “We met at Thames House, but we ran into each other in the field. We got into it with a low-level, violent thug who made the mistake of trying to kill us both at the same time.”
“The thug was part of the arms trafficking network?”
“Periphery.”
And the incident had occurred before she and Colin had met. She’d entered the FBI after he had. Matt Yankowski, now their boss, then Colin’s contact agent, had recruited her. Yank had looked her up at her convent, but he’d been in Maine specifically to meet with Colin about that first undercover mission. Last fall, he’d shoehorned Colin into HIT, the small, Boston-based team that was Yank’s brainchild. Short for high impact targets, HIT focused on elusive criminal enterprises with international reach and virtually unlimited resources. Its future remained uncertain while Yank recovered from the bullet wound he’d suffered the same day Emma’s father died.
“Did you tell Yank about today?” she asked.
Colin drank some of his beer. “Texted him. He’s not happy.” He winked at her. “We complicate his life.”
“He’ll be back at his desk full-time soon.”
“Yeah.”
She could hear Colin’s fatigue. They ate their sandwiches, drank some of the beer and watched the fire as it took hold, crackling, warming up the chilly room. She’d learned early on that Colin didn’t like to turn up the heat until he had no choice. It was something they had in common.
He set his beer bottle on the floor next to him. “Do you think Oliver could have slipped on board the Fanning yacht without Henrietta’s knowledge?”
Emma considered a moment. “Could have, but would he?”
“If Jeremy told him to do it.”
“It’s time Oliver put his past behind him.”
Colin got up and went to the fire. “I wonder how much he helped British intelligence before we figured out who he was. Maybe Jeremy’s known about Oliver longer than any of us realizes.”
“I’ve wondered that, too.”
“Oliver’s wily. Jeremy’s devious. Anything is possible with them.” Colin grabbed a log out of the wood box, pulled back the fireplace screen and placed it on the hot coals and flames. “It’s good no one died today.”
He sat next to Emma again. She placed a hand on his thigh. “It must have been rough seeing Jeremy that way. Alone, undercover. Did you think it could be you one day?”
“Who says it hasn’t been me?”
“There’s that.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “Would you ever pose as an art consultant on a yacht on a foliage cruise?”
“I haven’t. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t. You could pull it off given your background.” He paused, his gaze steady on the fire as it consumed the fresh log. “I don’t know what’s going on, Emma, but Jeremy could have contacted me and he didn’t. He let me find him in a pool of barf.”
“Have you been in contact recently?”
Colin shook his head. “He and I cleaned up some rough arms trafficking network, but there’s always another.”
“But it doesn’t always have to be you unraveling it.”
“That became Jeremy’s thinking. Always had to be him. It’s not mine. Not yet, anyway.”
“There are other jobs you can do, with the FBI or not.”
“Ah. So you want me to become Captain Colin.”
She smiled. “I’m with you whatever you decide.”
He put an arm around her and pulled her close, kissed the top of her head. “You’re the best.”
They took their plates and scraps into the kitchen. “I hope Kevin’s having chowder and whiskey with Beth at Hurley’s. You remember her?”
“No-nonsense ER nurse new to Rock Point.”
“We ran into her at the hospital. She was irritated Kevin did
n’t invite her to the wedding.”
“She said so?”
“Not in so many words but it was obvious.”
“To Kevin?”
“Doubt it. He’s got rocks in his head when it comes to his romantic life.” Colin shut the dishwasher and winked at Emma. “Another Donovan trait.”
“No argument from me,” she said with a laugh. “You all weren’t sure Julianne and Andy would ever get together, and now they’re on their way to Ireland for their honeymoon.”
“Then there’s Mike and Naomi.” Colin moved toward her, slipped his arms around her. “And us. The burned-out undercover agent and the ex-nun art crimes specialist.”
“But here we are.”
“Yes.” He pulled back, just a little, enough for Emma to know his mind was on the events of the day. “The Fannings stopped in Heron’s Cove at the last minute. Supposedly Melodie Fanning and our British art consultant wanted to see the Sharpe offices.”
“We need to know if they or any of the passengers, crew or guests got in touch with the offices, or directly with my grandfather or brother. The Aoife O’Byrne painting by itself would make me wonder.”
“It’s late in Ireland now.”
“I’ll get in touch with Lucas and Granddad first thing in the morning.”
“Meantime?”
She tossed her head back and smiled at him. “I thought you might have energy to burn off and could carry me up the stairs?”
“I like how you think.”
6
The rectory’s two guest rooms were separated by a shared bathroom. When he took their bags upstairs, Oliver had opted for the bedroom overlooking the back garden for Henrietta. It was quieter, and it had flowers. He could see the bean holes from his room.
He stood in her doorway, watching her plop her suitcase onto the double bed. “You didn’t tell me things so I wouldn’t get in trouble with our friends in the FBI or have to lie to Finian Bracken,” he said mildly. “Or you didn’t tell me because you know Jeremy has me in his clutches and you’re after him for some reason.”
“You’re overthinking, Oliver.”
She unzipped her soft-sided suitcase with more force than was necessary. It was lilac, not a color he’d expected until he’d been confronted with it and had thought...yes, it suits her. Her room was small and sparsely if adequately furnished with the bed, a single bedside table, dresser and wood chair all painted in coordinating shades of turquoise, presumably given the rectory’s coastal location. Cheerful, anyway. The walls were decorated with two prints of seagulls, rocks and ocean, a mirror with seashells embedded in its frame and a small wood crucifix.
Henrietta took a small pile of lingerie from her suitcase. Oliver noticed a sports bra, a lacy bra, a tank top—he stopped there and focused on her movements as she placed the pile on top of the dresser and opened a drawer. She smiled and withdrew a linen sachet. “Lavender. How lovely.”
“Not Finian’s doing, I suspect. A previous guest, perhaps?”
“A gift from Ireland, I think. He does have a brother and three sisters there, and a host of friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if all or most of them want him back.”
“So send lavender sachets?”
“Reminders of home,” she said.
Oliver heard a catch in her voice, but it could be jet lag at work. He didn’t always trust his first impressions with her.
She put the lingerie in the drawer and placed the sachet on top of it. She returned to her suitcase for another stack of clothes. “I always unpack, even if I’m only staying in a place for one night. I feel more settled. I sleep better.”
“A good Scotch helps me.”
“It might help you fall asleep, but it won’t help you stay asleep. And don’t be cheeky with me, Oliver York.”
He smiled at her. “I do love you, Henrietta, no matter your MI5 secrets and sneakiness and all the rest.”
“Put like that...”
But she laughed, placing the pile—more lingerie—in the drawer. He hadn’t known that about her unpacking rule before they’d started seeing each other over the summer. They’d known each other since they’d been young children, before his parents were murdered in front of him, reshaping not only his life but, in unexpected ways, hers, too, and the lives of so many others in their small Cotswolds village. Amazing, the things he’d learned about her in these past few months. He’d thought he’d known everything.
She shut the drawer, grabbed actual clothes from her suitcase. One of her ubiquitous skirts, a couple of tops. She opened another drawer, shoved them in, shut the drawer with her knee. “I know you have questions, Oliver. So do I. But we must remember it’s okay for me to hold back on you. I have...restrictions. It’s not okay for you to hold back on me.”
“Even if Jeremy tells me to?”
“Right now, under the circumstances, especially if he told you to.”
Being here—knowing as little as he did—reminded Oliver of his inferior position. Henrietta and Jeremy were MI5 officers, and he was an asset, someone they had by the short hairs and would use and discard once they’d played him out.
Henrietta had corrected him on his terminology. Release was her word of choice, not discard.
All in all, toeing the line with MI5 was preferable to prison.
“In his own way, Jeremy is your friend, Oliver,” she said. “Remember that, won’t you?”
“Don’t tell him he’s my friend.”
“Jeremy is his own authority. Not many people tell him anything.” She sighed audibly. “Now I’m overthinking. Nothing positive comes of a combination of jet lag and overthinking. Speculating is the enemy of good judgment, not to mention good sleep.”
“I’ve rarely struggled with insomnia. Nightmares? Another story.”
“Has Jeremy been in touch with you, Oliver?”
“Since—”
“In the past month, in particular the past week, including today.”
“I’m not supposed to discuss our contacts.”
“Is that a yes? Just tell me when, where and why he’s been in touch.” But he didn’t answer immediately, and she inhaled through her nose, blew out the breath forcefully. “Oliver.” She waited. “All right, then. I won’t ask.”
“Are you going to tell me how you knew Jeremy was on board that yacht?”
“You’re assuming I did know.”
“You did, Henrietta.”
“I’ll say this much. I don’t need the details of how you returned the art you stole, or how you stole it in the first place. You don’t need the details of every bloody thing I do in my work.”
“Stealing art isn’t my work.”
She held up a hand, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I truly am. It’s not what I meant.”
“What I was isn’t who I am, but it’s contributed—and I want to be the man my grandparents and parents wanted me to be. I want to use everything I did and learned in positive ways. I can help. I have helped.”
“Jeremy wasn’t wrong in thinking you could, and would help—and are helping.”
“No, he wasn’t. Henrietta, why are we here?”
He saw her swallow, bite her lower lip before she spoke. “We’re visiting friends and seeing the New England autumn foliage.”
“Friends includes William Hornsby. You’re worried about him, aren’t you? Could this be his last hurrah with the service?”
“I suspect it could be mine, too.”
“MI5 doesn’t know you’re here?”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she pulled her cosmetic bag out of the suitcase and set it atop the dresser.
Oliver walked across the small room to her, touched her wild hair. “You’re trying to save Jeremy from himself,” he said.
“I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Get answers. That would be a good start.” She put
her arms around his waist and kissed him softly, then looked up, her blue-green eyes filled with emotion. “We both need to get some sleep. Good night, Oliver.” She smiled. “A full American breakfast in the morning, I think, and something with wild blueberries.”
He’d told her about wild blueberries on their long flight yesterday, when they’d avoided talking about what was really going on. He glanced behind him, but the stairs were dark, no sign Finian was coming up. But it was earlier in the evening for him. Oliver wasn’t hungry after their snack, and neither was Henrietta. Jet lag put meals at odd times.
“You’ll love Hurley’s.” He eyed Henrietta, though. He could see that mind of hers working. “You want to get onto the Fanning yacht, don’t you?”
“Could you manage it?” she asked, skirting his question. “Without being seen, of course.”
“Are you asking me to, Henrietta?”
“Absolutely not. We’re in enough hot water with your FBI friends as it is.”
“I like how you use the plural. Colin would object.”
“He likes you. He just doesn’t trust you.” She pulled the last of her hair from her clip and set the clip on the dresser. “Rock Point is a ragged place in comparison to Heron’s Cove, but I like it so far.”
“You’ve been here less than twelve hours.”
“I did say so far, Oliver. Now, off with you. I’d love for you to stay but it would be rude to abuse Father Bracken’s hospitality. Let’s talk at breakfast, shall we? We’ll visit Jeremy and get things sorted. I’m sure Finian can hear us whispering.”
Oliver traced the line of her jaw with one finger, saw her eyes soften as he leaned toward her. “Good night, love.” He kissed her, a quick, sweet peck of a kiss. “Sweet dreams.”
“You, too.”
Oliver regretted having stepped foot in Henrietta’s room. They’d had whiskey, for one thing. “Never try to speak to her when we have a good Irish pot-still in our systems,” he muttered to himself, shutting his bedroom door behind him.
The small room had similar furnishings to the one down the hall, but this one had framed photographs of Ireland—he recognized both scenes. One was of the old, abandoned distillery the Bracken twins had purchased as lads almost twenty years ago. Tucked in the Killarney hills, the stone ruins had required imagination, heart, grit and hope to create a thriving distillery out of them. Finian and Declan Bracken had succeeded, even before the sailing accident that had claimed Finian’s family.
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