CHAPTER 29

A lec glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the pub door opening before turning back to me. I couldn't quite decipher the look in his eyes—he donned his mask too well—but I comprehended enough to grasp that he wasn't completely at ease with the man approaching us. Or perhaps he wasn't completely at ease with that man meeting me .

"So this is Verity Kent," Michael Collins declared, his Cork accent more lilting than a Dubliner's. "I've heard quite a lot about ye the past few months." He nodded at Alec. "Not only from this one, though 'tis clear he's smitten."

Alec turned to scowl at him for this baiting remark, but Collins merely grinned.

"Nay, I'd say your name's been on the lips of about half my agents."

Though good-naturedly spoken, I could tell this remark was not as innocuous as it seemed. It also made clear that while I had been searching for Alec and marking several of Collins's men—and women—they had also been marking me.

"What can I say, I do get around," I replied flippantly.

Collins chuckled, rubbing his jaw as he paced around me. "That ye do."

I continued to meet Alec's gaze as Collins circled around my rear, hoping I could still trust Alec not to allow Collins to physically hurt me. Such attacks didn't seem to be the Big Fellow's style, but that didn't stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing on end.

"Even inside the Castle. Where word is ye ruffled the Holy Terror's feathers quite thoroughly." Collins smiled broadly. "Now that's somethin' I would've liked to see."

"We call O the Holy Terror," Alec explained.

"I surmised," I said, though I wondered how Collins had known I'd ruffled O's feathers. Nancy couldn't have known I wasn't bluffing about that part. Unless she'd learned it from one of the men outside Smith's office. Some of them had probably overheard.

He came to a stop next to Alec, crossing his arms over his chest. "I haven't interfered with ye or your husband . . ."

I arched my eyebrows in challenge at this remark.

A corner of his mouth quirked upward in wry acknowledgment. "Well, not much. And only because MacAlister assures me you're here for him."

I knew the look I'd cast Alec's way conveyed my curiosity as to why Collins had still addressed him as MacAlister, but he didn't elucidate.

"Is that true?" Collins asked.

Once again Alec remained silent to my querying look, but I'd deduced enough about Collins by now to know he was testing me.

"Not strictly," I replied. "But you know that already."

"Aye. Miss Kavanagh, Collins said. "'Tis sad. But we had nothin' to do with it."

I knew that when he said "we" he meant the rebels, the IRA.

"No," I replied, my temper sparking. "It was Lieutenant Delagrange, the intelligence officer her parents wanted her to wed."

Collins and Alec shared a look that communicated they hadn't known this fact.

"You're certain?" Alec asked.

"Yes. Though I don't have proof. Not proof good enough for Dublin Castle anyway," I snapped indignantly. "But he and his mates assaulted Miss Kavanagh, sure enough. Likely murdered her cousin, too. And he may have killed her as well."

From the ensuing moments of silence, I realized I'd probably said too much, but I was still furious at the Castle, and both their treatment of Sidney and refusal to even open an inquiry of their own into the matter.

"So ye have no further reason to remain in Dublin," Alec said.

I glared at him, still furious at him as well. For his deception. For making me care. For being the reason I'd come here in the first place and been forced to confront all of these things.

Without Alec, I also never would have known about Miss Kavanagh. I never would have failed her. I turned my glare on Collins. Though perhaps there was one thing I could do in her honor.

"Your men may not have cut Miss Kavanagh's hair, but they have assaulted and forcibly cut the hair of other women. You need to order them to cease that tactic now. It reduces women to weapons of shame." I arched my chin. "And it is beneath you."

"Verity . . ." Alec warned, for Collins's expression had chilled.

"Mrs. Kent, I do believe ye think I have more power over the men than I actually do," he said. "I do not give orders to the brigades."

"Maybe not," I agreed, studying the determined line of his jaw, and seeking to sway it to my side. "But they all look to you for guidance. And if you wanted to, you could make it clear how intolerable such behavior is."

"Aye, but I think you're forgettin' the power of the sight of a man in uniform."

Implying that uniform-mad girls might forget to mind their tongue in the presence of soldiers.

"It's no more powerful than the sight of a pretty face," I responded tartly, for men were just as susceptible, if not moreso.

He dipped his head, conceding this point.

"Well, lovely as this has been," I said, deciding it was time I make my exit before matters grew even more contentious. I began to back away. "But I think it's time for me to go."

"Hold on, Ver," Alec warned, halting me. "Ye don't think we're just going to let ye walk away, do ye?"

Alarm shot through me as I took in both of their implacable expressions. I had no idea what sort of combat training Collins might have had, but he was a fairly tall and robust fellow, and Alec could probably best me with one hand tied behind his back. So I held no illusions that I could escape. Not by speed or physical force.

However, Alec wasn't finished. "Not without your word of honor that ye won't reveal what ye know."

The demand rankled, and I thought about threatening them with the fact that Sidney would tear this city apart looking for me if they detained me. He knew enough to do serious damage to their organization, for I had shared nearly everything I knew with him for just this reason. But I didn't want to draw their attention to him. I didn't want to give Collins any reason to send his murder gang to Upper Fitzwilliam Street that night.

In any case, Collins didn't seem to be ready to let me go so easily. "Are you sure she can be trusted?"

Alec's jaw was firm, his gaze steady as he looked at me. "Aye. I'd sooner trust her than you or the .45 in my pocket."

His words left me feeling like I'd been punched. He trusted me that much, yet he'd not sought me out to tell me the truth and avoided this entire thorny dance. I wasn't sure if that said more about Alec or more about me, but I ignored my own complicated emotions and turned to Collins, expecting to find him displeased by Alec's statement. Instead, he appeared intrigued.

"If Verity gives you her word, she will honor it," Alec added, making the matter plain, and making it all but impossible for me not to give it now.

I scowled at him before relenting, telling Collins. "I'm not here to fight your war. I won't reveal what I know." My mouth twisted bitterly. "They wouldn't believe me anyway."

"More the fool them," Collins quipped.

I tilted my head, scrutinizing him. "At least you don't make the mistake of underestimating women."

Perhaps it was an observation I shouldn't have made, for it might be construed to allude to the fact that I knew he had female intelligence agents. It was the type of boneheaded remark Bennett might have made to show off. But after being discounted time and time again, I was suddenly finding it difficult to bite my tongue and not reveal how much I knew. To blurt out that I'd not just stumbled upon them here by chance, but that I knew perhaps half the locations on Collins's daily route. Only the certain knowledge that I would be signing Sidney's death warrant kept me silent.

"You are a dangerous woman, aren't ye, Mrs. Kent?" Collins said at last, his interest having sharpened.

I gave a humorous laugh, backing away with a shake of my head. "Not in the least. After all, what danger is there in knowing something when you can't do anything about it."

"Go home, Verity," Alec called after me as I turned to leave. "To London."

I lifted my hand in farewell, but didn't look back, still too stung by the truth of my last comment.

As I approached the end of the alley, I could see a man waiting there with a bicycle, smoking a cigarette. When I drew nearer, I could tell that it was Tom, and that the bicycle was mine. "Ye left somethin'," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," I stated pointedly, but when I reached for the handlebars and began to pull it away, he held fast. I looked up to find him staring at me in puzzlement, as if I was an arithmetic problem he hadn't yet solved.

"We came there that day for ye, ye know? That day at the Wicklow," he clarified. "But then the Tans showed up and those intelligence officers. Collins had to distract 'em so we could slip out."

I was startled to discover Collins had been there that day. I wondered if it had been him who'd offered to buy the officers a drink. If so, reckless didn't begin to describe him.

"So I cooked up that excuse to ask ye to meet us in Capel Street at the library, but ye didn't show." He narrowed his eyes. "How'd ye know?"

He seemed earnest, but just because I'd given Collins my word that I wouldn't reveal what I'd uncovered about him didn't mean I was going to reveal the secrets of the British Secret Intelligence Service. My silence went both ways.

Instead, I smiled tightly, and pulled the bicycle more insistently from his grip. "Good night, Mr. Cullen."

With this, he stepped back, allowing me to ride off down Sackville Street.

It was later than I'd ever been out on my own in the city, with darkness having fallen and the streetlights casting haloed gleams over the pavement. By now Sidney must have learned of the firefight, which I'd overheard someone at the pub say had started when the IRA had disarmed two military police patrols, one outside Trinity College and the other in Westmoreland Street. When the army guards stationed at the Bank of Ireland had realized what was happening, they'd opened fire on the men, who had then returned shots. I imagined my prolonged absence was causing Sidney considerable worry, but I couldn't focus on that. Not when I needed to keep my wits about me to ensure I made it home without incident.

Fortunately, I was in an area filled with theaters and cinemas, as well as restaurants, hotels, and pubs. Two hours before curfew, there were still plenty of people about. Though I also couldn't help but note the increased police and military presence. Some people hailed them heartily, while others scurried past with their heads low. The majority did their best to ignore them while still keeping a wary eye in their direction. I was among the latter.

I was crossing the expanse of O'Connell Bridge when someone suddenly cried out my alias. "Dearbhla!"

It was a voice I would have known anywhere even if the attire was unfamiliar. I pulled to the edge of the pavement as Sidney retraced his steps, pulling me into his arms even as I awkwardly straddled the bicycle. "Thank God," he breathed into my hair.

Though I hadn't believed I was actually scared before, I found myself shaking as he held me close.

"What happened?" he asked as he pulled back, the flat cap on his head pulled low over his eyes. The rest of his clothing was that of an everyday Dublin laborer, and I realized at some point he must have acquired a disguise for just such an occasion. Though there was no hiding his memorable good looks.

But I could sense that we were drawing interest from others, including a pair of constables. Not wanting to face any awkward questions, I urged him, "Let's walk."

He helped me dismount and then took control of the bicycle, rolling it alongside him while his other hand held mine securely, our fingers interlaced.

I waited until we'd veered left onto D'Olier Street before attempting to speak. "I was cycling toward the bridge when the shots began, and everyone started running in the opposite direction. You heard about the firefight?" I confirmed.

"Yes."

I explained the logic behind my decision about what to do next and how I'd ended up in Devlin's pub.

"Yes, I see," Sidney agreed. "That was probably the wisest course of action. I knew you would have kept your head. But when one hears that the Crown Forces and rebels are volleying shots back and forth at each other in the middle of a public street, well, I suspect you can understand my unease."

I nodded, though the truth was that I was barely listening, all my thoughts being instead consumed by the momentous discovery I'd yet to share with him. "I found him," I finally murmured, an unconscious echo of my words a fortnight ago.

It took Sidney a moment to respond. Long enough for me to wonder if he'd heard me.

"Found him. You mean Collins?"

"You already knew that." I paused, bracing myself to get the words out. "I mean Alec."

He stumbled to a stop, turning me to face him in the gleam of the lights outside the Queen's Theatre on Great Brunswick Street. I could tell that I'd astonished him, but all of his concern seemed to be for me as he scoured my features. Whatever he saw there was enough for him to tuck me closer to his side as we continued to walk toward home. Or our temporary one anyway.

A sudden wave of longing for our flat in Berkeley Square struck me. There, at least, I was safe and secure, and I didn't have to confront any of this. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in our bed with Sidney's arms wrapped around me and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

Whenever the war had become too much, whenever I'd missed Sidney with that weary bone-deep ache that only love can cause, I would closet myself in our bedroom and imagine the war was over, and he was there with me. It would always be spring, and the windows would be open to let in the birdsong and the smell of flowers in the garden square below. We would be covered in nothing but the sheets tangled around our waists and the warm sunshine spilling through the window.

Sometimes imagining that was all that had gotten me through the day. Even during the months when I'd believed him dead.

But eventually the world always intruded. Eventually I had to return to reality. There was no permanent escape. Even if I were to flee physically, mentally I would still be here. Every illusion was but temporary, even the one found in a bottle.

Though that didn't stop Sidney from pouring me a glass of whiskey—Irish this time—once we reached our private sitting room still dressed in our disguises. Neither of us had bothered to change in my "writing room" upstairs, for Ginny was already long gone for the day and Mrs. Boyle was undoubtedly in bed. Only Nimble was about, and he already knew our secret. In fact, I suspected he'd been the one to acquire Sidney the necessary garments for his costume.

"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked as I took a sip of whiskey, never mind the fact I'd probably already had too much to drink that night.

Sidney had removed his coat and cap, and now stood before me in a linen shirt and rough trousers, gripping the suspenders. "Nimble thought something starting with an ‘S' would be best. Something like Samuel. Samuel O'Shea."

I eyed him with amusement. "And is this the first time you've ventured out in that getup, Samuel O'Shea?"

"Sure, it is."

I shook my head at his accent. "Dreadful."

He took my criticism in good stride, but then he sobered. "I imagine Xavier's is flawless."

I stared down into the amber liquid in my glass. "It is," I admitted, setting the whiskey aside before I turned maudlin. At least, more maudlin than I already felt. "He's grown a mustache."

"Now that I'd like to see," Sidney jested, sitting beside me.

I cracked a weak smile. "It's ridiculous."

"He hasn't the face for it," he concurred. When I said nothing more, he prodded at the wound that was deepest. "He's switched sides, hasn't he."

"Yes," I squeaked out after a long exhale.

He nodded. "So Finnegan was right."

"But don't go thinking his disclosure was noble," I grumbled. "Alec all but confirmed Finnegan switched sides, too. Or maybe he's always been on the rebel side and C just didn't know it."

"Either way, I suppose Xavier is the one who instructed Finnegan to tell you. To convince you to leave, hopefully for good."

"No wonder the piker was so nervous when he told me," I replied, having already deduced all this. A tear slid down my cheek and I angrily dashed it away and the one that followed. Alec didn't deserve my tears. Not after everything.

Sidney reached out to me, but I pushed him away, rising to my feet. I didn't want to be comforted. My control was already too fragile. If I let him put his arms around me, if I gave myself over to his support, I feared I would fall apart completely.

He watched me pace for a moment, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, before asking. "What do you want to do, Ver?"

It was a repeat of the question he'd already asked me several times during our time here, and yet look what a hash my decisions had made of things. I didn't know what I wanted to do anymore. I didn't even know if I had the right to choose.

"I don't know," I admitted in a small voice as I stopped to stare into the cheval mirror. The powder I'd used to alter my complexion had streaked and my hair was matted and snarled from the hat I'd worn so far down on my head. There was even a splotch of something on the collar of my blouse. I looked far from put together, far from capable of making good choices.

"What do you want to do?" I asked Sidney as I turned to look at him.

He crossed the room toward me slowly, I supposed wary of my pushing him away again. "What I want to do right now is to draw you a hot bath." Though he hadn't phrased it as a question, one glinted in his eyes, and I nodded, feeling a bit more of my resentment slip into resignation.

"And tomorrow"—he grimaced, tugging at his collar—"I want to burn this shirt."

One corner of my lips quirked at this absurdity.

"Seriously. How anyone can stand wearing this, I don't know."

"They have no choice, darling."

He mock shuddered, guiding me toward the bedroom. "And then Saturday, we'll go to Belgarde Castle for the Maudes' house party."

"I'd forgotten about that," I groaned.

"Yes, well, we've already confirmed we're coming. And it will be good to get out of Dublin for a few days."

"Gain some perspective, you mean."

"With the Maudes? Hardly." He turned me to look at him. "But it will give us time to think. To reassess before deciding our next step."

I liked his use of the word "us" and had to agree he was right. There was no need to pack up and rush off to catch the next ferry back to England. In fact, even in my muddled, aggrieved state, the very idea still smacked of cowardice.

So I lifted my hand to gently cradle his cheek in apology for my earlier rebuff and in acceptance of his proposal.

He pressed a kiss to my palm and then turned to draw the bath.