cheese, devouring them almost in the same instant. The only past he wished to remember was the recent one—his life at the Boyle farm. Otherwise, he would never be able to pay for what he had done to them.
THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING.
Sean paused once inside the barroom’s door, overwhelmed by the cacophony of sound. The instinct to clap his hands over his ears to dim the sound was almost impossible to resist. The raucous conversation and laughter, the scraping of wood chairs, the clink of tin, was a barrage of sound that threatened to immobilize him. As it was, he was rigid with the tension it had engendered in him. And the bright lights were blinding.
He had left the farm within an hour of first arriving there and had followed Connelly’s instructions. It had been easy to find the cobbler, who had put him up in a small room over his shop. It had been hugely difficult to make his way through the awakening and bustling city. He had been shocked by the sight of so many people, both on foot and on horseback, or driving wagons and carts. There had been so much pedestrian and vehicular traffic. He had seen one-horse gigs and two-horse curricles and even large coaches. And then there had been all those barges on the river. There had simply been so much movement, so many people, so much chatter, conversation and noise. And there had been so much dirt, soot, smoke and refuse. He felt strange and alien, like a farmer from the far Northwest who had never been in a city before.
In the few short hours he had been in town, his senses had not become accustomed to the sensory overload. Now, in the pub, he had to hold a hand over his eyes. Briefly, he felt a surge of panic and it was not for the first time. There were too many loud people in this single room, he thought, and his first instinct was to flee.
Yet he remained capable of reason. His mind knew that the overcrowded public room was far preferable to the small box that had been his cell. And he told himself that he would eventually become accustomed to the noise and the crowd.
Someone entered the barroom, brushing past him as he did so.
Sean did not think. The dagger appeared in his hand, a reflex meant to ensure his survival, so swiftly that no observer would have seen any movement. But the moment he grasped the carved handle above the lethal blade, the moment he held the dagger chest high, poised to slice the intruder’s throat, some sanity and even humanity returned. Sean stopped himself. He braced hard against the wall, panting, subduing the urge to defend himself, the urge to kill in that defense, reminding himself that he was not a beast, never mind the past two years of being caged and fed like one. He was a man, even if he was the only one who might think so.
He leaned his head against the wall. In truth, he no longer knew who or what he was. Maybe he had genuinely become this creature of the night, a man who would kill without provocation, John Collins.
Despair suddenly clawed at him, but he had enough talons in his flesh and he shoved it savagely aside.
“Hey, boyo, beg yer pardon,” the very drunken man said, glancing at him.
He had stolen the dagger from the warden when he had taken him hostage. Sean now hid the weapon, having flipped it deftly so that the blade faced up his arm, against his shirtsleeve, the worn handle hidden in his hand. He knew he needed to smile—it was the polite thing to do, the way a gentleman would behave—but he could not perform the task. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to manage the act. He ordered his facial muscles to do so, but they were so ill-used that a brief attempt produced no change in his expression. Sean gave up, staring at the unwanted interloper.
The man’s eyes widened with fear. He hurried away.
Sean stood very still, his breathing hard, the ugly sounds of the drunken crowd still surging over him and through him, waves of disturbing sound pounding inside his head. Maybe it would be better once he was on a ship, once he was put to sea.
He pushed through the crowd, carefully avoiding all physical contact. He had glimpsed a small corner table far in the back, in the shadows, against a wall, and he made his way to it. When he reached it, he felt safer, relieved. Two crooked chairs were there, but neither satisfied him. With his foot, he shoved one chair against the wall and only then did he sit. His back was protected, and he could see the entire public room and everyone inside it.
He gazed out at the thirty or forty men present, all drinking, laughing, speaking, some playing at die or cards, and he once again felt like an outcast. These men were Irishmen, just as he was. Once, he had been prepared to give his life defending them against tyranny and injustice, and he almost had. Now he felt no kinship with them. Except for confusion and surprise, he felt nothing at all.
It was then that he saw the man in the fine blue wool jacket approaching, a wildflower in his lapel, a small satchel in hand. Because he feared a trap, Sean carefully let the dagger reverse itself in his hand, and he laid it on his thigh, beneath the table.
The gentleman saw him and paused before the table. “Collins?”
Sean nodded, responding to his alias. Then he gestured at a chair.
The man sat. “I was given your description,” he said. “Unfortunately, you look exactly as a dangerous escaped felon might.” He was grim.
Sean ignored the remark. The man was tall, with tawny hair. His jacket was well made, his trousers tan, a fine wool. He noticed his waxed shoes. This man was clearly from a privileged background. The odds were that this was the gentleman Connelly had described, someone named Rory McBane.
It took him a moment to speak. It seemed easier than it had been that morning. “Are you…alone?”
“I haven’t been followed,” McBane said, studying him as warily. “I was very careful. And you?” He leaned closer, as if he hadn’t been able to clearly hear Sean when he had spoken.
Sean shook his head. The man continued to stare, far too closely, as if trying to decide whom he was aiding and abetting now. Perhaps McBane knew he was wanted for murder—perhaps he knew he was a murderer—perhaps he was afraid.
“Everything you need is in the satchel.” McBane broke the tense silence. With his boot, he moved the satchel toward Sean. “There’s some coin and a change of clothes. Passage has been booked to Hampton, Virginia, on an American merchantman, the U.S. Hero. She sails the day after tomorrow on the first tide.”
He would soon be free. In a matter of days, he would be sailing across the ocean, away from the British, away from Ireland, the land where he had been born, the land where he had spent most of his life. He knew he must thank McBane, but instead, his heart stirred unpleasantly, as if trying to tell him something.
Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear. In a few days, he would no longer be hunted. Soon, he would be able to look at the sun, hopefully without using his hand as a shield, and he would never have to hide in the dark again. He would never be surrounded by cold stone walls and a barred iron door. He would never sleep on ragged stone floors with only the rags on his body for warmth, for comfort. He would never have to eat water laced with potato skins and bread crawling with maggots. He was going to America and he would be free. They would not find him there.
He should be elated or relieved, but he was neither of those things.
Crystal tinkled. Perfume wafted. Soft conversation sounded. And amber eyes, bright with laughter, held his.
Sean stiffened, shocked that his mind would suddenly do this to him. He felt ill, almost seasick. Maybe he was losing his mind, once and for all. He simply could not go to where his mind wanted to take him. There was no returning to that other lifetime!
