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Baron’s brows drew together in confusion. Bridget stared hard at the wall beside Baron’s head. “Is there anything else you require from me, sir?” she said, voice tightly controlled.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Murray.”
She sighed inwardly, visions of her woolen socks fading.
“If you’ll fetch your pad and a pen, I need someone to take notes.
“Notes on what?” Mr. Kelly asked. “I’m in the dark as Miss Murray has played coy with her information.”
Bridget did not hit him as she retreated to her office for the supplies she would need, but it had been a near thing. Coy. Coy? She had never been coy in her life. She wouldn’t have known how to play coy if her life depended on it. She snatched the pad and pencil up then paused and rested both hands on her desk, taking a moment to breathe. Outside the room she could hear Baron inviting Kelly into his office.
She could afford to gather her wits and calm her temper. She hadn’t even known she had a temper before she’d met Callahan Kelly. A week or so ago she would have said nothing and no one rattled her. But Callahan Kelly had certainly managed to work his way under her skin, like a tick that must be burned off. And oh how she would look forward to that fire.
“Miss Murray, are you ready?” Baron called.
“Yes, sir.” She took another deep breath and walked the short distance to Baron’s office. Kelly was already seated, but to her surprise, he rose when she entered. Instead of acknowledging his politeness, she ignored him and sat at her usual place, a chair to the right of Baron’s desk. She held her pencil above the notepad, at the ready.
She tried not to look at Callahan Kelly, but he was directly in her line of vision. And, of course, once she looked at him, it was hard to look away, especially when his focus was elsewhere. From under her lashes, she took a moment to observe him. His hair had grown a bit since he’d arrived at The Farm, either that or he hadn’t bothered to brush it. His jaw glittered in the lamplight with stubble at least a day old. His clothes fit him better than the evening clothing he’d been wearing when she first met him, but that was not saying much. Still, it was impossible to look at him, even in ill-fitting clothes, and not notice the broad shoulders, the lean waist, the muscled legs.
Without warning, he met her gaze and winked. She lowered her eyes to the notepad, pretending she’d been studying it all along, but a hot flush crept up her face. She really did not like Callahan Kelly.
“I suppose you know why I asked to speak with you, Mr. Kelly,” Baron said, seeming unaware of her current mortification.
Kelly moved in his seat—squirmed if she was not mistaken—and blew out a breath. “I can pack and be ready to go in a quarter hour. Just remember I’m to be paid in full after the first five days. The instructors can tell you all that I’ve shown the agents about picking pockets and locks.”
Bridget was so shocked she dropped her pencil.
“That was our agreement, but I’m curious as to why would you think I wish you to leave, Mr. Kelly?” Baron asked, as she bent to retrieve the pencil.
“You should know he started it,” Kelly said. “Sure and I punched him, but he had it coming. If you didn’t want an Irishman here, you shouldn’t have sent that nob to invite me.”
Baron looked at Bridget, and she shook her head slightly to indicate she had no idea what Kelly was talking about. Her mind was still reeling from the knowledge that Baron—or his emissary—and Kelly had an agreement to pay Kelly for coming to The Farm. No one was paid until after training. Agents wanted to come to The Farm. It was an honor to be selected.
Baron steepled his fingers. “On the contrary, I do want an Irishman here, Mr. Kelly. You might even say that I need an Irishman. Has someone made you believe otherwise? The man you hit perhaps?”
“Didn’t Pistol tell you what happened?’
“Who?”
He made a circling gesture with his hand. “Pistol or Rifle or whatever the man’s name is. He didn’t report me?”
Baron didn’t speak, but Bridget had finally puzzled it out. “Do you mean to say that you hit Mr. Shot?”
“Shot! That’s it,” Kelly said, slapping his knee. “Did he say I hit him?”
“No,” Baron answered.
“Well, that’s settled then. Time for bed, so it is.” He rose.
“Sit down, Mr. Kelly,” Baron said, low but stern.
Kelly sat.
“Let’s begin again. The reason I sent for you tonight is that I wish to make you an offer. Another offer.”
“What sort of offer is this one?” Kelly asked, eyes narrowed.
“The sort that must never leave this room. Your life depends on it.”
