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Baron stood. “Damn it. I knew something was wrong. We hadn’t heard from them in”—he looked at Miss Murray—“when was the last communication?”
“Six weeks, my lord,” she answered without looking up from her clipboard.
Baron moved behind the Irishman. “What can he tell us about the group? What are they planning? Is MacDonald still the leader?”
Cal asked the questions and more, but the Irishman’s answers were vague and often nonsensical. At first Cal blamed his limited Gaelic, but when the man started singing a verse to a song Cal’s own mother had sung, he stood and pulled Baron aside. “He’s not making any sense. I think he’s half-delirious with pain. He keeps singing a song and talking about the little people.”
“He needs rest,” the agent who’d been silent throughout the interrogation said, obviously deducing the gist of Cal’s comments. “We can start again tomorrow.”
“If he lives that long,” Baron muttered.
Cal glanced back at the man. He had been beaten, but the injuries weren’t enough to kill him. Unless there were injuries Cal hadn’t seen.
“Help me put him to bed,” the other operative said. Cal strode to one side of the Irishman and helped the other agent hoist him up. They moved him, feet dragging behind him, to the bed in the corner and lay him on his back. When the other operative moved away, Cal pulled a blanket over the Irishman. It was small comfort, but he didn’t like to see one of his countrymen suffering. As Cal bent to tuck the blanket about the man’s shoulders, the Irishman reached up and caught Cal’s arm. His grip was surprisingly strong, and his fingers dug into Cal’s flesh. He pulled Cal closer, until Cal could smell the blood from his wounds.
“The seers of Innishfree know,” he said in Gaelic. “They look into your heart. They see the truth.”
“Rest, my friend,” Cal told him, trying to pull away. “We’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”
“Only the pure of heart,” the Irishman went on, his grip tightening. “Your motives are not pure. This place”—he gave the cellar a contemptuous sneer—“sends kindling to the fire.”
“What is he saying?” Baron asked.
“Nothing that makes any sense,” Cal answered, his gaze still locked with the Irishman’s. The man might speak madness, but his eyes were clear.
“Listen to me and listen well.”
“Tell me what he says,” Baron said.
Cal didn’t answer. The Irishman pulled him even closer, so close Cal could see the broken blood vessels in his eye. “Innishfree is death,” he hissed. “Its shadow is on your face.”
Cal didn’t dare breathe. It was the kind of thing he generally laughed at, but he couldn’t find anything amusing in the Irishman’s dire predictions and warnings. The man’s eyes closed, and his grip loosened. Cal moved away, cupping the place where the man had gripped him with his own hand.
“What was that about?” Baron asked when the three of them were on the other side of the door. The operative had stayed behind with the Irishman.
Cal was loath to translate the words or even to repeat them. “Sure and he was babbling. Going on about seers and pure hearts. It didn’t make any sense to me.”
Baron gave him a long look. “If anything he said does become clearer, come to me right away.”
“I will. Do I come back to speak with him again tomorrow?”
“Stick to your schedule, Mr. Kelly,” Baron said. “You have weapons in the morning.” He started away, climbing the ladder ahead of them. Cal motioned for Miss Murray to go next, but she shook her head.
“You first, Mr. Kelly.”
He was too distracted to even toss her a rejoinder. He simply climbed to the top and waited for her, holding out a hand to help her climb out. She accepted his help without argument and together they closed the doors to the cellar. She locked them.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Cal said.
“Thank you.”
He was surprised she hadn’t argued. If she had, he wouldn’t have insisted. He was no gentleman, and the night was even more bitter than before. He still had to walk back across the field and to his dormitory. He hadn’t been tired earlier, but now he felt as though he hadn’t slept in days. Fatigue pressed down on him like a cart of bricks. He followed her up the steps of the farmhouse, and when she put her hand on the latch he said, “Good night,” and turned to go.
“Mr. Kelly.”
He paused.
“You haven’t teased me once since we left the cellar.”
