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She was no nun.
***
CAL WAS UP AND DRESSED when the knock came the next morning, but he felt bleary-eyed and unsteady, as though he were still on the rocking ship, not safely on firm ground.
“Do you want me to answer?” Bridget asked. She was dressed as well. She’d been up even before him, and she was wearing a warm yellow dress, with her hair pulled into a neat tail that flowed down her back. He’d wanted to ask why she hadn’t pinned it up, but he liked it too much to draw attention to it.
“No. I have it.” He rose from the table, where she’d served him an apple and half a bun—all they had in the room at the moment—and went to the door. “Who is it?”
“Donnelly.”
Cal opened the door. “Come in.” He stood back to allow the man to pass. “I’d offer you tea, but Mrs. Kelly hasn’t yet been to the shops, have you darlin’?”
She gave him a tight smile. “Not yet. Darlin’.”
“I’ve had my tea and a bit of porridge besides,” Donnelly said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in years,” he lied.
“The bed is most comfortable, Mr. Donnelly,” Bridget said. “We’re most appreciative of your help in settling us here.”
She was certainly playing her part, but Cal didn’t think she’d slept any better than he had. He’d tried not to toss and turn because the bed was small, and he didn’t want to wake her with all his jostling. But more than that, he didn’t want to accidentally touch her. For her part, Bridget hadn’t moved at all. Not once during the night. She’d gone to sleep facing away from him, perched on the edge of the bed, and she hadn’t so much as let her shoulders droop. If she’d done more than doze lightly, he would have been surprised.
She was safe as a nun in the night, but his thoughts had not been those of a priest. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to lay beside her, feel the heat of her body mingle with his own, listen to her breathing, catch whiffs of her scent of ink and clean soap.
His cock had been on guard and at the ready in case called into action. Cal had tried to tell him he wouldn’t be needed but hope apparently sprang eternal.
“Well then, Mr. Kelly, if you’re ready, I’ll take you to the pub.”
“I’m ready.” Cal pulled on a cap and a coat then realized Donnelly was standing at the door looking at him and Bridget expectantly. Of course. A newly married man would kiss his wife goodbye.
Cal crossed the room to where Bridget stood by the stove. She watched him warily, her concern making her eyes widen as he came nearer. “I’ll be home for tea,” he said, loud enough for Donnelly to hear. Then he whispered, “He’s waiting for me to kiss you goodbye.”
She offered her cheek, and he bussed it quickly—not so quickly that he didn’t feel how soft it was. “Goodbye,” he said gruffly and followed Donnelly out.
Dublin was an ancient city founded by the Vikings, or so the locals said. Like London, it was a city of contrasts—both the very rich and the very poor made Dublin their home. Here in the Liberties, Cal noted a preponderance of the very poor. Thin women and children shivered in doorways and men slept on stoops. Scrawny dogs nosed about rubbish heaps and cats had no shortage of rats to chase.
Groups of young men, most with caps pulled low and hands stuffed in pockets, leaned against walls, eyeing passersby belligerently. Most of the costermongers were already up and out, hawking their wares. They pushed old barrows stacked with winter vegetables, roasted nuts, and soda bread.
The weather was sunless and bitterly cold, the wind kicking up leaves and debris about his boots. Shoulders hunched against the damp and gloom of the day, Cal followed Donnelly through what seemed to be a maze of streets, lanes, and alleys until they reached a small brick building with a crooked sign that read The Selkie. Cal peered in the windows as he walked by to reach the door, but they were too grimy to allow anyone to see inside.
Donnelly produced a key, jabbed it in the lock, then shoved the heavy oaken door in. “This is the pub,” he said.
“You own it?” Cal asked.
“We own it.” He lit a lamp and raised it high enough to shed light on the dark interior. “You’re my new business partner. We’re old friends from Belfast.”
So this was the story they were to tell the pub’s employees and patrons. This was how Donnelly would introduce Cal and Bridget. It was an unoriginal story, and perhaps that was for the best. No one would raise an eyebrow, and Cal and Bridget would be accepted into the community quickly. But Cal wished for a different identity—one that wouldn’t require him to spend so much time in a pub.
“Went to school together, did we?” Cal moved reluctantly inside, taking in the scents of beer and wood. He could feel his pulse thumping just under his chin. He was both stimulated and terrified.
“Something like that. Now you’re married, you wanted to settle down. I want a chance to take a holiday.”
“You’re leaving then?” Cal asked, jaw tense.
“Day after tomorrow. I’ll show you how it’s done here and then I’ll be out of your way.”
Cal took a seat at the bar. It had a familiar feel to it. Too familiar. “Any particular reason you want a holiday at the moment?”
