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1
Kinsley, Ireland,
1844
The fight inside the Goose & Gander tavern was nothing new. Flying fists and hurled insults were as common as the daily swill served there, and in Liam O’Connor’s opinion, sometimes preferable. If a fight poured into the street, a tipsy farmer ended facedown in the pig trough, or someone lost his teeth—or worse—the poor villagers of Kinsley barely noticed. A potato blight was ravaging the country. Crop yields were low and spirits were lower. If a man died drunk and surrounded by friends, well... There were worse ways to go.
Liam leaned a broad shoulder against the wall outside, waiting for the right moment to enter. It had been a long day, and he wasn’t in the mood to get tangled up in another brawl. Tonight, he had far more important things on his mind. Important, expensive things that sparkled and gleamed exactly the way the Goose & Gander didn’t.
“Rat bastard!” a man roared. “May the milk spoil in your cows and a pox take you!”
A moment later, two men came flying through the tavern door, cursing and punching and kicking up mud.
Liam yawned and pushed his way past the drunken spectators who were already spilling into the street and making wagers.
“O’Connor!” A man yanked at Liam’s shirt, ripping a seam.
Liam craned his neck to see a gaping hole in the shoulder of his sleeve. Hell and damn. His brother’s wife was going to have his head for that. It was the third time this week he’d torn it, and he only had the one shirt.
Liam scowled at the barrel-chested man who stood near the door, weaving on his feet. “What do you want, Angus?” The old man was a regular at the tavern and known to make bad wagers whenever he was drunk, which was most days.
He squinted at Liam. “You still owe me fer last week’s ale.”
“Aye, that’s why I’m here, you big oaf,” Liam lied smoothly. “Come inside after the mud fight and I’ll pay you back.”
Angus eyed him suspiciously. Even deep in his cups, he was skeptical, which proved he wasn’t quite the pudding brain people believed he was.
Liam gasped and pointed to the men fighting in the mud. “Would you look at that! They’re really going at it now.”
When Angus teetered on his feet and turned his attention to the fight, Liam slipped quickly into the tavern. If luck was on his side, Angus would be snoring facedown in the dirt within the next few minutes. Knowing him, the odds were good.
The tavern was smoky and dimly lit, which helped hide the occasional rats on the floor and the questionable food. Wooden tables and chairs were crammed so close together that a person had to turn sideways to avoid bumping into people, which was probably the reason fights broke out as often as they did. And if an optimistic soul ever tried to pretend the place wasn’t as bad as it looked, well...the smell of unwashed bodies, spoiled stew and mangy dogs snuffling under the tables took care of that delusion.
But as unsavory as the place was, it suited Liam and his gang just fine. In his line of work, it was just the place he needed to carry out plans without worry of being overheard. No magistrate would willingly step foot in there, so that made it just about perfect.
“Liam,” his best friend called from the corner table. Boyd was a short, stocky man with dark curly hair and a shrewd gaze that missed nothing. “Over here.”
Liam joined the table. Beside him sat the O’Malley brothers. The Bricks. They were as dumb as their nickname, but what they lacked in brains they made up for in brawn. They were identical twins with blunt, blocklike features and powerful fists. Liam didn’t know them like he knew his childhood friend Boyd, but it didn’t matter. The Bricks were always up for shady business, especially if it paid well.
“What’s the news, then?” Boyd asked.
Liam signaled for a tankard of ale. “A baron travels this way in a week’s time. He’s taking his wife to visit friends, so there should be a nice bit of jewelry traveling with them.”
Boyd let out a derisive snort. “Hang your bits of jewelry, Liam. The boys and I have far better news.”
One of the Bricks grunted and took a swig of ale.
A serving girl brought over a tankard and set it down in front of Liam, leaning over a little farther than necessary. Her smile was big and her cleavage, bigger.
“Thank you, Betsy.” Liam winked.
She giggled, sliding a hand over his muscular shoulders before sashaying away.
“How do you do it?” Boyd asked irritably. “Every woman within five miles of you can’t resist shoving her tits in your face. Even rich Margaret Brady gives you calf eyes whenever she rolls by in her grand carriage, and I can only guess what else she’s giving you when that husband of hers is out of town.”
Liam shrugged, but said nothing. He’d been in a casual dalliance with Margaret for months, now. Being unhappy in her cold marriage with her ancient husband, she’d lured Liam in with her sleek black hair and lush figure. He sighed dramatically. “Everyone has a cross to bear, my friend. I endure it as best I can.”
Boyd snorted. “One of these days you’re going to get tangled up in something, Liam O’Connor, and your pretty face and even prettier lies aren’t going to save you.”
