The first of the signs for Bamburgh flashed past. She’d find out soon enough.
He moved, and she felt him pluck one hand away from her body, bringing it to rest, wound about with his fingers, on his powerful thigh. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her, but his thumb made lazy circles on her palm, drawing patterns in electric sensation that drugged and enervated her in the same charged breath. She remembered his thumbs brushing her mouth, her breast, creating almost involuntary pleasure in her. Her breath skipped, went shallow, and she chewed the inside of her cheek fiercely to keep from moaning.
She stared at his profile, still caught in frowning concentration, even while he turned her inside-out with just the stroke of his thumb. Then he turned his head, and met her eyes, and his own narrowed and pinned her with a look that made the shivery ache settle in her stomach, and her breath come faster still. He’d read what she was thinking in her eyes, she knew, and now he was thinking the same. Heat suffused her skin, and she shifted restlessly in her seat. The movement of his thumb hadn’t faltered.
The road caught his attention, and he turned away, leaving her hand abandoned on his thigh. The muscles were bunched under it though, and when she surreptitiously tried to withdraw it, he grabbed hold of it without looking, and brought it right back.
The big grain silos came into view, and Kier indicated right. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the thick muscle, and she knew he smiled, even without looking.
Alan’s cottage was halfway down a rutted lane that led down a slope to the shore. Its slate roof was hardly visible from the road, but as they turned carefully into the lane, Kier was able to see the bay clearly for the first time. A wide-mouthed, box-shaped inlet, a mile or two across at its mouth, and not much less on the landward side, where a river mouth marked each corner.
It was mostly dry now, just a winding channel, darker and sharper than the rolling mud flats and sands, marking where water ran out to sea. The north shore was flatter than this one, the dunes lower. To the east, the sea, with Lindisfarne, Holy Island, a dark shape to the north-east.
There was a space in front of the cottage, rough grass overcoming old gravel. Kier pulled up in front of the white-painted door, under the clothesline that danced and twanged in the wind.
They got out, Jenny stood for a moment, hanging onto the door, breathing deep of the sea air, eyes half-closed and lips curving, her hair dancing around her head. He watched her, feeling absurdly lucky, considering the circumstances. He pulled the key out of his pocket.
“Hey.” She looked up, and he tossed the key over to her. She caught it easily, smiling at him. “Open up.”
Not that he couldn’t open the door himself. But she seemed happy, and he’d try anything to keep her that way.
The place was pretty much as Alan had described. The door opened onto a tiny hall, a coat stand crammed into the corner, between the doors to the galley kitchen, and the little bathroom. On the right another door, open to show the living room, and another door in the far wall of the living room, that must lead to the bedroom.
“Check it out,” he said, nodding towards the kitchen. “We may need supplies.”
The living room had a collection of mismatched furniture, a worn sofa, a polished table against the far wall, a couple of chairs. Watercolour over the mantle, phone on the windowsill. And the fireplace. He stared at that for a while, but Jenny was only in the kitchen, he couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t walk in. He moved on to the bedroom.
A double bed, already made up with duvet and blankets. A single chest of drawers and a metal frame thing for hanging clothes. And two windows, front and back The back window looked out over the bay, and the scrubby trees that rattled bare branches against each other while the wind blew hard.
“We’re pretty well supplied,” Jenny said, popping her head round the door. “There’s a little freezer with bread and meat, and a couple of cupboards full of tins. There’s even milk in the freezer, so we don’t have to suffer UHT. We’ll do for now.”
“Good.”
“Have you seen the bath?” she asked, grinning. “You might need an inshore lifeboat to get me out again. It’s huge.”
He smiled back, trying to think of Alan’s box in the chimney, but largely distracted by the thought of Jenny, warm and languorous, lounging in a capacious bath. “Why don’t you pour yourself one? I’ll get us settled.”
She didn’t have to think about it long. “Okay,” she said, ducking back into the living room. He waited till he heard the bathroom door, and then the thunder of water from the taps, before he headed for the fireplace.
The box was exactly where Alan had said it would be. He wiped soot off his bare arms with a rag he found in the log basket, and used the same rag to wipe down the metal box. He opened it.
The Browning nine milli sat on a pile of bags, and booklets, quietly competent.
Well, hell.
McAllister quickly lifted the gun out, checking it over, loading it and flicking the safety on. He laid it on the mantelpiece and sorted through the rest of the contents. As Alan had said, there were a clutch of passports in a zip lock bag—he ignored those, circumspectly trying not to register the names they were in. There was a small printed booklet, too, tatty and well-thumbed. It read “Tide Tables” on the front.
He thought about the wide, sandy bay behind the cottage, registering the rising wind with half an ear. He frowned, slipping the tide tables into the back pocket of his jeans. There was money in the box, too, also carefully bagged. Dollars and British pounds, euros and, disturbingly, Algerian and Libyan dinars.
He took some of the cash, packed up the box, and put it back, the scowl deepening. Just what was Jenny’s brother involved with? And what were the implications for Jenny? Was it possible, after all, that he was the biggest sucker ever born, and she was still lying to him?
He sat down on the sofa and thought about that one, while Jenny splashed and sighed next door. When she finally emerged, wrapped in a navy robe that Alan must have left, he was stiff and had to work to take the scowl off his face.
“I was listening to that wind—how about whiskey coffee later on?” she said, and smiled, all wide-open dark eyes and generous, mobile mouth.
She wasn’t lying. He’d stake his soul on it. He suspected he already had.
“That sounds great,” he said.
John hesitated over the weekend bag, a sweater in each hand. Thick, warm wool, or lightweight synthetic fleece? He frowned.
It had been a long time since he’d been anywhere. The last major trip had been when he’d still been travelling with Alice. Lately, he’d take a few days off and do something around the house, or just relax at home. He’d forgotten how complicated packing for a trip could be.
With an exasperated sigh, he threw both tops in the bag and went into the bathroom for his wash kit. Shaving stuff, deodorant, washcloth, soap … he hunted for what he needed, trying hard not to see the spaces where Alice’s stuff used to be. Damn it, he didn’t even have a box to put the soap in. He slammed the bathroom cabinet door closed and wrapped the offending bar in the washcloth, instead, heading back into the bedroom.
Right. Tickets to Manchester, UK; money; bag; passport… he patted his pockets down as he ran a mental check. He was ready.
He snorted at himself at the thought. He was so not ready.
He wasn’t even clear, if he was honest with himself, what he was trying to achieve. Only that he wanted out of his job, preferably out of the country. He wanted a chance to set some things right, and now, oddly, he felt the freedom to do it. After all, Alice didn’t need him. But Jenny did.
He was not a field agent.
You are now, Dawson, he thought.
Kier was quiet all through supper. Jenny had thrown some sausages under the grill, and some beans in a pan. That and bread and butter was all they needed, and she was content to sit, replete and comfortable, afterward. But Kier was restless and monosyllabic, getting up to stare out the window more often
than not, at other times thumbing through a copy of the tide tables, frowning.
“Let’s go down to the shore,” she said, getting to her feet. She had in mind a stroll and a chance to see the view, but she knew perfectly well that Kier nodded and reached for his coat thinking about reconnaissance.
There was no back door. They went out the front, Jenny zipping herself into an old green waterproof of Alan’s that lived on the coat stand, then turned left, across the front of the cottage, and into the lane again, down to the shore.
The bay was an unrepentant expanse of mudflats and shingle. On the far side, the shore stacked up in lines of white, grey, yellow, and green where the dunes marched down to the shingle beach. The tide had abandoned the bay, it was empty.
But no, not quite empty. The mudflats teemed and screamed with bird life, flecks of brown, black, and white that became more distinct towards this side. Redshank, dunlin, and oystercatcher, treading delicately, feeding fast.
To their left, the sun dipped towards the land, starting to show the first hues of gold and orange. The wind played along the shoreline, dancing in the dunes and tugging at Jenny’s hair so that she put up a hand to tuck tendrils of it behind her ear, weaving them into place. The soft sound of the wind lulled her. The wide horizon soothed her.
She breathed in deep, tasting the sea in the air, like a tonic. “It’s so … serene,” she said. “You could almost…” She trailed off, wrapping her arms around her, unable to put her thoughts into words.
Kier spoke behind her, his voice low. “You could almost forget why we were here.”
She sighed softly. He knew. He understood. It was peace, this place. A respite.
He stood at her back, taller, broader, a rock to lean against, if she chose it. It occurred to her, watching a flock of lapwings settle on a sandbank like a handful of black and white grain scattered on a harrowed field, that she wanted him to touch her. But she didn’t want to lean on him.
Even as she thought it, he was moving, shifting around to stand at her shoulder. The wind faded in his lea, and those tendrils of hair drifted down around her face, tickling her cheek. She swept them back again, touched by his consideration, but then saw he wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes, dark under frowning brows, scanned the horizon.
So much for peace and a respite.
Something changed, a shift in the wind, a shiver along the horizon. At the mouth of the bay, a flock of birds took flight, and she knew the tide had changed.
She swallowed. “How long do you think we have?”
He turned his head, but only to look over her head, inland, towards the A1 and civilisation. “How long?”
“Before they catch up with us again?” She hadn’t meant to sound so fatalistic. But, somehow, as long as they were on the move, it felt like a race, a race they could win. Now they’d stopped, in however lovely a place, it just felt like waiting.
It felt like a death sentence.
She shivered, and at once felt Kier’s arm slip around her shoulders, tucking her into his side, into his warmth. She tipped her head up to look at him. He was still studying the bay, a frown of concentration on his face. Preoccupied, remote. And yet still reacting instantly to her distress.
It was warmer out of the wind, up against his side. At least, that was the excuse she was sticking to.
“I don’t know,” he said, eventually. “He may not find us at all.”
“That’s not a solution,” she said, and that made him look at her, ducking his head to see her face. She stared back at him, and the frown faded slowly. A twitch of his lips, an extra line or two at the corner of his eyes, and she knew he agreed. And approved that she’d come to that conclusion.
“No. Running and hiding is never a solution,” he lifted his head again, but his eyes were lighter, and his face more relaxed. “But it bought us time.”
“What are you … are we going to do with that time?”
He took a breath that nearly rocked her off balance, but his arm tightened, and held her secure. “Don’t ask me that, yet. There’s an idea forming, but I don’t have it yet.”
She blinked at him. Don’t ask me that? It was progress from silence. It was honesty, in its way.
And it was almost impossible for her to accept.
She pressed her lips closed and thought. But surely sharing that much had been almost impossible for him to do, too? She tucked her head against his shoulder, frustrated with his reticence, with her terror of being excluded. With tiredness, with being bullied by him, abandoned by her brother, abandoned by her own country’s authorities. She closed her eyes, and wished he was really hers.
“When that idea’s formed,” she muttered against his shirt, “let me know.”
He was still. For a moment she thought she’d muttered too low. Then another one of those deep breaths moved him, and her, and his hand was somehow against her cheek, fingers under her jaw, lifting her head.
He was frowning again, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind that kind of frown at all—fierce concentration and focused passion. His thumb was at her mouth, parting her lips already.
“Generous,” he said, gruffly, and kissed her.
But tucked into bed later, draped across him, all pleasure aside, Jenny couldn’t help thinking about their predicament.
“Kier?”
“Hmmm?”
“There’s something more than meets the eye about all this, isn’t there? You said they want me because of my natural aptitude, but then you said that they must have hidden the fact that I’m a marksman, trained for years. So if I’m a marksman, it’s not natural aptitude, so they can’t want me. Which is a tangled way of saying, what could they possibly want with me?”
“Go to sleep, Jenny.”
Which was a singularly unhelpful answer and very much in the McAllister mould.
“You know them, Kier. What could they want with me?”
He didn’t answer, and she kicked him lightly in the leg.
“You’re my only link with these people, surely …”
He heaved a sigh. “Surely we can talk about this later. Go to sleep.”
She quenched the little flare of anger, resolving to hold him to that “later.” It wasn’t hard to do as he suggested, though. They’d had an eventful day. She smiled at the thought and at remembered pleasure, forgiving him his bout of surliness. How could she not, when her body fairly hummed with contentment and satisfaction?
What could they possibly want with me …
Beside him, Jenny stirred, stretching her supple length against his side, smooth and soft. Kier could feel the contentment coming off her in waves, warm and vital, like a whole-body smile. He frowned, trying to recapture his train of thought, despite his body’s instantaneous reminder that he was never going to be able to get enough of her.
You know them, Kier. What could they want…
She heaved a huge sigh, blowing against his shoulder, shifting the strands of her wild hair against his skin. He swallowed and dug his fingers into the mattress as he struggled to follow the thought before she really woke up, and thought became impossible.
Too late. A languid arm snaked out and found out for itself what her proximity did to him. The feel of her hand moving on him made him want to shout, but in a last desperate rebellion against his surging need he reached out mentally to catch at the tail of that idea as it whipped out of reach.
You’re my only link with these people …
Then it was there, caught and held in his mind. So shockingly clear, he wondered how he’s never seen it before. Of course!
“Mmmm, anyone would think you found me attractive, Mr. McAllister,” Jenny whispered.
“It’s not you!” Kier almost shouted. He caught her wandering hands and pulled them up to his chest, jack-knifing up to a sitting position.
Jenny bucked away from him so fast she almost scooted right out of bed. With one hand she caught the duvet to her, pushing unruly curls out of shocked eyes with the other. “Wha�
��what?” she stammered, hurt in every laboured syllable. “What do you mean?”
He caught hold of her again, drawing her back to him, soothing her with a touch. She didn’t pull away, but the lips he kissed were trembling.
“No, that’s not what I mean, Jenny. Don’t you see?” he said. “It’s not you Kendrick and his goons are after, it’s me! This whole thing isn’t even about you, it’s about me. It has to be.”
Even as he said it, even as he knew it to be true, he realised it was a cruel thing for her to hear, and wrapped his arms around her tightly. He dropped a kiss on her head.
Her voice was muffled against his collarbone. “How … why?” She paused, struggling with words, and he waited for her, knowing she needed to articulate how she felt. “Why me, Kier?”
He felt the way her voice shook, bewildered and uncertain, like a sharp, sour pain inside him. She couldn’t even begin to put this whole thing behind her until they found answers to those questions. The uncertainty was flaying the confidence off her, leaving her raw and wounded.
“Oh, love,” he groaned, tucking her head under his chin and leaning back against the headboard. He hated the way she was suddenly stiff in his arms.
She struggled against his hold, and immediately he loosened his grip. She pushed at his chest a little, backing up so she could look up into his face. Her expression was frozen, eyes wide and fixed on his face, almost disbelieving.
He took her head in his hands, cradling her face, thumbs just softly brushing her cheekbones. “That has to be it, Jenny. I know it sounds crazy, but that has to be it, don’t you see? They were too ready for this, too prepared—Kendrick already in the country, already one step ahead … It’s got setup written all over it!”
In the cradle of his hands, she shook her head a little, impatiently. “I believe you, I believe that. It’s just…”
She hesitated, lowering her eyes, and he tried not to frown too hard, sensing she was about to say something that mattered. But then she took a breath and asked, “But that still doesn’t tell us what this is all about. I accept that it’s you they’re after—it makes a sort of twisted sense, but why would they want you dead?”
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