Moonlight shone through fast moving clouds, illuminating the two men's tracks in the moist ground. Not that Phoebe had to track them. In the distance, they walked down the main street, their great coats fanned out around them like bat wings. She hugged her cloak tighter, keeping a hand pressed against the pistol in her pocket, and hurried through the shadows cast by the shops that lined the deserted street.
The men took a right turn down a narrow lane. She rushed to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. When they were far enough ahead, she hugged the wall and followed. They wound their way through the streets for another fifteen minutes as the tang of salt air intensified.
They walked another ten minutes and she grew concerned. Sunrise was but an hour away. Minutes later, the distinct caw of the sea’s scavenger birds broke the nightly silence.
Kiernan and his companion slowed and Phoebe halted at the nearest cottage and pressed close to the building. The men angled toward a house and she watched as they reached the door and knocked. The door opened and dim light splashed out into the darkness. They stepped inside and the door closed.
When Phoebe reached the cottage, she made a quick inspection that revealed no open windows. She glanced up at the sky and prayed she didn't have long to wait.
Light fingered across the dark sky in gray streaks. Another quarter of an hour and the sun would peak over the horizon. A door clicked open and Phoebe crept from the side of the cottage to the rear. A low murmur of voices was followed by the light crunch of boots on the rocky terrain. Their footsteps began to fade and she hurried to the edge of the cottage and peered around the corner. Four figures silhouetted by the gray dawn passed along the lane.
Minutes later, the sun's rim edged up the sky. Shops had replaced cottages, and sailors and merchants milled about the street. Phoebe kept the hood of her cloak around her face while walking on the opposite side of the street a safe distance behind the men. The man who had accompanied Kiernan from Madam Duvall's was with him, along with Mather, but the third man was a stranger.
The street veered to the right and Phoebe slowed as she rounded the corner. A bay jutted inland and several ships stood docked in the water. The men rounded a shop and disappeared from view. She slowed in front of the shop and gazed in the window at the nautical almanacs and supplies displayed in the window. Two men appeared from around the building and she waited until they passed before continuing to the building edge. At the end of that lane, past several buildings, a single ship bobbed at the dock. The lane was empty except for Kiernan and two of companions—Mather was gone—and they stood near the gangplank.
The stranger to Kiernan's right clapped him on the back as a sailor appeared on deck and called to them from the ship. The stranger raised a hand in salute, turning so that she glimpsed his profile. The sailor waved back then disappeared below. Phoebe stared at the man, whose back was once again facing her. There was something—
“Are ye lost, lass?” a deep voice rumbled.
Phoebe turned toward the speaker. A large Highlander stood beside her, a revolver shoved into one side of his belt, and pistol in the other.
“Oh, no.” She smiled. “I am just wondering who that man is. He looks familiar. Do you know him?” She motioned toward the stranger.
The Highlander glanced at them. “Which one? I know them all.”
“Who are they?”
"A lady doesn't ask about strange men," he said.
"A lady can ask about her husband's associates," she replied.
He gave her a curios look, then said, “The one standing to your husband's left is David MacKenzie.”
She scowled. "How do you know which man is my husband?"
He raised a brow. “I know David's wife. The other,” he motioned to the man with his back to them, “is fifty-seven years old."
"Men his age marry," she said. “What is his name?"
"Clachair."
“Clachair?” She jerked her gaze onto him and, as if finally realizing she was there, Kiernan looked in her direction.
Clachair turned, and Phoebe stared into eyes identical to those belonging to the man in the portrait that hung over the salon fireplace in her uncle's London home: her father's eyes. Recognition registered on his face, and her surroundings swam around her in a swirl of black. Iron fingers closed around her arm. Phoebe snapped from the faint and nearly tripped when the man pulled her toward Kiernan and Clachair, who were now walking in her direction. Her legs felt like jelly and she suddenly didn't want to talk to either of them—ever. A strange sense of panic welled up and she yanked in an effort to free herself from the man.
"Sir." She yanked harder.
A shot rang out, whizzing past them from the street behind them. The man shoved her to the ground and yanked the revolver from his belt. She started to scramble up.