“Can I have it?”
“What?” Even as he didn’t understand, he was fishing it out of his pants pocket. The door rattled again, and whatever invaders those doors had kept out in the past were nothing compared to Ronan.
Father Patrick’s phone was several years old and didn’t have a passcode on it. It also didn’t have any bars.
“There’s no service,” he said. “You have to go into the village. What . . . what is going on? Are you safe? Are we . . . safe?”
“You’re fine. I’m fine. I just need to get a message to my sister, and I lost my phone.”
“Your husband doesn’t have one?”
“Lost his too. They were stolen. In the airport.” These were dumb lies.
“There’s a landline in the vestry—”
There was sudden silence outside, and I knew Ronan was walking around the building looking for another door.
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You’re not on your honeymoon, are you?” Father Patrick asked.
“I am,” I said as I plugged my sister’s phone number into the father’s phone. “I totally am. Next time you’re in town, could you just text that number and tell her Poppy is . . . is . . . wherever we are?” I handed the phone back to the wide-eyed Father Patrick. “I swear,” I said, not letting go of the phone he was holding. “Everything is fine. I just need to get a message to my sister. Tell her I’m safe.”
The big doors on the side of the building were wrenched open, letting in a gust of wind that pushed me forward.
“Poppy!” Ronan’s voice thundered with the pound of his feet up the stairs. “Where—?”
“Here, darling!” I said with a wide smile, turning to an enraged Ronan as he came into the sanctuary. Oh, he looked wild. Blood-stained and ready for battle. The fiercest thing I’d ever seen in my life. Something low and thrilling sizzled through me and I tried very hard to pretend it didn’t.
“Hello!” I rushed toward him, trying to hide the gun in his hand from the priest’s eyes. “Put it away,” I whisper-yelled at him and then curled my arm through his, facing the priest again with a smile. Ronan slipped the gun down the back of his pants. “I just went for a walk,” I said. “While you slept. How are you feeling?” I cooed. If he had any reaction to my touch or my coos, he didn’t let on. Instead, he stared at Father Patrick.
The rattled priest attempted to stare back but couldn’t manage the cold menace Ronan was projecting all over the place.
“Darling,” I said, squeezing Ronan’s arm. “Let me introduce Father Patrick. Father Patrick, this is my husband Ronan . . . Smith.”
“Good to meet you,” Father Patrick said with a trembling nod. Ronan, of course, said nothing. Under my hand, his arm was hard. Every muscle flexed.
“We should go,” I said with a smile that made no sense considering the tension in the room. Pretending really was my one great skill. “It was lovely to meet you, Father. And thank you for the tea and the tour.”
“My pleasure,” he said with a sincere if fleeting smile. “Come back any time.”
I turned, tugging Ronan with me, but he stood like a post. Unmoving. Staring at the priest.
“Do you remember me?” Ronan asked, his voice set so low, the hair on the back of my neck stood.
“Should I?” Father Patrick asked with raised eyebrows. “Are you from the village?”
“No.” Ronan said nothing else. Made no other move. Just stood there. An apex predator staring down something he wanted to tear apart.
“Ronan,” I whispered. “My shoulder hurts.”
I had sincere doubts there was anything I could do that would move him to action, but I was wrong. He sucked in a deep breath and turned, his arm around my waist.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just sore.”
He nodded and turned us around toward the door, still open.
“Goodbye,” I said cheerily over our shoulders, pretending nothing strange at all had happened.
Soon, we were out on the rocky green hilltop. The sun was up over the water, covering us in buttery yellow sunlight.
Without looking at me, Ronan stepped free of my touch and the wind moaned around us. Between us. Its cold fingers reached into the collar of my shirt. The tops of my boots.
“You can’t do that, Poppy,” he said, his eyes on the horizon.
“Talk to priests?” I tried to make a joke, but judging by his face, he wasn’t going to find me funny. Not ever again.
“Leave without telling me.”
“I forgot,” I said. “I’m a prisoner.”
“Not a very good one.”
“Well.” I grinned at him. “I would argue a prisoner is only as good as her prison.”
“Jokes, now? Do you forget there’s a family of killers who want you dead or alive?” He looked over my shoulder. “He’s watching.”
Ronan walked away and down the stone steps, his black coat flaring behind him like dark wings. He expected me to follow and that was certainly my plan, but I’d been shot and drugged and hadn’t eaten anything in a few days, and probably shouldn’t be out climbing across Irish cliffs.