Maybe it was the bomb, he thought. Maybe he was more affected by the danger than he wanted to admit, and that was why he couldn’t get the thought of sleeping with Agent Sharpe out of his mind.
Because a romantic relationship with her—with any woman—was insanity right now, given his present circumstances.
She found a spot to sit in the stern of the boat. “At least it doesn’t smell like bait.”
Colin laughed as he jumped in next to her. He tossed her a life preserver. “Keep my jacket. It’ll be cold on the water.”
“Don’t you need it?”
“I’ll be fine.” A little cold air would do him good.
She unrolled the cuffs to cover her hands, and she looked paler and more upset than she would want to admit. She stared back at her house as if she were picturing it in flames instead of just inundated with law enforcement types.
“Kevin thinks it was a saint in the painting with the Viking ship,” Colin said.
“Probably.”
“You know more than you’re saying. You have since this morning with Sister Cecilia. You can tell me more over a glass of whiskey. Ready to go?”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
He laughed. “Sure you can.”
He stepped into the pilothouse and got the boat under way. Emma stayed in the stern as he steered the Julianne through the channel out to the ocean. There was a purple cast to the afternoon as daylight leaked out of the sky. She gazed out toward the horizon, her cheeks pink with the wind and the chilly air.
The waves weren’t bad, and it was a reasonably smooth ride to Rock Point. Colin dropped her off on the dock, then moored the boat and rowed the dingy back, secured it and hopped up next to her. His jacket was crooked on her shoulders and hung to her knees, but Colin reminded himself she had a nine-millimeter pistol on her hip.
“Have you ever been out here?” he asked her as they headed to the small parking lot.
“Not in a long time. I haven’t even been to Heron’s Cove that much lately.”
“Yank keeps you busy. HIT’s new. Have you had a chance to find a place in Boston?”
She nodded. “I have an apartment on the waterfront. It’s small but I can walk to work.”
“Are you on the road much?”
“Some.” She cast him a quick look. “Where’s the whiskey?”
It wasn’t even a subtle dodge. “This way.”
She wasn’t sharing information, not even with a fellow FBI agent. Colin walked with her over to Hurley’s. The dinner crowd had gathered, filling up most of the tables. He felt the normalcy of the lives of the people around him. He hadn’t had a normal life in a long time and guessed Emma Sharpe hadn’t, either, especially since she’d started working for Matt Yankowski.
His two Rock Point brothers, Kevin and Andy, were at a back table with Finian Bracken. Kevin had filled them in on the break-in and bomb. Bracken had produced another bottle of his precious Bracken 15 year old. Kevin and Andy had already finished their allotment and were preparing to leave.
“Julianne’s solid,” Andy said, leaning over to Emma on his way out. “She can handle getting smashed onto the rocks.”
Emma’s smile at him seemed genuine. “Then we weren’t in danger of springing a leak and sinking on our way over here from Heron’s Cove?”
“No danger at all.”
Kevin looked more skeptical but kept his mouth shut.
After the two younger Donovan brothers left, Bracken started to his feet. “I’ll be on my way.”
“No,” Emma said, pointing him back to his chair. “Your perspective as a priest might be of some help right now.”
He dropped back into his seat. “Of course.” He splashed a bit of whiskey into a brandy glass and pushed it across the table to her. “It’ll settle your nerves.”
She didn’t protest and pulled off Colin’s jacket and hung it on the back of her chair as she sat across from him by the window. She took a small sip of the whiskey. “It’s perfect, Father. You haven’t had too much, have you? I need you with a clear head.”
“Ah. I never overimbibe.”
Colin positioned himself so that he could watch both Bracken and Emma.
Bracken poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers and pushed that glass across to her, too. “You’ll want to stay hydrated. Even a little whiskey tends to have a dehydrating effect.”
Emma dutifully drank some of the water, then set down her glass. “Father, can you think of a young female saint who died in an island cave, perhaps while escaping a Viking warship? She’s beautiful—blonde, lying in the cave as if she’s fallen asleep.”
“But she’s dead?”
“I think so, yes. There are skeletal remains around her. White light emanates from the top of the cave into the sky and surrounding water.”
Colin splashed whiskey into a glass. This was new information. Sister Cecilia hadn’t described skeletal remains.
“Perhaps her body is incorrupt,” Bracken said.
Emma kept her focus on him. “Incorruptibility suggests we’re talking about a saint.”
Bracken picked up his glass, just a few sips of the expensive whiskey left. “Saint Sunniva,” he said. “That’s my guess.”
“I’m not familiar with her, Father.”
“There are various versions of the Sunniva story,” he said. “According to the most popular, Sunniva was a tenth-century Irish Christian princess who fled Ireland to escape an arranged marriage to a pagan, probably a Viking. She was stranded on Selje, an island off the coast of Norway.”
“What happened to her?” Emma asked.
“Farmers grazing livestock on the island believed Sunniva and her companions were stealing cattle and called for help from the mainland. The local Viking ruler got fighters together and sailed for Selje to deal with what they assumed to be Christian invaders. The Irish hid in a cave. As they prayed not to be captured and brutalized, an avalanche sealed them inside.” Bracken paused, staring into his drink. “The Viking warriors found no one
