“You’d best leave him to us, miss,” said an English voice, sounding rather self-important.

“Yes,” said another, also English, but testy. “Leave the coffee, too, for God’s sake.”

There was a soft green light about the mermaid, and a small striped fish swam out of her hair, nosing its way down between her breasts. Lucky fish.

“What do you think, me lord?” said the first voice, now dubious. “Cold water down his neck, maybe?”

“Splendid idea,” said the second voice, now cordial. “You do it.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t want to presume, me lord.”

“I’m sure he isn’t violent, Tom.”

“Just as you say, me lord. But he might turn nasty, mightn’t he? Gentlemen do, sometimes, after a hard night.”

“I trust you do not speak from personal experience, Tom?”

“Certainly not, me lord!”

“Opium doesn’t take you like that, anyway,” said the second voice, coming nearer. It sounded distracted. “It does give you the most peculiar dreams, though.”

“Is he still asleep, do you think?” The first voice was coming nearer, too. He could feel someone’s breath on his face. The mermaid took offense at this familiarity and vanished. He opened his eyes, and Tom Byrd, who had been hovering over him with a wet sponge, let out a small shriek and dropped it on his chest.

With a detached sense of interest, he watched his own hand rise into the air and pluck the sponge off his shirt, where it was making a wet patch. He had no particular idea what to do with it next, though, and dropped it on the floor.

“Good morning.” John Grey’s face came into view behind Tom, wearing an expression of cautious amusement. “Are you feeling somewhat more human this morning?”

He wasn’t sure but nodded nonetheless and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t feel badly, but very strange. There was a wicked taste in his mouth, though, and he held out a hand to Tom Byrd, who was advancing on him slowly, coffee held before him like a flag of truce.

The cup Tom put in his hand was warm, and he sat for a moment, regaining his senses. The air smelled of peat smoke, cooking meat, and something vaguely nasty of a vegetable nature—scorched cabbage. His slow mind located the word.

He took a grateful mouthful of coffee and found a few more words.

“We’re in Ireland, then, are we?”

“Yes, thank God. Are you always—” Grey cut himself off.

“I am.”

“Jesus.” Grey shook his head in disbelief. “Rather fortunate that you were not transported after Culloden, then. I doubt you would have survived the voyage.”

Jamie gave him a narrow look—it was owing to Grey’s personal intervention that he had not been transported, and he hadn’t been at all pleased at the time—but evidently Grey meant nothing now beyond the obvious, and he merely nodded, sipping coffee.

A soft knock came at the door, which stood half open, and Quinn’s long face came poking round the jamb. Had Jamie’s reflexes been halfway normal, he might have dropped the coffee. As it was, he merely sat there, staring stupidly at the Irishman, whose existence he’d forgotten in the maze of opium dreams.

“Beggin’ your pardon, good sirs,” Quinn said, with an engaging smile round the room. “I hoped to inquire after the gentleman’s welfare, but I see he’s quite himself again, may God set a flower on his head.”

Quinn advanced into the room, uninvited, but Grey recovered his manners instantly and offered him coffee, then sent Tom down to order up some breakfast, as well.

“It’s pleased I am to see ye so far recovered, sir,” Quinn said to Jamie, and reached into his pocket, coming out with a corked bottle. He pulled the cork and poured a thin stream of pungent whiskey into Jamie’s coffee. “Perhaps this will aid in your complete return to the land o’ the living?”

Jamie’s sense of self-preservation was jumping up and down somewhere in the back of his mind, trying to attract his attention, but the whiskey was much more immediate. He raised his cup briefly to Quinn, said, “Moran taing,”and took a deep gulp, shuddering slightly.

Quinn was chatting easily to John Grey, telling him things about Dublin, asking after Grey’s plans, offering to recommend him to the best livery stable in the town.

“Will it be a coach ye’ll be needin’, sir, or are you after takin’ the post chaise?”

“How far is it to Athlone?” Grey asked. Siverly’s estate was, by report, within ten miles of Castle Athlone.

“Oh, maybe two days’ ride, with the blessing and a good horse. Slower by coach, of course. The post chaise would be one and a bit, but that’s if it doesn’t rain.” Quinn made a quick sign of the horns against this evil thought.

Grey tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking at Jamie.

“I can ride,” Jamie assured him, scratching his ribs. He felt fine now—extremely hungry, in fact.

“But there’s the baggage to consider, me lord.” Tom had popped back into the room, armed with a mug of shaving soap, a folding razor, and a strop.

“Well, yes. You’ll have to go by coach with the baggage, Tom. I’m thinking, though, that Captain Fraser and myself might travel by horseback. Quicker, and less chance of being held up by bad roads.”

He glanced at Jamie, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Aye, fine.” Jamie set aside the empty cup. Now that he was fully awake, his attention was focused more on Quinn than on Grey. He narrowed his eyes at the Irishman, who sedulously ignored him.

“And a fine day for the riding it is, too,” said Quinn approvingly. “My own road lies toward Athlone—if you gentleman might find it convenient, you’re more than welcome to travel with me, so far as ye like.”

Jamie jerked, startling Tom, who was about to apply a brushful of soap to his face.

“I should think we can find our own path,” he said, putting up a hand to ward off Tom. “Athlone’s not out of the way, from what I understand. Though we thank you for your kindness, sir,” he added to Quinn, not wanting to seem churlish. He was in fact strongly inclined to pick Quinn up and decant him swiftly out of the window. The last thing he needed was to have a pixilated Irishman along on this expedition, breathing traitorous suggestions down his neck and distracting his attention while he dealt with Grey and Siverly and whatever else Ireland might have in store for him in the way of trouble.

“Oh, not at all, at all,” Quinn said, waving an airy hand. “I’ll be setting off just after the Angelus bell—at noon, I mean—should that suit your honors. I’ll meet you in the courtyard, aye?”

He moved swiftly out the door before anyone could say anything, then popped his head suddenly back in.

“Darcy’s, in the High Street. Tell Hugh Darcy that it’s Toby Quinn as sent ye, and he’ll see ye mounted on his best.”

GREY THOUGHT THAT Quinn had been as good as his word. The horses provided by Mr. Darcy were sound, well shod, and as well tempered as a livery horse was likely to be. Mr. Quinn himself had turned up at the stable to give advice and had successfully bargained for a decent price. Jamie had given Quinn a narrowed eye, but the man seemed merely kind, if a trifle familiar, and besides, there was no way of preventing his riding out of Dublin along with them—it was a public road, after all.

There was a bit of small talk, as was common among strangers traveling together—Mr. Quinn was bent on business in County Roscommon, he said; an inheritance from a cousin that required the personal touch.

“Are you familiar with County Roscommon, sir?” Grey asked. “Do you perhaps know a gentleman named Siverly? Gerald Siverly.”

Quinn looked interested but shook his head.

“Sure, I’ve heard the name. He’s got the fine estate, he has, over near Ballybonaggin. But he wouldn’t be knowing the likes of me,” he said, with a deprecating grin.