Page 12 of Bargaining with the Devil

Fluttery too, when she wasn’t a fluttery sort of person, especially when their gazes collided if they happened to look up at one another at the same time. Which happened more than it ought.

And then of course there were the reasons he was there, which she did her best to not examine deeply. They’d not discussed Lymington further; Quinn had little he could tell her beyond what he’d already said. Learning that Compton had a brother was more than a little anxiety provoking. And hearing Compton’s name was gutting. Thinking of him had the power to stop her breath.

She’d been proud of herself on the spring day a year and a half ago when she’d told Nathaniel she was ready to hear about Compton’s death. She had considered that request her way of proving to herself—perhaps to Issy and Nathaniel as well—that she was ready to move on and put everything in France behind her. She stood with Nathaniel looking out over Auchencairn Bay as he described to her in detail Compton’s death. Suicide, really; he’d jerked his neck upwards onto Nathaniel’s knife. Nathaniel spared her no detail. He’d never treated her with kid gloves, something she’d quickly learned to appreciate about him when he turned up looking for Isobel.

She had expected to feel something. Satisfaction, perhaps, or vindication. Relief, at the very least. Disconcerting was that she had felt very little at all.

She’d taken that as a sign that it truly was behind her. After all, if no deep emotions surfaced at hearing about it, surely she had gotten past the worst of it? Except Quinn’s words had put the lie to that. And she hated him just a little bit for that.

It was not, of course, his fault. There was the well-worn parable about not shooting a messenger—and for good reason. Quinn was merely the messenger. And he hadn’t liked it, telling her the reason he was there.

And now he was meant to be some sort of protector, if one of the Devil’s disciples could be counted a protector.

Just who else he might be protecting her from, besides Lymington, was unknown. That was anxiety provoking as well. Did she know any of Lymington’s crew? Their identities—the local men involved—were still unknown to Quinn.

Heston Isle, just across Auchencairn Bay, with its steep, unforgiving cliffs and small caves on the south-facing side, was one of the places where smugglers to and from the Isle of Man were said to operate. They came inland too, but it was well known that Heston had been used heavily in the past and that some smugglers still made occasional use of it today. Mr. Bairden, the innkeeper at the Arms, had recounted tales of smugglers from the previous century at a cèilidh last autumn.

Why must it be Quinn who’d come? Although who else might have better served to deliver this message, she could hardly say. She hadn’t known any of the men involved in her rescue prior to that November day outside the Théâtre de la Gaîté in Paris.

She couldn’t untangle the two, having Quinn here now and him having been there for the lowest moment of her life.

No. He wasn’t there for the lowest moment of her life. That moment belonged to Jeremiah Compton.

She shook off the gooseflesh that tried chilling her skin.

No doubt the British Service put him to other uses as well, but she’d quickly discerned two years ago that Nathaniel had assigned Quinn to escort her and Isobel out of Paris because Nathaniel trusted in Quinn’s ability to protect them. And from that first moment in the fiacre when he produced a pistol and told her he would shoot anyone who tried to stop them, she had believed Quinn.

She believed him now, that he would do whatever he must to stand between her and danger. It didn’t mean she wanted him there or wanted him in her cottage, even as she accepted the necessity.

Although she did feel safe with Quinn there. He disturbed her peace of mind and was constantly in her space, but she could also admit—to herself, at least—that his presence reassured her now that she’d accepted the threat against her was genuine.

Three days now. Three days, since Quinn turned up along Balcary Bay and nearly scared the life from her when she turned around and was met with his piercing eyes.

The cold, rainy weather from that day had continued. She’d not walked the shore since. Not because of the weather, but because of Quinn.

She looked outside glumly at the weather. Some sort of precipitation was currently blowing nearly sideways. She sighed. “It’s too inclement for a walk.”

“I believe ’tis telling if you find it too inclement after the other morning.”

The other morning, she hadn’t cared about the wind-driven drizzle and the discomfort it promised. “Today I prefer to stay by the fire with a pot of tea.”

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time then, seeing as drinking tea won’t occupy too many of those minutes?”

A pot of tea could last all afternoon if she chose, and she pointedly ignored the waggle of his eyebrows that made an almost-suggestion of his words. “I plan to knit.”

He paced around her cottage, which wasn’t a very large circuit; his restless presence was outsized in her small home.

“Shall we play a card game, a stór?” he asked, just as if she hadn’t already declined entertainment.

“I don’t wish to play cards.”

“It helps to pass the time so you aren’t holding your breath, waiting on what’s to come.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” she said stiffly.

“Didn’t say you were.” His smile said otherwise. “As it happens, I meant a more general sort of you. ’Twas a way of keeping our minds off battle to come when I was in the Rifles. ’Tis a quick cure for boredom during the portions of my current job that require waiting about for a situation to develop.” He leaned forward slightly. “But if you’re too afraid of losing to me . . .” He shrugged. “’Twas just a suggestion.”

Of course she wasn’t afraid to lose to him. What a ridiculous thought. But whether she was or wasn’t, she wouldn’t. She’d never find out because she’d never play him.