Page 14 of Bargaining with the Devil

Keeping company with him, making conversation as they played, hadn’t utterly depleted her. In fact, afterwards, she felt . . . light. Lighthearted. Or lighterhearted.

For that brief amount of time, an hour or so, Quinn had distracted her entirely from what seemed always to weigh her down, those things from her past that were dredged up by his arrival. To say nothing of the new danger she was in. She had no choice in Quinn’s presence, but for the past hour, in his company, she’d not dwelt on any of her burdens. She hadn’t forgotten them. They just weren’t so suffocating.

And when she realized that, that perhaps it hadn’t been only the cards after all, she wasn’t sure she liked it.

January sunsets came early in Auchencairn. Before dinner dishes were even cleared, the thin winter sun had set.

“More cards?” he asked as Lucy lit a lamp at the table.

“No.” The single word was more curt than it need be and didn’t invite any sort of coaxing he might have tried, persuading her to play another few games. She underscored her point by taking up her knitting and settling into the chair nearest the hearth, the one she favored.

Well then. I suppose that’s that. He wandered around, peering at the contents of her shelves.

“I wish you’d stop pacing about,” she said after several minutes.

“Nothing better to do.” Lack of action suited him poorly, made him restless. ’Twasn’t like this most of the time with the work. He wasn’t usually shut up in a house with someone who didn’t want him there.

“I thought you were here to catch Lymington.” Her voice had a bit of bite to it.

“Suggesting I go searching for him right this minute, are you?”

She shrugged when he looked at her, keeping her eyes on the needlework. “It seems to me it might be more productive than . . .” She waved one hand towards him. “. . . that.”

“I’d be happier playing a game of cards right now, only I don’t feel like partnering myself.”

“What a conundrum.” Her voice was cool. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered reading a book.”

He turned on his heel, catching up his coat. Once he had that on, he checked his pistol and pocketed it.

“What are you doing?” She’d stopped knitting, her shoulders gone rigid.

“What does it look like?” he asked, a bit sarcastic.

She didn’t answer, probably because it was plain what he was doing.

He took the key with him. When he turned at the threshold, she was still sitting stock-still in her chair, watching him with her lips parted a little. He closed the door on that view, locking up behind him and pocketing the key.

’Twas like some sort of fucking deranged waltz with Lucy: three steps at a time to move anywhere, only at least one of them was always backwards.

They’d developed some ease between them, caring for the animals together. And then more ease by the end of an hour or more of five-and-ten, but ’twas lost again. She’d built her walls back up just as soon as she’d realized she’d mayhap knocked a hole in one.

He thought briefly of trying to persuade her to go to her sister in Glasgow. He’d take her up there, gladly. But he knew without saying it she wouldn’t do it. Oh, he could force it on her, the trip. If it came down to her life, he’d do it. But otherwise, the Blackmores would be back soon enough.

Mostly he was tempted to do it because ’twas not comfortable, staying with Lucy. And ’twasn’t sleeping wrapped up in blankets near her hearth causing the discomfort—’twas her.

Although he wasn’t sleeping in them either right now. Nay, he was out tromping around in the rain. He was looking out for the sort of trouble that might try using this weather to its advantage, sure, but he’d wanted out of the cottage for a little while too.

He stomped around for longer than he needed to, really, getting wet through in the process. Not another fucking soul was out tonight, at least not anywhere nearby, but he told himself ’twas best to be the sort of thorough that required at least a few hours outside.

’Twas a relief, really, that she’d gone to bed already when he finally came back in.

Chapter 6

She couldn’t sleep. She’d been awake for hours, mind refusing to settle.

Many nights sleep eluded her. Ordinarily she’d get up, possibly just to brew some tea and sit by the fire for a couple of hours. More often lately she chose whisky, drinking till the room’s edges blurred a little and the jagged edges inside her softened.

So lying sleepless tonight . . . That was the same as always. Quinn in the room just beyond was different. Light from the oil lamp showed beneath her door, and the occasional clank or dull thud communicated that he was awake and occupied with something.