Page 15 of Bargaining with the Devil

She wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. Perhaps she’d offer him some whisky, a peace offering of sorts. He seemed a man who might accept. Throwing her robe over her night rail, she quietly opened the door. Quinn was sitting at her table, as she expected.

Shirtless. That, she certainly wasn’t expecting. Hastily she tried backing out of the room before he could notice her, but her heel caught on something, one shoulder knocking into the doorframe as she stumbled.

He pushed quickly off the chair, frame tense, coming into a partial crouch on the balls of his feet.

And he had a knife in his hand.

She froze, heart pounding. His eyes collided with hers, sharp as a blow to her solar plexus. His shoulders lost a little of their tension. Slowly he straightened to his full height, lowering the knife to his side.

She drew a deep breath and released it. “And a good evening to you as well,” she said as acerbically as she could manage.

Without the knife to capture her gaze, there was nothing else to look at except Quinn in all his half-nude glory. Dark hair dusted his chest and narrowed to a trail down his flat belly, skin everywhere else burnished by the oil lamp. He was lanky, although not without muscle. There was no softness on him anywhere, no dissipation written anywhere on his body. She’d had cause to see several other men undressed, and Quinn didn’t compare to any of them. Or more accurately—and a somewhat nonsensical thought given the situation at hand—they didn’t compare to Quinn.

A gentleman interrupted thus would reach for a shirt or blanket. Quinn didn’t, of course, utterly unapologetic about his partial nudity. Although looking like that, he had nothing to apologize for to anyone. On the other hand, she might if she didn’t stop staring.

His voice was low. “What is it, Lucy, has you creeping out of your room so late?”

She let the use of her familiar name pass. “I couldn’t sleep. And I wasn’t creeping. This is my home. You’re encamped in it whether I wanted it so or not.” Conscious that she was still staring, she averted her gaze, but not before she saw his mouth kick up on one corner.

“Is it to your liking?” he asked, still low. “The view?”

If his voice had held even a single unkind note, she’d have turned on her heel and left the room without another word—or no, presented him with some snappy retort, followed by a regal exit. But as undeniably cocky as his tone was, there was also something much warmer beneath it.

The Devil himself, tempting her at her own hearth.

She met his eyes. She’d be damned if she’d admit it aloud, but yes, the view was to her liking.

He smiled when she didn’t answer. “Sure, and I’d offer it to you, a mhuirnín, but I don’t think ’tis what you came out here wanting.”

“No.” But she’d hesitated just a fraction of a second too long answering, and he caught it. His smile broadened, but he turned away.

Not to get a shirt, of course. Just to reseat himself, backwards-straddling a chair to face the table. He had the oil lamp adjusted to full brightness with several knives laid out upon a cloth. A pistol as well, disassembled, with a cleaning kit. His rifle was leaned nearby.

His hair was wet. His trousers too looked damp; perhaps that was why he was sitting here shirtless. Yes, there were his shirt and waistcoat both, draped near the hearth to dry. He’d been outside for an extended enough time that his coat hadn’t kept the rain off.

Rather than ask why he’d been out so long, she said, “I came out for some whisky, actually.”

“Did you now?” The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he leaned towards the table.

She wouldn’t let his undressed state distract her. This was her home, after all. “I’d offer you some as well, but you appear to be occupied.” She retrieved the bottle of whisky from its shelf.

“Mayhap I’ll have some when I finish here.”

She wiped out two tumblers, only pouring for herself and leaving the other glass on the corner of the table. “What are you doing?”

“Minding my weapons. First, making sure everything is clean and dry since some of it was out in the rain with me tonight.”

She knew the reasons he was here in her cottage with an assortment of deadly objects spread out on her table, but she didn’t particularly want to think about what—or who—he’d been looking for in the rainy dark after her words goaded him out there.

“This near the sea, blades rust faster. Firearms too. So some may need a bit of oil. And I’m checking the edges on my blades while I’m at it. Pays to keep a keen edge on them.” He took up a grindstone and one of the knives, straight-edged with a blade the length of her hand.

He hadn’t banked the fire yet. Whisky in hand, she chose the chair beside the hearth to let the fire warm her. She studied his profile, painted by firelight: Greek nose with a straight bridge, short side whiskers, dark stubble softening an angled jawline, slightly fuller lower lip than the upper. A disquietingly beautiful man. One she wouldn’t have had the first idea what to do with had she met him in London three years ago.

But it wasn’t three years ago in London. Or even two years ago in Paris. There was only here and now.

A thick lock of hair fell over his brow; he shook it back without stopping his work on the knife. “Might be I’ll need these soon. Might be I won’t. ’Tis never a chance a man should take, not caring proper for his weapons. You know what I do, aye?” He cut his face towards her, his gaze direct. By firelight, his eyes looked darker than they did in daylight, the paler green depths hidden. Firelight kissed the fine bones of his face, shadows sharpening his cheekbones. He was a blade himself.

She took a healthy swallow of whisky and held it a moment till the burn started before swallowing it down, letting it flame up her throat and into her nose. “I know what you do. You told me two years ago.”