Page 25 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Still not cold, a stór.” His lips brushed her neck, found the hollow of her throat. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to do this.” Teeth grazed the tender skin of her shoulder. “Not all of you smells like sea life,” he murmured.

She laughed—and surprised herself, doing so. “Small favors, I suppose.”

“Nothing small about it.” The tip of his tongue traced her collarbone, raising gooseflesh on her that, yes, had nothing to do with cold. “I’d be less inclined to linger, did you. And what a shame ’twould be, if I didn’t.”

Yes. He could linger all he liked.

Another flash of memory, the ache at nineteen of wanting something she’d thought she understood, when she’d been an innocent girl with nothing but a hopeful dream in her heart to guide her.

No. Shut it out. She was three years older now, and she didn’t intend to be passive with Quinn. She knew more now than she had then, good and bad.

Beneath his shirt, she slid her hands around to his back and down to his arse to draw him in closer. He made an amused sound low in his throat, but this time when he kissed her, it was deeper, darker, more demanding. It was more of everything, which was exactly what she craved from Quinn.

And if there was a hint of bitterness in her mouth as she gave herself over to kissing him, she refused to taste it.

Chapter 10

He was thinking about Lucy while walking back to her cottage, about kissing her yesterday.

’Twas a long, cold afternoon out talking to the fishermen coming in from their stake nets, pretending a fascination with the industry that he didn’t much feel in truth. However, showing enthusiasm for a man’s occupation was usually a good way to get him talking.

He hadn’t learned much. Or rather, he knew a hell of a lot more now than he had before about stake nets. Useful, if he gave up the spying business and fifty other promising future endeavors also fell through. Unfortunately not of much use when it came to Lymington’s smuggling operation.

’Twas no hardship at all kissing Lucy yesterday unless one counted the state of his cock afterwards, a condition he’d done something about later on his own.

They’d both wanted that kiss. Needed it, even, after they’d teased themselves with her chamber door in between.

She was tempted towards more than that, had been looking at him regular like a woman who knew at least one of the uses to which a man might be put that went beyond kissing. And he’d never minded being put to that particular use by a bold lass. He’d give Lucy more than kisses if she wanted it; he wanted to go to bed with her, sure. Even before the kiss, sometimes all she had to do was look at him sideways and his cock went hard as stone. Beneath her icy shell—which was thawing day by day—was most definitely a woman who heated his blood.

Though he’d not do anything about it when she’d been drinking whisky like she had the other night. ’Twas one of several lines he’d personally drawn for himself years ago, and he never crossed any of those lines no matter how tempted he was. He had his reasons, good reasons.

Another line was that he didn’t get mixed up with lasses with expectations. Never once with one wearing her heart on her sleeve, who might be setting her sights on him hoping to persuade him into marriage. Not that Lucy looked at him that way, but related to that, he also didn’t get mixed up with women who might come out on the other side of a casual liaison damaged. Didn’t matter if he returned the interest.

Lucy was no fragile lass; she had too many sharp edges for that, was used to having her own way about things, and she’d become good at giving the world only as much as she was willing and not a drop more. He wasn’t going to treat her like glass. But she’d had a lot of wrong done to her too.

’Twas up to her now to decide just how much she wanted from him. He’d not try giving her a bit more than she sought.

The cottage door wasn’t locked when he reached it. The hair on the back of his neck lifted. She knew to lock up, had done it regular despite her early reluctance to heed his warning. Why hadn’t she this time?

He drew his pistol as he swung the door open. Nothing but still air greeted him. Disquiet mounting, he made a quick visual assessment of the room as well as Lucy’s chamber beyond. She wasn’t present, incapacitated or otherwise. No sign of a struggle, which was hopeful.

Back in the main room, he did a more careful sweep. Her cloak hung by the door on its usual hook. She’d not taken it, despite the chill. Had she been forced to leave without it?

Assuming she’d not been snatched up, she also hadn’t set off for town on a normal errand. She’d have taken the cloak. Had she made a quick trek to the main cottage or to the animals for some reason?

And then he spied the whisky bottle on the table and the tumbler beside it. He hefted the bottle: empty, or nearly so. She’d had a good bit to drink. And she’d left without her cloak.

She hadn’t gone to walk along the bay as was her preference—he’d just come from there. So where could she have gone? His blood pressure spiked, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms. He had maybe one chance to guess right.

Cursing—yet again—that Blackmore was up in Glasgow, he closed the cottage up tight and strode quickly in the direction of the cliff path. At least the rapid walking kept him warmer.

Once he came out on the headland, he saw her. She wasn’t walking like she felt the liquor. Rather, she wasn’t stumbling about like one who’d lost control to it.

But relief quickly turned cold in his veins. She wasn’t on the path itself—she was closer to the seaward edge of the cliff. Not stumbling, no, but she was walking like she’d had enough liquor that she’d lost the capacity to judge danger properly.

Or perhaps ’twas just that she didn’t care.

He didn’t want to scare her. For one, she might go tumbling off the edge if he did. So he waited until he was ten yards from her and called her name, quiet as he could while still making himself heard over the wind.