Page 29 of Bargaining with the Devil

And she just didn’t care.

Quinn could do as he liked.

More curses as he followed her out onto the shingle. His hand was far less gentle on her shoulder this time than he’d been this afternoon on the headland. “Just what in Mary’s name do you think you’re doin’?”

She shook him off. “Going to Heston.” Not that it wasn’t obvious by now, but she had an unreasonable urge to goad him. “You needn’t follow me.”

“The hell I don’t.”

She turned away without replying, back towards the isle.

“I’d ask if you’ve lost your fuckin’ mind,” he muttered from behind her, “but ’tis fair apparent ’tis myself that has instead.”

She didn’t turn around or answer, just continued her march across the wet shingle. She halfway expected him to grab her and manhandle her back to shore. He’d proven capable of carrying her once before when her feet went numb.

Did she want him to try stopping her? Yes, sort of. A hot rush of blood revealed her true motive: She wanted him to try to stop her so that she could fight him. She envisioned pounding his chest and shoving him down onto the wet shingle, lobbing angry words at him all the while. It would be so bloody satisfying.

Only he didn’t try to physically stop her. And he didn’t say another word, not even further muttered invective. She was strangely dejected as she trudged onto the isle proper. Had she really, truly wanted a physical altercation with him?

The north-facing side of Heston Isle, accessible at low tide, had a much shallower slope than the side facing the firth, but even so, it was difficult to ascend. She’d hiked up it before a handful of times, but in better light and better weather.

And without the Devil behind her in the form of Ciarán Quinn.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, would you stop a minute?” His voice behind her was loud and somewhat aggrieved. “I’m bleedin’ tired of lookin’ at your back.”

She spun on her heel, prepared to finally launch furious words at him. Why did he care? So she asked him. Hurled the words at him, in truth. “And why do you care so . . . so . . . so fu—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the profanity, however tempted. “So damned much?”

Rather than meet her angry words with more of his own, the bloody man smiled at her. “Aye, that’s more the thing,” he said softly.

He was puzzle upon puzzle. And she didn’t care to parse him. Truly, she didn’t.

“Let it out, a mhuirnín. ’Tis past time you did.”

She scoffed. “There’s nothing I need to let out.” She also had no desire to stand here in a building storm shouting riddles at him over the wind.

“Sure, and I’ll suit up as a vicar tomorrow. You almost used the word fuckin’. Have you ever even said that word in your head before?”

She hadn’t. “Your bad influence these past two weeks, undoubtedly.”

He laughed. “Well then, a stór, lose your temper proper. At me if you can’t find anywhere else to direct it. But lose your temper good.” He took a step closer. “Get angry. ’Tis better than holding it all in.”

She held her ground. “I’m not angry.”

He just shook his head slowly. “’Twould do you a world of good to let yourself feel it. Much better a choice than walking the mudflats or crossing the bay in a storm.”

“I find the water soothing.”

His face lost every iota of humor. “To hell with soothing. Fuck soothing. You barter with Death and the Devil each and every time you go out there. One of these times you’ll lose that bargain.”

She was bargaining with the devil now. “Again, why do you bloody care? It’s not your business.”

“You think not? There’s a long ride out of Paris and the crossing from Dieppe to Brighton two years ago says otherwise. There’s fresh danger now says otherwise.”

Why did it sting, that he was referencing those things rather than anything else?

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it cut her. “It’s only a job, Quinn. A responsibility. But I’m not your responsibility anymore. I can look out for myself.” She turned from him, determined to march up the hill without looking backwards again.

A hand hard on her shoulder stopped her. She turned, seething, knocking Quinn’s hand from her arm. Met—again—his implacable face.