Page 46 of Bargaining with the Devil

She lay her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair and down her back.

“Is he dead?” She kept her eyes squeezed shut as the rope binding her wrists tightened briefly. A sharp jerk, and then it fell away.

“Not yet.” Quinn’s voice was flat, his breath ragged. He wrapped a hand around her left arm a few inches above her elbow. “But he will be. Just not today. I only slashed him with my knife.”

She’d thought him an avenging angel, terrifying and beautiful. “He got away? Why did you not kill him?” Nausea roiled through her.

“Because killing him wasn’t my main objective today. You were,” he said simply. “’Twas most important that I spoil his shot. Him getting away, well, ’tis is a problem for another day.” His grip on her arm tightened painfully like he was reassuring himself she was well through bruising touch.

“You did.” She got the other arm around his neck, pressing herself close, closer, as close as she could. “Spoil his shot.”

“Aye. Even so, I was a half second late.”

“What do you mean?” Her vision was black-dotted when she opened her eyes. “I’m alive. He didn’t shoot me.”

“He didn’t kill you, nay. But he struck you all the same.”

She realized then what his hand was doing. He didn’t have it clamped on her arm only to reassure himself that she lived or to offer her a rough sort of comfort. Her arm burned.

Lymington hadn’t missed after all. Quinn had merely botched his aim.

He watched the series of emotions flitting across Lucy’s face as it dawned on her she’d been wounded. ’Twasn’t major as gunshots went. Blood saturated her left sleeve by the time he’d reached her but nowhere near so rapidly that bleeding out was a worry. Nor was blood spilling from beneath his fingers now.

She’d been shot though.

He’d had latitude to choose how ’twould go in the cavern although ’twas dictated partially by the fact that he’d only had two knives on him when he struck out after Lucy. His firearms were back on the mainland, useless to him just now.

One possibility had been sneaking up behind Lymington to make the kill without thought to ramifications, without concern about whatever else those extra few seconds might cost. Second was spoiling Lymington’s aim enough to ensure ’twould miss Lucy’s heart or other vital part should he still get a shot off—even if it meant Lymington might have chance to flee.

He’d chosen the latter, because of course ’twas no decision at all. Had Lymington been on the verge of taking out some sort of scum, mayhap he’d have chosen differently. Killed two birds with one stone, as it were. Probably would have.

But not with Lucy. There was only one choice there.

He’d followed footprints scuffed along the damp sand, then tracked Lymington’s voice. Once there, he’d needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit cave and the thin circle of light thrown by Lymington’s lantern. Lucy stood towards the back of the small cave, hands tied behind her back and fixed to a boulder behind her, eyes sparking fire like a statue of some vengeful goddess.

She was once again flesh and blood. Still breathing, trembling in his arms, alive. Alive.

She needed her wound tended, even if ’twas minor. “Come, a stór. Come back to the hut so I can tend your wound. I’ll be cleaning it proper as best I can here and binding it up.”

“Is Lymington still nearby? Surely that’s not safe.” Her voice trembled a bit. “Although he did say he had a boat waiting offshore.”

“We struggled a bit, and he dropped his pistol.” He leaned down to retrieve said pistol. “So he doesn’t have that, although ’twas possibly not his only weapon. But when I followed just long enough to make sure he wasn’t a further bother, I saw a small boat pushing off, him aboard, rowed by a couple of men. His crew, probably. There was a ship out farther in the firth, and they were headed there. Headed out to the Isle of Man, mayhap. Could be they were here on Heston, using the morning after the storm to load up some goods. ’Twas our misfortune to be here too.”

“I would like to see it for myself.” Her voice no longer trembled. “The ship.”

“Then keep your hand clamped there on your arm so I can have both of mine free if I need them, and we’ll look together.” He shoved Lymington’s pistol into his waistband and checked his knives.

Sure enough, the larger vessel was receding to the horizon, sailing west. “I’d say they won’t be bothering us more, not today. I’ll be extra vigilant, but I think ’twill be safe enough till we can cross back to the mainland. I sliced Lymington good with my knife. Not enough to kill him, but I was more concerned with spoiling his aim. Had I had a clear opening after . . .” He shrugged. “But I didn’t. ’Twas your welfare that was my main interest more than seeing Lymington dead.”

“I thought I’d lived an eventful life before now.” Her voice was dry with a trace of humor threading it. “But one experience I’d not had was a gunshot wound.”

’Twas good she was able to find some humor in it. He was still a touch murderous himself. But nay, ’twas good that she managed such light words, whether or not she felt them deep. Just a week ago—just a few days even—and she mightn’t have.

“’Tis a select club to be sure.” ’Twas one he was in himself. “I bid you welcome,” he said lightly.

She matched his tone. “Do I get a prize?”

“I’ll see to it your badge of honor is ordered straightaway once we reach the shore.” He leaned in till his mouth was an inch above hers. “But there’s one prize I can give you now.”