Page 51 of Bargaining with the Devil

“She doesn’t have Dónall to stand up for her, Aoife doesn’t. Not like Gráinne did at her wedding. I think Aoife will accept me giving her away if I can make it. ’Tis not that I’ll be truly giving her away.”

He looped a strip around her arm several times.

“Has a mind of her own, Aoife does. I halfway pity the man who’s marrying her. Not truly, for I love my sister dear. But she can be quite feisty. Aisling—that’s her twin, remember—was the quiet one when they were young.”

Firmer pressure: Quinn tying off the bandage.

“Aoife was always getting into some scrape or another, and I’ll admit ’twas myself who led her to it sometimes, me being older. Aisling usually tried to be the voice of reason, as much as a young child can be. ’Tis all bound up now, a mhuirnín. You can look.”

She opened her eyes. Her cheeks were sticky with tears; she swiped at them. She blinked away more tears, and when her eyes focused, she was met with Quinn’s face right in front of hers.

His expression was fierce, eyes burning. “You did grand, a ghrá. And ’tis done now.”

Before she could say anything, do anything, his mouth descended on hers. Not at all tender after he’d been so careful with her just before. And it told her just what it had cost him to be gentle and calm while he wielded the knife.

She felt desperate too. Was desperate. It didn’t dull the pain—it truthfully didn’t even distract from it—but she let him devour her and devoured him in return, returning the kiss with everything she could muster.

He drew back after a minute. “We’d best be lying down now, I think. Rest up a bit so we can cross later.” He brushed the remaining tears off her cheeks. “Sleep, if you can.”

She wouldn’t sleep, but she’d accept the comfort and reassurance he offered. He’d stood witness to her pain even as he was author of it—physically, at least—and he brought her through to the other side. He’d stay there with her now.

Once on the pallet, he drew her into his arms and arranged the blanket so that it was mostly over both of them. She lay her head on his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. His skin was warm. With the arm that wasn’t on fire, she ran fingers over some of his own scars. What was their story—what put them there? But now wasn’t the time to ask. However curious she was, she was also in pain and exhausted, soul-weary from everything that had happened: Lymington, her confessions, being shot, having the mark cut off. She nearly laughed, not from true amusement, but because it was almost ridiculous, everything this day had packed in. Somehow going to bed with Quinn last night had managed to fall well down the list, something sweet eclipsed by far darker events. It was the bright spot in everything though.

And his arms now, holding her.

His hand stroked down her back. “’Twas brave to face the pain, knowing it was coming. You didn’t turn from it, a mhuirnín. You didn’t run from it.”

Did he mean from removing the gunpowder mark? Or something else? Her throat closed. “I thought I was going to die.”

A long silence followed her words. “Which time?” he asked finally.

She laughed but it felt like gargling shards of glass. “I suppose I could have meant any one of a number of times. And you know about most of those now. But just now I meant on the shingle this morning. When Lymington turned me around, and I finally saw him. He was so— His appearance was so much like Compton’s that I . . . that . . .” Misery swamped her.

“Cry, a ghrá,” Quinn said softly. “’Tis no one but me to see it. And ’tisn’t a weakness.” He smoothed hair off her face and kissed the top of her head. “And I have you, safe in my arms.”

And she did cry, because Quinn would lend her his strength until she could regain her own.

Chapter 17

They started the trek back as the tide was still pulling out. Black spots threatened her vision at times, but she wanted to get back to the mainland in case they were wrong about Lymington or if there were other men still around—the local men who’d spied on her—who’d become aware she and Quinn were on Heston Isle.

She was moving slowly, far slower than her usual brisk pace, because in truth her limbs were rather shaky and weak. Quinn helped her every step of the way, offering his hand to steady her or an arm around her waist to brace her when necessary.

She wasn’t alone.

“’Tis a bit of a change from how we crossed the first time.” He was smiling.

“You mean besides me having been shot this time?” She didn’t mention the gunpowder mark, not wanting him to lose his smile.

“That too, of course. But this time I’m not looking at your back, wondering if you’re about to haul around and slap me a good one.”

“I would never do that, no matter how provoked.” Even if she’d been somewhat envisioning shoving him at the time. She tried to raise her eyebrow playfully but wasn’t sure she managed it.

It had been a long time since she had truly engaged in lighthearted banter. Even though the subject matter of this banter was not actually light. And even though she was so weary.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to just a little?” His eyebrow achieved what hers likely lacked.

“No. I’d prefer finding other ways of making you pay for provoking me.”