Page 59 of Bargaining with the Devil

It wasn’t definitive whether she was barren, but it was likely. She’d always known that, even before France. And then she hadn’t conceived during the nearly five months with Cuvelier, who hadn’t bothered with any precautions and had already sired multiple children with his wife.

As a small child she’d become ill at the same time Maman had, only the illness hadn’t gone to her lungs as it had Maman’s. She’d recovered fully, unlike Maman who slowly succumbed to consumption, but she’d known for years now that she was unlikely to ever bear children. The doctor said it was something that happened sometimes after mild childhood cases of that particular illness.

It wasn’t something that bothered her. She’d never felt a strong desire to be a mother or regret that it wasn’t likely. Motherhood was something Isobel had wanted ardently, and it came naturally to her. But as for herself . . . She’d never had that desire. Sometimes she wondered if something was lacking in her, but the truth was, if she was unable to bear children, it had never seemed a great loss.

And then came everything else anyway.

She’d decided, once she was free of Paris, that she’d never marry. Between the two—not marrying and in all likelihood being unable to bear children anyway—she’d never have children of her own. And she was at peace with that.

Besides, she’d have Isobel’s children to spoil, for it wouldn’t surprise her at all if there were more than two, down the line.

Chapter 19

With Blackmore and his wife back, they’d been spending most of their days in the main cottage. Well, when he and Blackmore weren’t about their business.

They sought what information they could, but if anyone local was in the know about Lymington’s operations, they weren’t saying. ’Twas possible it was purely them being tight-lipped, but so far no one seemed to him to be explicitly hiding the truth. Blackmore concurred, knowing them better than he did but also being a man well used to prying the truth from people by whatever means necessary.

“I begin to think that the local men aren’t quite so local as Customs thought,” Blackmore said.

“Aye, I’ve wondered the same. If ’tis only that they’re using Heston as a drop point between the Isle of Man and other places, well, ’tis possible they’re from elsewhere on the Solway with only some minor connection here, had them recognizing your name and Lucy’s.”

“Close enough to remain stealthy but distant enough that the waters here don’t get muddied, so to speak.”

“Aye, I’m betting ’tis something has them dropping in from time to time without raising suspicion. Church or visiting family members or the like. Something that allows them to spy on Lucy a bit too.”

Blackmore nodded. “Did you get a decent look at Lymington during the tussle?”

’Twas good enough, both Lymington and his men. He described Lymington, finishing with, “and Lucy said he looks near enough like Compton they could be mistaken for each other.”

Blackmore tapped his fingers against his thigh. “That was hard for her, I imagine,” he said softly.

I thought I was going to die, she’d said to him. Not because Lymington roughed her up and pointed a gun at her, not because she’d been on the verge of being tied up and left in a tidal cavern, but because when she’d first laid eyes on Lymington, she’d thought for a split second he was his brother.

“Aye,” he said now to Blackmore. “’Twas as hard on her as any part of what happened on Heston.”

Blackmore exhaled. “Has she told you anything about him? Compton, that is? Besides what she told us in France.”

“Aye. But ’tisn’t my place to say what.” Mayhap that needed just a bit more clarification. “’Tisn’t relevant to the situation at hand,” he added. “I’d urge her to tell you if so. ’Tis deeply personal, some of it, and ’tis up to her when and how she shares it.”

“I’ll accept that.” Blackmore scrubbed a hand down his face. “Respect it, even, that that’s your stance.” He looked over, his gaze very direct. “I’m glad it was you they sent up here.”

He’d not been so glad himself the day he arrived, but he’d come around to it now that he’d been meant to be part of things up here, meant to be on the edge of Lucy’s life again for a little while. Mayhap supporting her in a way that would prevent that vacant look from returning to her face, the one there the day he found her out in the tide.

Speaking of Lucy, she’d just come out of the cottage door with her sister and Rachel. Mrs. Blackmore and Rachel looked bundled up against the cold, but Lucy had only a thin shawl clutched around her shoulders.

“I was hoping we might take Rachel for a walk, a ghràidh,” Mrs. Blackmore said to her husband. “She’s been so fussy with this tooth coming in. I thought a change of scenery might do her good, distract her perhaps since it’s not terribly cold today. If it’s safe enough?”

“Sounds like a plan, love. I’ve no reason to think it isn’t right now.” Blackmore glanced at him.

He nodded agreement. There had been no sign of Lymington since their encounter on Heston Isle. If he’d been headed out to the Isle of Man, likely he’d lie low there till he healed up.

He wished they had more men though. ’Twas hard not having someone else acting as surreptitious eyes on the community. Usually they’d done this sort of work together in a team of three men, sometimes more, and it had never been this personal.

Well, that part might not be strictly true or he’d not be standing here in Scotland looking at Blackmore with a wife and baby.

“I’ll stay back at the cottage,” Lucy said. “Seeing as I’m not teething and don’t need similar distraction.”

“Then I’ll be staying back too,” he said.