Page 68 of Bargaining with the Devil

He raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her. Encouraging her too.

She looked down a moment, drawing a deep breath, and looked back towards the injured fiddler. She took one more quick, jerky breath and stepped forward. “I can play,” she said, voice carrying clearly. “Although I’m somewhat out of practice. I beg your patience if I’m rusty.”

The fiddle was handed over. She checked the tuning of it and the bow’s tension. A few quick practice runs of notes, and she launched into a tune.

He’d grown up around music, had seen talent back home. And Lucy put them in the shade, anyone else he’d ever heard. She’d called herself proficient, talking about her value to Compton. Mrs. Blackmore had called her talented. He’d still not grasped till now just what that meant.

The room was quickly alive with people clapping hands, stomping feet, finding partners to dance.

He stayed in the shadows along the wall, a fresh pint in hand, and watched her. Her body was part of the music. She wasn’t still as her fingers flew nimbly over the strings, bow dipping on the runs and flourishes. Her shoulders and head and body flowed through the phrases as she seamlessly transitioned from one tune to the next.

He glanced towards Mrs. Blackmore once, all the more he was willing to take his eyes from Lucy. She and Blackmore were together, Rachel in her arms. She tipped her head back to where Blackmore stood behind her and said something, a smile lighting her face. He kissed her forehead and then their daughter’s.

It stung something in his chest, that. He’d caught on in France that there was something between them that went deeper than the situation at hand, although he hadn’t guessed the extent of it. His heart twinged, watching them together now. Blackmore had found something simpler than the work they did on the Continent. Purer. Something real in the midst of it, and then he’d followed it here—followed her here. And he seemed genuinely content. Settled.

As for himself, a family wasn’t something he thought much about when he was younger. Or rather, family meant everything to him, but he hadn’t thought about starting a family of his own—a wife and children. Probably no young men did. The years had started weighing heavier on him, though, since Mairéad’s death. He’d spent over half his life away from his family. He’d missed quite a bit, all those years gone. And he’d given up a lot in the course of his work. And what did he have to show for it all these years later? Goddamned little he could carry forward into any other sort of life.

But ’twasn’t something to think on just now, not when there was Lucy to watch as she came alive over the fiddle.

When she finished, lowering the violin, the noise level in the room doubled: people whistling, shouting, clapping, many going all at once to her.

He remained where he was against the wall, watching. Her smiles were hesitant but genuine as she acknowledged the crowd’s appreciation.

“Will ye play us a slow air then?” Mr. Bairden called out when the noise subsided a bit.

She nodded, poising the fiddle beneath her chin again and closing her eyes. A hush fell over the room.

She took a deep breath and began the notes on the lower strings, drawn out and quivering. With her eyes tightly shut, she coaxed a hauntingly lovely tune from the strings. He had no idea if ’twas a tune she’d learned or something improvised on the spot, but emotion throbbed in every note.

It laced into the ache that was already in his chest and tightened his throat.

Looking around the otherwise silent room, he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Mrs. Blackmore had tears on her cheeks, although she was smiling. And Blackmore’s face was softer than it had ever been on the Continent.

He’d no concept of how long the song lasted. It felt too soon when she ended it, letting the last note hang in the air before lowering the fiddle.

At last she opened her eyes, wet with unshed tears, looking straight to where he stood in the shadows. One tear spilled over. She didn’t wipe it away.

The spell broke as the murmur of voices rose, some calling out to Lucy for another song. Before she looked away, she smiled at him, a smile that lit her whole face. And there, there, was the heart of Lucy Muir. The light.

He smiled in return, though ’twas harder than it should have been.

Much as he was enjoying the céilí, he also felt apart from the scene. ’Twasn’t anyone causing it. Everyone was happy and friendly and welcoming. But he didn’t fit here in this community. Lucy did. The Blackmores too.

He’d have his own people, home in Ireland.

He’d watched the whole crowd carefully from the shadows. Hadn’t noticed a single person whose face registered anything towards Lucy or the Blackmores beyond community goodwill or genuine liking. If Lymington’s spies were here, they were as adept at concealing their identities as any one of the Crown’s agents. Didn’t mean they weren’t here. But he’d seen nothing pointing to anyone specific.

’Twas too much, staying and watching. He’d step outside, just for a few minutes. He made his way towards the main door, pausing to set his empty tankard on the bar with a nod of thanks to the Bairden’s eldest granddaughter who was pulling ale. She dimpled at him in reply.

The door into the Arms opened just as he was reaching for the handle, which was how he nearly ran straight into Santiago Pereira.

Chapter 21

Pereira was here on business; ’twas certainly no other earthly explanation.

“’Tis a surprise seeing your face,” he said to Pereira, stepping aside so that Pereira could enter along with a woman and child. The way the woman glanced towards Pereira said they were travelling together. There was undoubtedly a story there, for Pereira was neither married nor had family in Britain.

Pereira smiled. “Sí, no less yours. I’ve information for you and Blackmore, but I didn’t expect to nearly flatten you in the inn’s doorway.”