Page 76 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Now . . . I want to do for you what you do for me . . . I want to return that. But I . . .” Her voice was too choked for a moment to continue. “I just can’t. I hate that I can’t do something I know—or imagine anyway—would bring you the same . . . That is, it would feel good if it’s like what you do for me. I want to do it for you.”

He snugged his arm tighter across her back. “’Tis like I said. I don’t want it if you don’t. ’Tis as simple as that.”

Mayhap someday she’d get there, mayhap she wouldn’t. If ’twas something she wanted to try for herself, that act, he hoped for her sake she would . . . but ’twouldn’t be with him because he’d be gone by then.

And he didn’t like the thought of that one bit, her ever risking trusting someone else enough to try it.

“Do you want . . . That is, we didn’t finish.” She set a hand on his hip.

His cock had long since gone entirely soft. Mechanically it would be possible to make it hard again, sure, but he didn’t want that just now. He was disgusted by Compton’s behavior. Disgusted with himself too for what he’d done earlier with the knife.

He laced his fingers through hers, keeping her hand where it was. “Just rest now, a stór.”

She nodded, curling up against him. She was asleep in minutes, worn out.

He wished he was worn out enough to stop thinking.

’Twasn’t noble on his part, that part with the blade. Was downright manipulative, if you came right down to it. It sickened him, remembering.

He’d started out meaning to rattle her because it seemed sometimes ’twas all that pushed her past complacency and numbness into feeling something, anything. But ’twasn’t a healthy way of doing it. He didn’t like himself for it. She’d not driven him to it; he wouldn’t lay that on her. ’Twas his own actions, himself not handling his fuckin’ anger.

And then he’d nearly lost control of himself. ’Twas physically painful to stop with only the head of his cock in her, pressure in his ballocks demanding relief. He’d been so bloody close to ignoring what had guided him for years now.

Too close. I wanted to let go.

And mixed up with it, if he was honest, was wanting to claim Lucy somehow. ’Twas exactly the opposite of what she wanted for herself and with good reason. And here he was, wanting the opposite.

’Twas crystal clear now all they could ever have of each other was a bit of pleasure mixed up with some yearning. No future in that, really. Running up against each other’s boundaries time and again, jagged pieces not ever quite aligning and broken edges cutting . . . Well, ’twas no way to be together.

He was a patient man. Well, mayhap not always. But he could be, sure, about the things that mattered most. And she mattered. Blessed Jesus, did she matter. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t walk back his principles, even for her. Especially for her. And he couldn’t trample over hers.

He wasn’t cut like the man who fathered him, taking advantage of his mam and leaving her to bear a bastard son. He was no Lorcán, to wear a lass down and then leave her broken-hearted with his babe in her belly, fighting for a reason to go on. He’d spent fucking years proving to himself that he was nothing like either of those men.

Didn’t matter at the end of the day that Lucy believed herself barren. ’Twas a chance he’d never take, risking her. Not unless she had the protection of his name to keep her from bearing consequences alone.

She’ll not marry me. Might not even trust me all the way, even if she loves me. She’d made that clear. He wouldn’t stay with her without marriage, fighting to keep control every time they came together. She wouldn’t marry, and the worst fucking part of it was that he understood why. He couldn’t be mad about it, just sorry. Sorry it couldn’t work out for them.

I won’t touch her again. Wrap my arms around her, sure, but not get up to anything else. His control was wearing thin. ’Twas getting more difficult each time with her to hold to his line.

So he’d not touch her again in that way. Sooner rather than later, he and Blackmore would rout Lymington. Lucy and her sister would be safe, and he’d be on his way to County Dublin in time for Aoife’s wedding.

I’ll be just a memory to Lucy a year from now. She’ll be only a memory to me.

’Twas all there was for it: memories.

Quinn’s arms were still around her when she woke. He wasn’t relaxed though; he wasn’t sleeping. He gathered her closer when she stirred, and he kissed the top of her head, but he didn’t speak or do anything else.

Memory rushed back about what they’d spoken of before she’d fallen asleep. She made a small noise, inadvertent, when she remembered what she’d tried—and failed—to do.

Quinn’s arms tightened.

Out of everything, it was that week on the ship with Compton that still haunted her most. First, she’d been humiliated not too long after they’d weighed anchor when Compton ordered her to don a flimsy, revealing dress. The clothes of a whore, in his words. And—naïve, foolish girl that she’d been—she’d thought, expected, that would be the worst of it.

Until he’d told her why Teddy had enticed her away from her family: the bet and Teddy’s debt and that Teddy had never, ever had any intention of marrying her.

And as she grappled with that betrayal, not yet accepting it as truth, Compton told her the rest. That she was his now to do with as he pleased. She’d rebutted that—or had tried. She’d not been completely without spirit. But she quickly realized that nothing she said was going to make any difference, that Compton’s cold cruelty ran far beneath the surface.

She’d considered jumping overboard. And he saw that and taunted her with the almost certain death awaiting.