Page 87 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Oh dear God, is she . . .?” Mrs. Blackmore dropped to her knees.

“Nay, ’tis the smoke a bit and mayhap the shock.” Lucy had passed back out, but she wasn’t gone.

“Oh, Lucy.” Mrs. Blackmore, tears streaming, cupped Lucy’s cheek, looking down at her sister’s face. “I smelled the smoke but from over the hill. I didn’t realize in time.”

“Just as well you didn’t. Lymington was in there with her. Might be you’d have ended up in there too.” He hadn’t the energy to soften his words.

“Did he—?” Her question was cut off by the burning thatch collapsing entirely. Cries of dismay went up among the folks assembled, but ’twas a lost cause from the start, the cottage.

“He’ll not be bothering anyone again.” He jerked his head towards the engulfed cottage. “’Tis his blood soaking her dress.” He was weary, so weary.

“Merciful God.” Mrs. Blackmore’s eyes, so like her sister’s, welled with fresh tears.

He ought to leave Lucy to Mrs. Blackmore to tend, but his fingers wouldn’t quite let go. He kept hold of Lucy.

Mrs. Blackmore’s gaze moved from Lucy to his face. Searching for . . . He didn’t have energy to try parsing it. But she nodded her head ever so slightly, like she’d decided something. She scooted near enough her shoulder brushed his, but she didn’t try crowding him out of the way, just pushed Lucy’s hair off her face.

“I thought it was all over for her after Paris,” she said softly. “Over except for healing. But now . . .”

“And now mayhap ’tis truly finally over.” He hoped so.

Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders. A benevolent neighbor after all, mayhap, but he didn’t take his eyes off Lucy long enough to look, counting each ragged breath and watching for the next.

“I’ve sent for the doctor.” Blackmore’s voice. “Eva is watching Rachel for the time being, but I’ve sent for Mrs. Bairden so you can stay with Lucy.” Blackmore leaned down to clasp his wife’s shoulder, but ’twas on himself Blackmore transferred his gaze. “What do you need just now, Quinn?”

Need? For Lucy to sit up, unharmed. For this not to have happened in the first place if he’d stayed with her rather than wait for the free traders down in the cove. But ’twas his job to do the last, and time wasn’t something that could be walked back.

“I’m fine,” he said to Blackmore, looking back down to Lucy’s still face.

Mrs. Blackmore touched his wrist. “You need a doctor as well, Mr. Quinn.”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated.

Her chin lifted slightly. “No, you’ll be seen by the doctor. You’re bloodied in several places. You must have cut your arm getting to Lucy. And there’s at least one place on your face that looks injured. A small burn.”

He was forming another protestation that he was fine when Blackmore spoke. “You’ll be of more help to her if you’re healthy.” ’Twas the voice he used when he brooked no disagreement from someone.

Even so, he nearly asked why Mrs. Blackmore needed his help before his mind worked out what Blackmore was really saying: that he’d be of more use to Lucy.

“Aye, I’ll let him poke at me,” he said when Blackmore persisted in staring him down. “Only after he’s seen to Lucy though.”

Blackmore nodded. “Pereira and I will deal with what happened down by the bay. There too.” He glanced towards the burning cottage. “I’m sure they’ll have questions for you, but no need for you to accompany us at the moment. Can you spare me now, love?” he asked Mrs. Blackmore.

“Yes.” Mrs. Blackmore had a hand laid overtop of one of Lucy’s now, but she still hadn’t tried nudging him away from holding Lucy in his arms. “Go and do what needs to be done, a ghràidh. I’m certain the doctor will be here soon, and Mr. Quinn will remain here.” She didn’t look at him as she said the last bit, but her attention was on him. Pointed, like.

“Aye, I’ll not be leaving anytime soon.” Not just now anyway.

Not till he was good and sure Lucy was well.

Hours later, Blackmore and Pereira had straightened things out, at least enough to satisfy the local constable for the moment till they pulled in a magistrate.

Once he’d finally forced himself to leave Lucy for a bit with the doctor and Mrs. Blackmore, he’d followed up too.

Blackmore had kept his cover in Scotland—or rather, ’twasn’t exactly cover, him out of that life till Lymington popped up. But he’d kept his past with the Service dark. He revealed enough now to make sure all the ends were made tidy, what with two dead men past Balcary Point and Lymington dead in the burned-out cottage.

It helped that Pereira had papers from Customs. His own orders had burned up in the cottage, but Blackmore and Pereira vouched for him. As for the rest, the business with the cutter captain Lees, Customs would see to it sooner or later that justice was served. ’Twas their job, not his or Blackmore’s or Pereira’s. They’d done their part in all this, which was take care of Lymington’s involvement.

Although if you came right to it, ’twas Lucy, took care of Lymington.