Page 96 of Bargaining with the Devil

It had been an adjustment being here and accustoming himself to the rhythms of a life that had never really been his before. Sure, he’d been here as a lad, but he wasn’t a lad any longer. He didn’t miss the work he’d done in those intervening years, or at least not the hands-on parts of it. He was still getting used to the change in mental occupation. Blackmore was right about that part. There wasn’t much call for strategizing now unless one counted the planning of repairs or the chasing of the neighbor’s cow when she got loose or playing five-and-ten with his sisters. Turned out sweet, mild Aisling turned quite cutthroat over a hand of cards. He’d yet to win a game over her.

He’d been visiting Mairéad. They’d buried her in the churchyard, even with her death being self-imposed, for there was no proof it hadn’t been a terrible accident rather than herself walking out to the sea. He knew the truth, but to his mind, ’twasn’t her doing, not really. ’Twas and would always be Lorcán at fault. Sure, she’d been unable to bear the weight of living afterwards, but ’twas still Lorcán he blamed.

Not that marrying Lorcán would have been good for her, going off stories he’d since heard, things he hadn’t known living so far away. ’Twouldn’t have been a good situation for Mairéad, married to the man, but she’d have lived. And Lorcán never should have touched her in the first place. Or at least that’s how he saw it. The rest was between her and God now.

’Twasn’t just her grave he visited. He’d sit there sometimes, sure, mayhap tell her a bit about what the girls and Mam were up to. But when he really wanted to talk to her, he’d walk the places they’d explored together as children. He’d sit up on a bluff overlooking the sea and tell her the things he told no one else. The work he’d done over the years was some of it, things he wouldn’t have shared if ’twas truly her sitting there beside him.

Some of it had to do with Lucy Muir too. He thought about Lucy often. More often than he liked, truthfully.

Blackmore had written him a letter in late April, although he’d not received it till nearly June since he hadn’t actually given Blackmore an address—more of a general description of where Mam lived. But the letter reached him eventually.

Blackmore led with a few things, some to do with the magistrate’s handling of the death inquest into Lymington’s men and some to do with the revenue cutter captain Lees and Customs having snaffled him up a week or two later.

Mostly the letter was domestic though. He had a second daughter. Mother and baby were doing fine. Rachel was walking, not well, but keeping them busy.

’Twas odd in its way receiving a missive of that sort from Blackmore after so many cryptic messages they’d exchanged over the years, had to do with jobs.

Right at the end of the letter, almost like ’twas an afterthought, Blackmore mentioned Lucy. She’d recovered fully, as anticipated. The cough lingered on for a time, but ’twas to be expected after breathing in smoke for that long, but that had eased. The burn on her arm healed up fine and didn’t inhibit her playing the violin, which Blackmore said she did regular now.

It did his heart good, reading the last. He wished he could tell her how proud he was of her for finding the light again. But she’d not invited him to write, and he wasn’t sure he would have even had she. Sometimes ’twas best to make a clean break when a thing was hopeless.

Mam tried introducing him to a couple of the local lasses soon after he arrived. He’d ignored the unspoken suggestion that he consider courting one of them. Truth was, he hadn’t any interest in doing so. ’Twas only one woman in his heart at the moment, wasn’t related to him, and she was across Muir Éireann. ’Twould be wrong to get a lass’s hopes up given he laid down in bed every night and woke up every morning thinking about another.

He had no expectations of ever seeing Lucy again, just a foolish hope he couldn’t quite quash. What had parted them was insurmountable. Even without Aoife’s wedding taking him away, he couldn’t have stayed, knowing that. ’Twas just setting them up for future heartbreak rather than it happening when it did.

Eithne, his baby sister at seventeen, was the one he ended up telling about Lucy. Eithne was learning to fiddle, and one day he told her that he’d met a lass in Scotland who played beautifully. He’d only heard Lucy play the one night, but he didn’t tell Eithne that part.

She’d managed to tease out of him that possibly he’d had some affection for the woman fiddle player. And then Siobhán caught on, and after that, his other sisters knew too. Mam as well. He caught Mam looking at him sometimes, careful, but she left him alone after that as far as meeting any lasses.

He wiped more sweat from his forehead. The roof repairs were done. He hoped they’d hold. He was learning how to do tasks like this for Mam, but it took teaching. ’Twasn’t much in his previous repertoire of skills, repairing roofs or other structures.

He’d need to get cleaned up before too much longer. He tossed down the tools he’d been using and climbed down from the roof. He was in the process of shaking out his filthy shirt and debating putting it on when Eithne’s voice registered, coming from the lane that led to Mam’s cottage. She was speaking with someone, her voice bubbly and raised up. He smiled. She was usually lively and happy, was Eithne.

And then he caught the second feminine voice, a bit lower in pitch than Eithne’s. More restrained.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Shirt forgotten, he stepped around the corner of the cottage just as Eithne cleared the hedge, her arm through Lucy Muir’s.

The birdsong and insects humming, the bright sunshine and brilliant blue sky—for a moment, it all faded away till nothing remained but Lucy’s blue eyes and the hesitant smile curving her lips.

And then the rest rushed back in: the sun hot on his shoulders, the bees droning in Mam’s hollyhocks, the flagstone path smooth beneath his feet as he started slowly towards Lucy. But ’twas still only so much background noise compared to the sight of her.

She looked well. More than well. Vibrant and healthy and alive. Glowing, almost, and so beautiful he almost had to look away, except he wasn’t going to take his eyes off her, not for a moment.

Her smile wasn’t hesitant now. ’Twas the smile of a woman who’d recognized the welcome he meant to give her.

“’Tis quite the surprise seeing you here, Miss Muir,” he said when the power of speech returned.

Her mouth edged up farther. “Of course you don’t have a shirt on,” she said drily.

He took a step closer. “So that’s the first thing you’re going to say to me, a mhuirnín, after six months?”

She shrugged, the smile still tugging at her lips. “Perhaps if you didn’t make such a habit of it, I wouldn’t feel compelled to point it out.”

“Then ’tis no surprise to you, finding me this way.” He closed the final step to her. “And you like it, a stór.”

Eithne stifled a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. Mostly he disregarded that—he’d square it with Eithne’s sensibilities later—and did what he wanted, which was take Lucy, entirely unresisting, in his arms.