Page 13 of Bargaining with the Devil

Which was why her own words, following, baffled her. “I don’t fear you.” And she expanded on that, although she could have meant something different by it—did mean something else as well, when one came right down to it: “I’m not afraid of losing to you.”

“’Tis grand then.” His eyes were fathomless wells. “What game would you like to play?”

“I’m still not certain I wish to play at all,” she muttered.

“Then I’ll be choosing.” He rummaged around in his baggage, coming out with a wooden box.

“Fine.” She thumped down in a chair as he laid the deck of cards on her table. “Do as you like.” She just caught herself from huffing in annoyance.

Rather than join her, he prowled over to her windowsill. “We’ll be playing five-and-ten, since you’ve no preference. ’Tis a game I played often growing up, with Mam and her sisters.”

Strange to think of him having a mother and aunts. Strange to think of him as family oriented at all. Although why shouldn’t he be? For of course he didn’t spring from nothing. He hadn’t spoken of family on the journey out from Paris, but again, why would he have? They’d conversed at times, but almost none of it was personal on any level.

“Seems you’ve lost already. Got lost that is.” A smirk, in his voice.

She collected herself from woolgathering to find herself confronted by that bloody smile again. It was singularly unfair that a man with Quinn’s dark good looks was also blessed with a smile like that: temptation incarnate despite the fact that the only other thing he was doing—besides smiling—was holding the bowl she kept on the windowsill.

“I thought you might be conceding already, Lucy.” He set the bowl beside the deck of cards.

He also had unfairly long lashes.

She allowed herself a scoff. “Not a chance. And it’s Miss Muir to you.”

His smile broadened. “’Tis a fine thing, bringing some spirit to the game. Never did my aunties any good though, not if ’twas Mam and I partnered against them. See, ’tis a game played mostly in partnerships, but ’twill do for two as well.”

“Why have you brought the bowl over?” The assorted tiny shells and colorful pebbles were tokens she’d collected on her seaside rambles, small treasures that had caught her eye.

“Stakes.” He gently stirred the contents with one finger before sliding the bowl nearer to her. “You divide them up while I ready the cards. Equal number for each of us.”

“How many?”

“A score or so each.” He cut the deck of cards in half and started shuffling. Of course he did that well too. It was aggravating.

Pebbles for him. Shells for herself. By the time she’d sorted out two dozen, he’d finished shuffling to his satisfaction and was partway into explaining the rules to her.

“I thought you said this was an Irish game.” She knew this game, just not as five-and-ten.

“Sure, ’tis Irish.”

“It isn’t. This is Maw, played with two players. It’s a favorite of my father’s. Was.” Mingled sorrow and guilt closed off her throat for a moment. “That is, Da’s side of the family is very fond of Maw.” In fact, there might well be a game in progress in Glasgow at this very minute with Isobel up there. She and Issy played often as girls. “Maw is a Scottish game.”

Quinn shook his head slowly side to side. “’Tis Irish. Or ’tis under the name five-and-ten.” He leaned forward a little on his elbows, that half smile playing on his mouth. “And seeing as I claimed prerogative for which game we play, ’tis my say how we play it.” He raised a flippant eyebrow.

She wagged a hand at him. “Then deal the cards.”

She won several games, although not as many as Quinn. And she’d enjoyed it despite misgivings about engaging with Quinn—and despite herself.

“’Twas fun.” He’d tidied the cards back into a neat stack. “I’d almost believe you an Irish lass, a stór, just going off how you play five-and-ten.”

She laughed. Laughed, unthinking. Lightly. “Make no mistake: I’m Scots through and through.” Even if she’d lived part of her life in London, Da had cultivated a sense of heritage in both his girls. “But yes,” she agreed. “It was fun.”

“’Twasn’t only the cards,” he said softly.

“No?” she challenged. “Then what else, pray tell, was it?”

He was considering a flippant remark; the curve of his mouth said as much. But he just shook his head.

What could he mean? He spoke in riddles sometimes.