Page 23 of Bargaining with the Devil

Eventually she said, “Thank you for getting the fire going. It’s so chilly in the morning this time of year. It’s like the cold gets into my bones sometimes, and I’m not warm until midday.” Her voice was casual—too carefully casual.

So that’s how they were going to play it: go about their day without acknowledging it happened. Fine by him, he’d go along with that. Couldn’t promise his eyes might not say something about it though.

“’Twill be a little while yet before the water in the kettle gets boiling, but ’twill suffice for tea before too much longer.”

“Thank you for getting the . . . erm, the kettle boiling.”

Ah, that little breathy pause before kettle recalled the previous night. He smiled, glad she couldn’t see it. She was probably regretting it just now, that she’d picked teakettle last night as the word to tell him off if she wanted out of their bargain. Not that she’d wanted out when all was said and done.

He wasn’t much of a tea drinker; it wasn’t a luxury common soldiers had on campaign, so he’d not grown accustomed to it then. Next, moving among remote areas of the Continent, coffee or other beverages were the more likely choice to start the day. ’Twas funny, really, how obsessed the British were with their tea.

But if she wanted tea, then by all means they’d start the day thus. And usually she had tea—just one of the things he’d learned already about her routine.

“I don’t have much to choose from,” she said, “at least not of black tea. I have only one variety. I do have some lovely herbal teas. There’s a woman in Rascarrel who makes some delightful mixtures that she sells at market.”

She was too voluble. He bit back a smile because he liked it—her just a bit flustered. Softer too and determined to engage rather than hiding herself away despite her nerves. He’d bet there was color on her cheeks right now if he were to face her.

He set the backs of his fingers briefly against the kettle, testing it. Not warm enough yet for the water inside to be doing much. “Whatever you’re having, ’twill be fine by me. Can’t say I’m a great tea con-o-soor.” He mangled connoisseur on purpose; he could say it proper just fine if he wanted, having spent a lot of time in France, but he wanted to tease a laugh from her if he could.

She had a musical little laugh, did Lucy, when she let herself unbend enough to do it like she did just now.

“The irony is that some of what we have here is most likely still smuggled, what with tariffs.” She laughed again. “I don’t know what to think of that given the situation with Lymington. Perhaps this entire time I’ve been enjoying this or some other commodity thanks to him.”

“So far as I know, tea isn’t one of his interests. Not with where the ships originate, according to Customs. But hard to say for sure without manifests and without asking the man himself.” He finally turned to fully face her.

She’d placed two mugs on the table and was spooning leaves into her small teapot. When she glanced at him, her cheeks were indeed flushed. She looked quickly back to her task. “This is ready whenever the water is.”

And then she nibbled on her lower lip, and he felt it like a punch to his gut. Fucking hell. He was done for.

“After tea and after tending the animals, I thought I’d collect some shellfish for dinner.” She gestured towards a wicker basket on a hook. “If it’s acceptable for me to walk the shore today?” Finally, she made full eye contact and held it.

“I’ll walk with you.” He covered the rasp in his voice with a cough.

“I’d hoped . . .” More color painted her cheekbones, but she held his gaze, mostly. “I’d hoped for a little time to myself.”

Still a bit shy about last night, was she?

“I’m used to keeping my own company,” she added softly. “Even when my sister is here. I’m used to my own space.”

Well, if she wanted it, he’d give it to her, the space—if ’twas safe enough.

“Then let’s have our tea and see to the animals. I’ll walk down with you far enough to gauge your safety. Mayhap just for an hour or so, and you won’t take any risks, aye?”

She nodded, absently biting her lower lip again.

Aye, he was fucking done for.

Chapter 9

She’d collected a fine assortment of shellfish; despite the cold, the shore’s bounty was generous today. She and Quinn would have a nice quantity to boil later for their evening meal.

He’d walked with her as far as the path down to the shore. When it was apparent there were quite a few people out on the bay today, including quite a few fishermen at their stake nets, he’d pronounced it safe enough for her to walk by herself for a short time while he was back at the cottage doing . . . Well, she wasn’t sure what. But she’d been glad for a walk by herself after so much time in his company—and after last night. Truthfully, she’d sometimes found it hard to think coherently around him even before that.

She’d felt—happy? as she gathered cockles and mussels and periwinkles in her wicker basket. Or perhaps not anything so strong as happiness. But peace? Contentedness. Her steps were light now as she returned to the cottage, although she was also the slightest bit . . . giddy? That wasn’t quite the right term, but it had to do with knowing Quinn would be there in the cottage, watching for her. Knowing he was likely thinking about last night just like she was.

She opened the door quietly, pausing in the doorway. He was seated at the table. He turned his head at her approach, and his mouth tilted up.

His eyes were a cool pine green in midday light, but there was nothing cold in them. Heat surged through her despite January’s chill at her back. Instincts urged her to immediately do one of two things: step all the way in and shut the door, closing herself in with Quinn, or turn and leave and not return till she felt less off kilter.