Page 33 of Bargaining with the Devil

Chapter 12

’Twas just as well he couldn’t see Lucy with it being dark. What little bit he could make out wasn’t helping his present condition, which was that he was thinking about how little clothing they both had on. It was his own bloody fault after what he’d led her through the other night. Kissing her against the cottage door too. Hadn’t really thought through either time what ’twould be like afterwards, although certainly he’d thought about it since.

She curled up now, facing away from him. She smelled of the sea that they’d trudged through and the pelting rain that chased them the last twenty yards to the cottage. She also smelled of soap and woman.

She was shivering even though he had most of the blanket over them. ’Twasn’t very large, as blankets went.

As a rule he tried to be respectful of women—all of them were someone’s sister or mother or daughter—but he’d be damned if he’d let her shiver. “’Twill be warmer if we’re closer.” ’Twould also be agony but no less true for it, and ’twas his cross to bear.

He reached out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. Friendly. Not possessive.

Her breath hitched. Fear? Or something else? Not that he was going to think about if ’twas something else. He wanted her, sure, and she wanted him right back, but kissing him drove her to walk the cliff’s edge, after.

“Yes.” Her voice was so soft that he’d have missed it, except she scooted towards him on the same breath.

He was careful gathering her in. Careful not to startle her or scare her. Careful not to give in and pull her closer once she was in his arms, to bury his face in her hair and discover what that smelled like.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, settling in his arms.

“What for, a stór?”

“For putting us in this situation.”

“’Tis not so bad. We have proper shelter, and we’ll stay warm enough together till morning.”

“Fine then. For causing you to come after me when you didn’t want to. That you are continually obligated to follow me and my every whim, sometimes at risk to yourself.”

“’Tis no trouble, a mhuirnín.” It was trouble, but he’d still show up for her, time and again. Even if she wouldn’t let him in any more than this. Even if she kept shutting him out the moment she started to open just a little.

So long as he was here anyway. He wouldn’t be in Scotland long.

Her huff was skeptical.

“Well, perhaps a bit of trouble,” he allowed.

“I might have implied earlier that I’d been drinking because we kissed.”

She’d more than implied it. She’d said it outright, her face too much like Mairéad’s.

“The whisky wasn’t because of you though. It was because of me.”

Mayhap that was true when it came to what was between them, but ’twasn’t all of it. “Or was it because of someone else, a mhuirnín?” He’d meant every word of it on the shingle, telling her not to let the man win, whoever he was. Or whoever they were.

She was silent for a very long time. Not pretending she hadn’t heard him; ’twas a deciding kind of silence. He realized he’d been holding his breath only once she started speaking.

“His name was Theodore Garnewood.” Her voice was very quiet. “I met Teddy when I was eighteen. He was six years older. Handsome. And . . . exciting. So full of life and fun and—” Her voice broke. “Hope. How wrong I was.”

’Twasn’t relevant in France, whatever had happened. Garnewood was her initial connection to Compton; that, she’d told them in Paris. ’Twasn’t relevant to their operation, whatever else had happened with him—the parts before she came into Compton’s company. Garnewood had convinced her to leave London with Compton, but whatever preceded that—that, she’d held back. And they hadn’t needed it from her.

“I met him while shopping. He was with his older sister. Or— He said she was his sister at first. She wasn’t, but by the time I realized that, it didn’t matter to me that he’d lied about that at the start. Everything he said made . . . sense. He made it make sense. Made everything sound reasonable.”

Had she ever told anyone about Garnewood? Her sister, mayhap? Except this had the sound of someone finding the words for the first time. He pulled her in a bit closer. Not holding her tight but letting her know she wasn’t alone. Letting her know he’d listen.

“It sounds so foolish now that I was so easily swayed.” She swallowed audibly. “But my mother was dying. My father was doing all he could to prevent it. My recently widowed sister was little more than a shell of herself after coming home from Flanders. I understood Isobel was deep in grief for her husband, but so was Da by then. Grieving, that is, mourning Maman before she even left the earth. And Maman was so sick . . .” Her breath hitched. “I just couldn’t stay shut away in that house day after day.”

She was fighting tears; ’twas in her voice, in her breathing. He shifted to get the arm beneath him under her shoulders, drawing her a little closer yet.

“I lied to them. To Maman and Da and Isobel. And one of Teddy’s friends helped—the one he’d passed off as his older sister. She assured Da that it was no trouble to help me navigate socially, that she would serve as chaperone. If things had been different at home, Da wouldn’t have— I don’t think he’d have taken that at face value. But I also lied to him.”