Page 47 of Bargaining with the Devil

She was smiling a little when he kissed her.

There wasn’t much in the hut of use as far as medical supplies went. The pot for boiling water, mayhap—they’d set out a handy pail the night before to collect rainwater—if the wound even warranted such once he had a better look at it. Earlier, he’d been waiting to light the fire till she came back so as not to waste the meager supply of fuel. Only she hadn’t come back, so he’d gone looking for her. But the fire was still laid neat, ready to light.

What to use for bandaging? “I need some strips of cloth to tie ’round your arm.”

“My shift, perhaps? It’s cleaner than the skirt since the hem is higher.”

“Aye, ’twill work.” And he’d get a nice glimpse of her legs while he was at it. ’Twas a bit of a perk, that part.

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“There near the doorway. ’Tis where the light is best.” He wiped the knife on his trousers, the one he’d used to slash Lymington. It needed proper cleaning and oiling, but ’twould have to wait, obviously, and in the meantime, ’twould do for cutting cloth. “We should cross back to the mainland soon as we can.”

“Yes.” She sat a bit stiffly, like her limbs weren’t quite in full working order. “This afternoon, I think, if we don’t dally when the tide starts to go out.”

’Twas his thought as well. The wind was already dying down.

He went to his knees before her—and aye, briefly enjoyed the view of her legs when she hiked up her skirt—and sliced what he needed from the bottom of her shift. Still kneeling, he caught her left elbow in his hand and tilted her arm to examine the bloody rent in the sleeve.

What he could make out through the torn cloth didn’t look too bad. There was still a bit of fresh blood seeping but not enough to cause problems for her. ’Twould need to be rebandaged again in her cottage with something more than strips torn from her shift, but ’twas just a bit of a graze.

Still, best to clean it up now since ’twas a few hours yet before they could start back. “I want to see it proper and clean it up a bit.”

She nodded. A sharp intake of breath as she twisted her arms behind her to loosen the gown had him quickly scooting behind her. “Don’t be reaching back there, a stór.” Her gown was fitted to her by two laces at the back. He worked the drawstring at the shoulders loose. Ironic. He’d been wanting to do this—he’d missed out on that part last night—but he’d not imagined it under this set of circumstances.

Any stray sexual thoughts he had about her legs or loosening her laces were put abruptly to rest after he’d worked the sleeve down off her arm.

The graze from the pistol shot was as minor as he expected, although ’twould pain her till it healed. However, just below her shoulder was an inked mark in the shape of a sparrow, one he hadn’t noticed on her skin in the dark last night.

He didn’t say anything about it, not at first. Just cleaned up her wound, folded a pad from cloth, and tied a strip around it that would hold till they reached her cottage, keep it from opening up when they crossed to the mainland.

And then he touched softly just below the gunpowder mark. “What’s this, a mhuirnín?” The exact circumstances of how she’d come to have the sparrow on her skin was what he meant.

He already knew exactly what it was, what is signified.

’Twas mayhap good Compton was dead already, or that would have been one job he’d have taken on of his own accord once he was done in Kirkcudbrightshire.

And he’d have made sure to take the pleasure in it he hadn’t with Lorcán.

Chapter 16

“Compton put that on me. Or rather, he had one of his men do it on the ship to France. He marked all of them that way. The women he owned.” Lucy’s voice was entirely without expression, all earlier traces of humor—of any emotion—wiped clean.

Men in the Rifles recounted harrowing stories thus: the narrow calls they’d had. Standing witness to the aftermath of appalling brutality, following behind the French army’s retreat or stumbling on the work of the guerrilleros.

He bit down on anger, forcing his voice level. “’Tis not a real thing, one person owning another.”

“No?” She had the same carefully blank face—and dead eyes too—as the Riflemen. “This mark said otherwise. And worst is that I chose it. All of it.”

She’d said something similar about Garnewood, about her choices having set it in motion. ’Twas true enough in its way, but she wouldn’t have chosen any of it had she had foresight. And that made all the difference in how a person moved forward, living with one’s choices.

And mayhap she had still had options, decisions she’d loathed making because all of them were fucking awful for different reasons and because likely she hadn’t any good choices left. And she lived with it by telling herself everything ’twas still in her control in some way.

She’d made the choices that kept her alive, but they’d been slowly killing her ever since.

“I was easily duped by the stars in my own eyes.” Her laugh was bitter. “Naïve enough to go with Teddy, as I’ve already said. So naïve he was nearly guaranteed he’d have me in his bed for the first part of Compton’s plan. I have no idea if Teddy ever had a scrap of genuine sentiment towards me, aside from a physical response that wasn’t feigned, but I went willingly to his bed. As I’ve told you. But then he started speaking of debts, of owing too much money to offer me marriage yet. When I realized we wouldn’t be marrying immediately, I was too ashamed to return home. Even though my family loved me. But I still⁠—”

She sucked in a breath. “Even then, I still thought myself in love with him. So I agreed when he suggested that if I’d only keep company with Compton for a short time—Teddy claimed for relatively innocent reasons—it would help clear his name of debts so that perhaps we’d have some sort of life together after all. And I’d still have done anything for him, anything to chase the future he’d promised, and he knew it. Compton told me the rest of the story, the true story, after we were on the ship to France. Teddy had a bet with him, you see, that he’d be able to bed me. If he lost, he’d owe Compton double what his debts already were. If he won, he’d have me in his bed for a week or two and then he’d turn me over to Compton to clear his debts. He had high incentive to succeed.”