Page 57 of Bargaining with the Devil

Nor would the conversation with Isobel be comfortable. Nathaniel had tactfully said nothing before their meal about how he’d found her in Quinn’s arms, but she had no doubt whatsoever he’d have told Isobel.

Isobel’s cornflower-blue eyes were filled with concern. “Are you well, Lucy? Truly?” She wore many of her emotions on her face, just as she always had.

“Yes. Yes, all things considered.”

All things considered being trekking to Heston Isle, sleeping on an uncomfortable pallet overnight—and memorably not sleeping for part of it—reliving part of one of the worst weeks of her life, getting attacked, being shot, and having minor surgery on her arm, capped by her brother-in-law walking in on her in a nude man’s arms.

It was almost laughably absurd.

Isobel smoothed a hand down Rachel’s back. “Has it disturbed you having Mr. Quinn here?”

Had it disturbed her? Yes, Quinn’s presence had certainly disturbed her. But that wasn’t all he had done. A rush of heat scorched through her.

From where the men were donning their coats—presumably to have a mirror of the conversation she was about to have with Isobel—Quinn glanced her way as though he sensed her gaze. The corner of his mouth edged up ever so slightly.

“Yes.” She looked back to Isobel. “But not in a wholly bad way.” That wasn’t even quite true. “Not even mostly bad. It was very unexpected, seeing him when he first arrived.” She laughed a little. “And he was first across the threshold at Hogmanay.”

“So he has been here two weeks already. I wondered for how long.”

“Yes. And with my life in danger, he’s stayed with me nearly at all times, ensuring I am safe.”

“So Nathaniel told me, but little more than that since he did not know most of the story yet either.” Isobel looked like she wanted to say more, but perhaps the sort of conversation she intended and the questions she planned to ask weren’t suited to the men still in the room. But looking into Isobel’s eyes, it was a conversation they were most definitely going to have as soon as the men departed.

It seemed unlikely that Isobel would condemn her for having had Quinn in her cottage unchaperoned. It would be entirely hypocritical given how Isobel and Nathaniel themselves met, and Isobel had never been a hypocrite in other matters. No, it was concern in her sister’s eyes.

They never spoke of Paris. It was not that Isobel didn’t care or didn’t wish to know. It was that she herself was never willing to discuss it.

The cottage door closed softly behind Quinn and Nathaniel, and Isobel turned to face her more directly. “Tell me what happened beyond this business to do with Lymington. Whatever were you doing on Heston Isle to begin with?”

There was no rational explanation for why she and Quinn had spent the night on Heston. “I . . . Well, I was out of sorts with Quinn. And I wished to walk, to try to put order to my thoughts, only I wasn’t thinking clearly of all the dangers”—more like she’d ignored them—“and Quinn followed me. I . . .” She brushed at her skirt. “I lost my temper at him. We ended up marooned by the storm. Surely you came through that as well?”

“Yes, we’d have been back a day sooner, but it made travelling dangerous. We waited it out at an inn.”

“The tide was coming up as well, and it was nearing nightfall. We stayed the night in that hut up the slope.”

“Why were you out of sorts with Mr. Quinn?” Isobel’s gaze was unwavering. No chance that her sister was going to let her get out of explaining more fully. Even had Nathaniel not found them in bed together, partially undressed, the fact of them having been on Heston together overnight raised questions.

“I was overwhelmed emotionally, perhaps not wholly rational or making the wisest decision”—an understatement—“and I set out walking like I sometimes do. Only this time I made the decision to set out for the isle.”

“Did he do something that . . .” Isobel searched for the right word. “. . . distressed you?”

“Are you asking if he was improper with me?” And what a silly way to put it. For he had, in fact, been very improper on several occasions, with her full consent. It was only after the fact—after the kiss, anyway—that she hadn’t known how to handle the emotions it stirred up, giving in to the reckless disregard that spurred her towards Heston.

Perhaps that was to be expected given she’d been so careful for so many months to prevent herself from feeling much of anything at all. With Quinn she felt . . . everything.

Isobel was waiting in silence for her to elaborate.

“I was confronting difficult memories. Suddenly I had to lay them alongside my life now, which includes Quinn, at least for the time being. So yes, I suppose it was because of him, but more to do with myself. If you are concerned about my safety with him, you needn’t be. He would never harm a hair on my head.” The truth. He wouldn’t. She was safe with him.

“Not intentionally.”

She had no wish to dissect what her sister meant by that. She was only just treading water with her past; the future was too much to contemplate yet.

“As little as I wanted to see him when he first turned up, and as much as his presence frustrated and perturbed me, he’s been . . . good for me.” And only slightly for the physical connection they had. “He’s nudged me to face things I haven’t wanted to face. And it hurts, Issy, and it’s been messy and ugly and I’m still torn up about some of it and probably will be for a long time. But I am finally confronting it. All of it. Well, most of it. And I have Quinn to thank for that.”

Isobel’s eyes were shimmering. “Then I have him to thank as well,” she said softly. “I have worried about you these past two years. We have worried about you, Nathaniel and myself both.”

“I think . . . I would like to talk to you about some of it. Not tonight. But soon.” It was past time, really.