Page 60 of Bargaining with the Devil

Mrs. Blackmore started to say something and then shook her head, smiling. “Come and get your coat, a ghràidh,” she said to Blackmore. “I’ve already dressed myself and Rachel against the wind, but you’ll need another layer.”

Once the Blackmores had set off on their walk, he puttered restlessly around the parlor while Lucy sat on the sofa with some knitting. He caught after a minute or so that her needles weren’t clicking.

She was looking at him when he glanced her way. “I want to . . . thank you,” she said awkwardly.

“For what, a mhuirnín?”

“For saying some of what you’ve said. You were right.”

He considered teasing her about that last bit, admitting he’d been right about something, but ’twas clear she was trying to find words to continue. He kept quiet but moved closer to her.

She wasn’t looking at him when she continued, “I do walk out too far, and I have had far too little care for my safety. Or the possibility of death. When I was tied up in that cavern with Lymington describing how he planned to leave me for the tide to dispatch—perhaps shooting me first, perhaps not—I truly realized for the first time since . . . since France how badly I do still want to go on. It’s funny in a way that on the verge of having that taken away from me, it came into stark relief.”

“’Tis good you found that again, even if ’twas under those circumstances. ’Twas always there, just waiting.”

“Hiding, rather. Although it was not the first I’d felt—more alive, if I’m being honest.” She cast her eyes down, taking their brilliance away. “With you, in the hut . . . You helped me feel that way.”

He shook his head, smiling. “’Twasn’t me, a mhuirnín. You took that on for yourself. Found that for yourself.”

“I recall two of us sharing the pallet.” Her voice was tart but her lips turned up at the corners.

“Aye, but you sought that too. If you’ll recall, I was trying to be a gentleman, even with you snuggled up to my cock. Or trying as much as the situation allowed,” he added wryly.

“One thing you’ll never be accused of being, Ciarán Quinn, is a gentleman, then or any other time.” Her eyes were lit with amusement, dulling any sting the words might have carried, but there was no venom behind them anyway.

Besides, ’twasn’t an insult—’twas pure truth.

His given name sounded strange coming from her. He didn’t altogether dislike it.

“Never aspired to be a gentleman,” he said. “Seems to me ’tis a bad lot, always living by other people’s rules.” He came closer and perched beside Lucy on the settee. “And the man who sired me, he was a gentleman. His conduct left a lot to be desired, the way he took advantage of my mam. Everything, really. ’Twasn’t even like he had the excuse of being young. A decade older than her, he was.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t . . .? Why we didn’t . . .?” She glanced down.

“Aye. I’ll never risk a lass outside of marriage the way he did.” Or like Lorcán had Mairéad.

“So you’ll go your full life without . . .” Her cheeks took on color.

He smiled. “Didn’t say that at all. But I’m planning to be married to a lass before we get that far. ’Tis plenty of pleasure to be had other ways in the meantime.”

“So I’ve learned.”

Ah, how he liked that rosy glow on her face. Told him just what she was thinking about, or a few possibilities anyway. Mayhap early this morning in her bed when he’d given her one climax by teasing her nipples alone—turned out that had been possible, gratifyingly so—and two more after that with his face buried between her thighs.

She drew a deep breath, still looking flustered. “But you, married . . .”

He laughed at the doubtful glance she cast him. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

“It’s just hard to envision a man with your . . . profession settling down.” She didn’t have the sound of a lass fishing for what might hook him on the subject, just stating facts as she saw them.

“I’ve been thinking I might be ready to leave it behind for good, the job. ’Tis part of why I’m headed to see my mam and sisters after I’m done here, not just for Aoife’s wedding. I’ve sent most of my pay home to them over the years, but I have some put away too. And I’ll be finding out if there’s a place there for me now there wasn’t when I was a lad. Or that I thought wasn’t. If there is . . .” He shrugged. “Seems natural that I’ll marry too. Someday.”

“I’ll never marry.” Her quick words were unequivocal and . . . defensive?

He was only five-and-twenty, for all he occasionally felt old as Methuselah. She was younger than that by a few years. A young age, mayhap, to make such a pronouncement, but he believed her. He had some good guesses at its foundation.

“I’m sure you have your reasons,” he said softly.

“You aren’t going to try to talk me out of that proclamation, irregular as it is?” Cold amusement hardened her features, briefly rendering her an ice maiden again. Hadn’t been much of that there these past few days.