Page 61 of Bargaining with the Devil

He shrugged. “’Tis no use trying to talk someone out of a thing, not when ’tis something deeply personal and their mind’s been made up a while.”

“Isobel has tried, more than once, till I made it clear I’d not discuss it further.”

“Ah, but I’m not your sibling.”

Her face softened. “Yes, I’m quite aware,” she said, “and thank God for that.” She laid a hand on his thigh, inches from his cock.

He returned her smile, undecided if he wanted that hand to move up or not. If it did, she’d stop talking. He could ask her questions, sure, but that might only put her defensive walls back up. She’d talk about it if she wanted. He’d pushed and prodded at her on enough other things recently.

She left her hand where it was. “It’s—this.” She drew a deep breath and then expelled it. “I will never put myself into a man’s hands like that. Were I to marry, I would lose the right in the eyes of the law to make decisions for myself. Not that I have a great deal of independence as it is, but with Isobel and Nathaniel, I remain mostly in control of my own life since they won’t go against whatever I wish for myself. I might be beholden upon them for support for the remainder of my life, having no living or inheritance of my own, but it is far better in my mind than the alternative. And they’ll never cast me out or force me to bend my knee to them.”

“A lot of people have it worse than living out their lives with a loving family.” He’d known a lot of men, other rankers like himself, for whom fellow Riflemen were the closest they had to family. He’d been far more fortunate. He’d left of his own accord, sure, for a life that kept him far from County Dublin, but he’d always had a family back home who loved him.

“Yes. I love my sister, and I care deeply for Nathaniel. Even if I were to marry, I’ve known since I was young that I am unlikely to have children of my own due to a childhood illness. So not marrying . . . I won’t miss out on motherhood. Even if I desired it, which I don’t. Perhaps I was unnatural that way even before—everything. Although certainly I adore Rachel and will the new little one as well. Oh! That wasn’t my news to share.” She bit her lip.

“’Tis no great secret. I’d guessed.” The way Blackmore tended to cup his hands across his wife’s midsection every single time he stood behind her had the look of a man anticipating another babe.

Lucy smiled, although it faded. “I owe Issy everything, but I’m also angry with her and I don’t know why. Or rather, I think it’s because I feel like she failed me somehow, like she should have seen what was happening and stopped me from making the mistake of trusting Teddy. And it’s not her fault. I know that. It was entirely mine. But even though I know that, it’s like . . .” Her eyes landed on the knitting she’d laid aside. “There’s a tangle of ugliness in my heart that I haven’t unknotted. And now she’s happy with Nathaniel, with my niece. And I shouldn’t begrudge her it. She has been through trials and tribulations as great as my own. Worse, because she didn’t bring the circumstances on herself like I did mine.”

’Twas arguable, that last point.

“I should be nothing but happy for Isobel,” Lucy continued. “But some days, watching them together, I’m just . . . not. Not the way I ought to be. Or that I want to be.”

And likely she wouldn’t be, not till she and her sister talked it through. ’Twas obvious how much they loved one another, but as Blackmore had told him, there was also a gulf between them after that year of pain that they’d not yet bridged.

“I also feel responsible for our parents’ deaths.” Lucy nearly whispered that. “I know I wasn’t. Maman had been sick for a very long time, and Da had a weakness of the heart. But I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t left like I did, when I did, they might not have . . .” She was tearing up.

“You can’t be sure, a stór. People die every day with less cause and less warning.”

She wiped at her eyes. “I suppose you would know better than most.” There was a touch of dry humor in her voice but no censure. She was trying to lighten the moment, was wanting to move past talk of painful things.

So he’d let her. “I know something else.” He gave her the smile that always had her biting her lip in a few seconds.

She raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.” And bit her lip.

He leaned in close. “I know you’re thinking about kissing me.”

“Oh?” She looked at him through her lashes. “You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Well, if you’re not—” He leaned in all the way, setting his hands on her shoulders. “You should be.”

She made an amused noise in her throat but didn’t hesitate at all, lifting her mouth to his.

After he’d kissed her thoroughly, he pulled her into his arms, leaning against the settee back with her against his chest. ’Twas nice just to rest a minute with his eyes closed.

Only she wasn’t so restful herself.

“You weren’t born a killer,” she said abruptly. “I’m certain of it.”

That brought his eyes open in a hurry. ’Twas hard to follow sometimes, the convoluted turns her mind took, but ’twas to be expected, mayhap. Not unlike after they’d kissed the first time and she’d turned to whisky, trying to set her bad memories alongside him.

He settled on a simple, “No,” because ’twas true. He’d not started life that way.

“I’m certain you never . . . picked the wings off butterflies.” She swallowed hard like the words had almost choked her.

’Twas a very specific image, that. And rather horrifying. Mairéad and Gráinne loved butterflies.

He left the phrasing alone for the moment to answer the question she’d not quite put into words.