Page 67 of Bargaining with the Devil

A few people recited verse; Robert Burns’s works, mostly. Mrs. Blackmore had brought a lap harp, and she sang to great acclaim while playing several songs. There was a fiddler and some other assorted musicians as well.

By the look of her skirts moving, Lucy was tapping her toe to a jig, and her body was swaying ever so slightly to the music as the fiddler played, someone accompanying him with a tin whistle and another with something percussive.

She’d danced with that shitehawk Garnewood once upon a time. ’Twas a simple pleasure he’d sullied for her, dancing. Not as egregious as some of what Garnewood had stolen but a shoddy memory nonetheless.

Mayhap ’twas something he could do for her. Not erase the past but layer something new over it.

He made up his mind when the fiddler launched into a reel, setting the audience clapping and the room in motion with merriment. “May I have this dance, Miss Muir?” He made an elaborate parody of a courtly bow.

She smiled. “Do you even know how to dance, Mr. Quinn?”

He gave her a friendly smirk. “Never claimed to dance well, but aye, I can dance.”

“In that case . . .” She made him a half curtsy and regally extended a hand. “I accept. Will my feet regret it later?”

“No promises there, a mhuirnín, except I won’t drop you.”

She laughed. “I suppose that’s something, at least.”

’Twas true he’d never learned to dance formally; ’twasn’t like the Rifles provided lessons in deportment and socializing between drill and other responsibilities, but he’d attended many céilithe as a child. ’Twas also something that came naturally after a minute or so, catching a rhythm from the music and dipping and twirling Lucy in his arms.

Others in the room were dancing too, with varying proportions of skill versus enthusiasm, but ’twas lively and crowded. ’Twas a bit of a pretext, pulling her in closer when another couple passed close by, but she looped an arm around his neck, the other up across his back, and pressed against him.

She was smiling, color in her face, eyes sparkling, hair escaping from the twist she’d put it in so that an errant curl or two fell halfway down her back, and he just whirled her faster until she was laughing, clinging to him as she followed his lead.

’Twas how she should always be, warm and lively, the ice melted and every bit of her present.

When the reel ended, he brought her to a stop and then sketched a bow over her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips.

“You may not have learned from a dancing master,” she said, her smile lingering, “but I don’t remember ever enjoying a dance so much.” She curtsied again. “Thank you, Mr. Quinn.”

“’Tis my pleasure, Miss Muir.”

“My hair is a terrible mess.” She touched it self-consciously, still smiling.

“Tá tu go hálainn.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

He gave her a smile but didn’t translate. ’Twas fine if this particular Gaeilge didn’t match her Gaelic.

“You probably told me I look like I’ve been rolling about in a meadow.” She was gathering in the loose tresses, working them back into the twist on the base of her head. “And justifiably so.”

’Twasn’t at all what he’d said, but he only smiled again.

A commotion over by the musicians had him quickly turning his head, seeking out the source. He had a hand on the knife in his shirt sleeve before he realized ’twas just an accident in the crowd. Someone had stumbled into the fiddler, knocking him down. Looked like he’d caught himself on the floor, unthinking, and was now shaking out his left arm a bit.

The fiddler grimaced. “I dinnae think I can play any further. My arm is tae sore.”

Murmurs of disappointment passed through the crowd.

“Stop yer apologizing, Archie,” the fiddler said to the man who’d stumbled into him. “Buy me a pint for me pain. And if anybody wants tae step up,” he added, “they can hae the use o’ me fiddle.”

Mr. Bairden glanced around. “Would be braw, th’ nicht, wi’ a wee bit more fiddle music.”

Lucy still stood in front of him, just outside his arms. Emotions chased across her face at Mr. Bairden’s remark. There was indecision there, but also painful longing. She looked over her shoulder to where Mrs. Blackmore stood. The speaking look her sister gave Lucy was no doubt more complicated than he could know, but he certainly had a guess or two what it conveyed.

And then Lucy’s eyes settled on him. ’Twas likely the echo of their conversation was in her mind; ’twas in his, certainly.