Page 88 of Bargaining with the Devil

He’d had physical demands worse than this day’s, sure, those years in Wellington’s army. And he was hardly an old man yet, but he’d breathed in a fair amount of smoke. ’Twasn’t only the physical aspect exhausting him though. ’Twas the mental part, weighed him down the most.

He was reluctant to have Lucy out of his sight, no matter what his job was and no matter that she was in good hands with the doctor and Mrs. Blackmore to tend her. He’d have far rather been sitting with the woman he’d pulled out of the burning cottage than making a written report about it in triplicate.

’Twas the job though. And mayhap the last time he’d ever have to make things right with some local law entity, with written reports for London besides.

Walking back to Blackmore’s home after their session with the constable, they crossed ways with the doctor heading back into Auchencairn. Blackmore stopped him a minute to confer before catching back up.

“He says Lucy will recover,” Blackmore said, “although she’ll likely not feel well for a time yet. She took in a lot of smoke. He’s left directions with Isobel for her care and will come back tomorrow to check on her.”

He was anxious to see Lucy for himself, regardless of what the doctor had to say. ’Twasn’t just the smoke she’d be contending with nor even the matter of Lymington nearly killing her and burning her home up in the process. She’d killed a man, knifed him at close range. And even if ’twas to save herself, ’twas still death coming at her hands. But mayhap she wasn’t even thinking about that yet, not with the smoke making her sick.

As he and Blackmore came in, Eva smiled their way although it dimmed quickly. “Isobel is with Lucy. I was just about to bring this upstairs—tea steeped with honey. Unless one of you would care to?”

Blackmore looked askance at him. “Quinn, if you’ll please let Isobel know I’m waiting for her down here.”

Tactful, that. He accepted the tray from Eva.

It looked a moment like Mrs. Blackmore considered arguing about leaving Lucy, but in the end, she just took in a measured breath before squeezing Lucy’s hands and leaning in to kiss her cheek. She gave him a searching look on her way past.

Lucy, clad in a night rail and tucked mostly beneath a blanket, was very pale, eyes partway closed, although she tilted her head to look at him, a small smile curving her lips. Her hands rested atop the covers, a bandage covering the burn on her right arm.

“Quinn,” she whispered.

He set the tray on the bedside table and sat in the chair Mrs. Blackmore had just vacated. “How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better.” Her voice was a rasp. “But I’ve also been worse. Far worse.”

He searched her eyes. She was ill, aye, but present, wholly present with him. There was no distance there, nothing vacant or frozen.

“What happened this morning?” he asked quietly.

“As you’ve eyes to know the crofter’s cottage burned, you surely don’t—” She broke off, coughing. “—don’t mean that.” Her voice was weak but with some of its usual irony.

“With Lymington. His death.”

“He left my arms free because he wanted me . . . to struggle. To be able to struggle. It . . . amused him.”

He was exhausted, and the man was already dead. Didn’t make the flush of anger any gentler.

“The knots were too tight. I tried . . .” She swallowed, a hand going to her throat.

He passed over the tea, keeping a hand cupped under hers to steady her but also because he wanted to touch her, reassure himself a little.

“And then I remembered your knife. That you’d perhaps left it.” She took another sip and then passed the cup back, closing her eyes briefly as she settled back against the pillows.

He wasn’t careless with his knives. What knife of mine⁠—

The one he’d forced into her hand, that she’d dropped. ’Twasn’t like him, to be so negligent with a blade, but he hadn’t been at his best mentally. ’Twas a bad pairing, emotion and the work he did. Lack of the former kept him from making mistakes in the latter. Look where high emotion led, him leaving a knife careless on her cottage floor.

Except possibly she’d be dead if he hadn’t. As her cottage burned around her, she’d picked up that knife, and she’d stuck it in Lymington.

Except . . . Lymington was never going to stay in that cottage and burn with her. If she’d kept the knife even a minute longer, Lymington would have been gone.

“Why did you not use it to free yourself, a mhuirnín?”

“I didn’t intend to drop it.” Her voice was raspy but still tart. She reached up and set a hand along his jaw, a trace of a smile flitting across her lips. “He said that once he was sure the cottage was burning, he’d—” She broke off, wheezing. “He’d go hunting. He had a pistol. I drew—” She coughed. “Drew him in . . . Angered him enough to come close.” She coughed again.

He forced himself to release her hand long enough to pass her the teacup again.