Page 90 of Bargaining with the Devil

Mrs. Blackmore had handed Rachel over to him when he offered, giving him a lengthy look when she did. She still had some reservations where he was concerned, looking out for Lucy, but ’twas only what he’d expect from a loving family, particularly given all they’d endured.

Turned out Blackmore had promised a game of chess anyway to the boy, Edmund, facing off against Pereira.

Blackmore and Pereira were both excellent chess players. Himself, he couldn’t play at all. He understood the basics well enough; ’twasn’t that. He just never got the knack for predicting the board several moves ahead. Truth be told, he hadn’t much interest in it, but he’d had a few enjoyable times on an assignment in the Pyrenees watching Blackmore and Pereira battle it out.

Edmund sat very close to Pereira, leaning a bit against his shoulder. ’Twas surprisingly domestic, that. An excellent colleague, was Pereira, but always holding himself at a bit of a distance, more than the rest of them did.

Pereira set an arm around Edmund’s shoulders and spoke softly into his ear while pointing out the positioning of several pieces, both his own and Blackmore’s. Edmund nodded earnestly.

Across the room, Mrs. Blackmore and Lucy sat quietly with Eva. Lucy was wan still, coughing at times with a voice that was too husky, but she was brighter today.

All in all, ’twas a tranquil scene. ’Twas a long time since he’d been a participant in such a scene. He felt rusty at it and a bit restless but also . . . Content was a good way to sum it up. Although ’twas not pure contentment, for he wasn’t part of this family—either family—and his own was still far away. For the moment, he was part of their circle though.

Only for the moment. Best keep reminding myself I’ll be moving on soon.

Beneath the contentment was also a pang of . . . Not guilt, quite. But ’twas a fact that somewhere today, there were families having quiet moments of their own, missing someone who’d once shared their hearth, ended by his hands. ’Twas a weight there, framing the outcome of his work like that. One he wasn’t used to feeling.

Rachel shifted in her sleep and made a sort of cooing sound. Her face in sleep had finally relaxed out of its scowl. He got her situated a bit more comfortably against his shoulder.

The women were all looking his way. He smiled, and they returned it. Lucy’s eyes stayed on him a moment more before she smiled again and looked back to whatever her sister was saying.

What they wanted for the future was never going to align. Her almost dying hadn’t changed that any. They’d already said what there was to say.

The longer he stayed here, the more ’twould hurt them both. The danger was past, had kept him here. No reason at this point to distrust the local free traders, although it went without saying Blackmore would remain on his guard. Blackmore was more than capable of handling anything small with the authorities that might pop up in the wake of Lymington’s demise.

If he’d learned one lesson in his lifetime, ’twas that the things a person wished most for were often not things they’d ever have. Best to accept that and make plans based on what was possible rather than mourning what wasn’t. ’Twas his philosophy, anyway, and it had served him well through the years. Why did it feel less than useful now?

When he’d get teased over being bastard-born, Mam used to tell him, Control what ye can, Ciarán a mhic. Ye can’t control any but yourself. The rest must sort themselves out without ye.

Rachel made a smacking noise, and her eyes fluttered open. She babbled a couple of syllables and patted his cheek with the damp fingers she’d just removed from her mouth. He smoothed a hand over her hair as she pushed herself up on his chest and turned her head, searching the room for her parents.

A few weeks hence, mayhap he’d be holding the little niece or nephew he’d never met. ’Twas a grand thought, that. He’d hold on to it with both hands.

’Twas time for him to be leaving here.

Unreasonable panic had ahold of her as she set off for the path down to the shore. She couldn’t sit talking with Isobel and Eva, couldn’t quietly knit or read a book, couldn’t remain in the cottage.

He’s leaving.

Leaving in the morning. Nathaniel had just said so.

The cottage door opened behind her, then closed again. She glanced back just once so Quinn would know she’d seen him.

Rather than with sound, his presence behind her announced itself as pressure in her chest, her throat closing, tension in her limbs. His footfalls were silent, but he’d always been silent as a predator when he wanted to be. Except he wasn’t a predator, or he wasn’t only that.

She was trembling head to toe when she finally stopped, turning to face him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” he said softly. “But I think you already know that.”

Yes. That was what had sent her out here.

He took a couple of steps closer, near enough he could have taken her hands . . . but he didn’t.

“I could stay, aye, hoping in time you’ll feel differently. Or worse, wearing you down with my own wants till you give in.” He swallowed hard. “’Tis no kind of future, a rúnsearc. One of us settling, the other a little more hollowed out every day by knowing that.”

She had no words to reply. There was nothing she could say. He’d made up his mind . . . and he was right too, which was almost worse in its way.

“I’ll miss you, a rúnsearc. Every day. But I can’t stay here. Even without Aoife’s wedding . . .” His throat moved. “I can’t stay, wanting something that can’t be.”