Page 98 of Bargaining with the Devil

She smiled. “You. I’m choosing you.”

Chapter 29

It was anxiety-inducing being thrust into a big social event. For some reason, she’d envisioned coming upon Quinn alone first. Then—if that went well—perhaps meeting a sister or two or his mother. Instead, she found herself introduced to the majority of Dún Laoghaire, or so it seemed, for a Lughnasadh celebration.

The weather was fair, a great boon since it allowed the food and drinks to be set up on trestle tables outside. Wood was stacked nearby, ready for a bonfire later in the evening. And all around, various people were assembling with an assortment of instruments, ready to play.

“’Tis a céilí, like at the Arms, just with a grand fire afterwards,” Quinn had told her when he saw that she’d brought her fiddle. “Will you play?” And she’d agreed she would, for she’d not come all the way to County Dublin to turn coward now.

And the hardest part was over anyway: meeting Quinn’s eyes after six months apart and searching for whatever welcome she’d find there.

That welcome had come quickly in the form of his devil’s smile, which was undoubtedly why she’d forgotten herself sufficiently in front of his youngest sister to remark on his lack of a shirt. Although he was right—she did like it, every bit as much as she had the first time she’d seen him shirtless and every other time after that.

Perhaps more so than that first time, because she’d had her fill of touching his chest soon after. Well, not quite her fill. She’d have more of that soon, she hoped.

Now she stood along the edge of the gathering with Eithne. Eithne ran a finger along her fiddle case. “He told us you play. He says you play beautifully, Ciarán does.”

The words swelled her heart. He’d mentioned that? “Yes. I’ve played since I was small.”

She’d remembered all these months Quinn’s face in the shadows at the Arms. She’d known exactly where he was, even with her eyes closed as she played. She could feel him. And when she’d opened her eyes, his face was the first she saw.

So often these past few months while playing, eyes closed, she’d remembered the smile he’d given her. It wasn’t the smile just this side of mocking or the devil’s smile inviting sin. It wasn’t the tender one, the morning they woke together on Heston Isle.

It was a smile so beautiful it shot straight to her heart and had stayed there ever since.

“Will you play for us tonight?” Eithne’s soft voice pulled her from memory. “I’d love it if you would. I’m learning, myself, when I get the chance, although I don’t have a fiddle of my own. ’Tisn’t often though. Mam can’t spare much right now for lessons.”

She smiled at Eithne, throat still tight. “Of course I’ll play. And perhaps you’ll play something as well if I lend you my violin?”

Eithne beamed. “I have one air down that I can play well enough.”

She’d brought the violin with her because of course she’d been hoping it wasn’t too late for her and Quinn. That she’d be staying. And if she stayed, she’d want the violin here with her.

So why not play tonight, even if it was far more than she’d expected so soon? She’d committed to beginning a new life—or the idea of one—the moment she chose to travel to Ireland. Or perhaps it was before that, on Heston Isle with Quinn, that she’d decided.

Or no, perhaps it was even earlier than that. Perhaps it was the moment she allowed Quinn to carry her over her cottage threshold on the first day of the new year. At the time, she’d not realized that his arrival truly was an omen of good fortune. But now . . .

“I’d love to play a few songs,” she said softly. “And I enjoy taking requests. I might not know the names of airs here.”

Aoife—she thought it was the married twin, Aoife, rather than Aisling—had slid in beside Eithne. “We’ll get you straightened out soon enough.” Aoife’s tone was teasing. “Until we do, play us your favorites.” She clapped her hands. “Miss Muir here from across Muir Éireann will be playing us a tune!”

Her cheeks heated as faces turned towards her, cheerful conversation subsiding into welcoming murmurs as she stepped forward with her fiddle in hand. Quinn caught her eye from across the green where he’d been waylaid into conversation with an older man.

He smiled. And this time it was the tender smile. She’d never quite decided which of his smiles she liked best.

She considered only briefly what tune to play, but there could be none but the one she’d been humming just before Lymington’s attack on Heston Isle. Or, reframing it as she preferred to remember it, just after she had awoken for the first time in Quinn’s arms.

Unlike the night at the Arms, the first time she’d picked up an instrument in months, she didn’t play with her eyes tightly closed. This time, she played for the room. For Quinn, for Eithne, for all the happy and welcoming faces of Dún Laoghaire who stomped and clapped and danced as she played.

And then, amid laughter and good-natured teasing, she’d tried matching names of songs she knew to what they were called in County Dublin, and she’d played several sets of jigs and reels.

She’d have liked to have gone straight to Quinn after, but his sister Gráinne had just arrived with her family. She went instead to stand beside Mrs. Ó Cuinn as another musician stepped forward.

“’Tis a terrible great scar there on your forearm. I noticed it while ye were playing.” Mrs. Ó Cuinn lightly touched her right arm. “’Tis rude of me to mention it though, as if ye aren’t aware it’s there.”

“I don’t mind.” And she didn’t. Her scars were part of her now, proof of survival. “I was . . .” Did his family know anything at all about what he’d done? He’d told her once he’d never tell them about the work he’d done, killing people, but did they know the rest, that he’d been an agent rather than a soldier all these years? She didn’t want to say too much.

They knew he’d met her in Scotland, at least, so that was safe. She wouldn’t mention Lymington or the smugglers unless he did.