Page 7 of Bargaining with the Devil

She was shaken, yes, dizzy and nauseated, but not helpless. She marshalled her wits. “Certainly.” She took a step in Beaumont’s direction. He was reloading his rifle. “But I will go nowhere until I know my sister has been notified that I’m safe. I will tell Beaumont so myself.” Her words were sharp even though her voice was hoarse, her throat raw inside.

She understood time was of the essence, that in all likelihood Compton would know very soon that she’d slipped through his fingers, but she would not take a single step farther until she was assured Isobel received word that she was out from under Compton’s thumb.

“You will send word to my sister now,” she rasped to Beaumont. Her voice trembled slightly—her whole body shook still—but she stared Beaumont down so he would not mistake her words for anything but the demand they were.

He held the rifle loosely, but his posture was alert, his eyes intent. “Aye, I’ll see it done as soon as I’m able.”

“Now.” She was not about to be dismissed, even by someone who’d just orchestrated her freedom at risk to himself. “She will be worried.”

Beaumont didn’t argue. He motioned someone forward with instructions to deliver a verbal message to Isobel, then looked back to her, brows lifted.

She nodded her head. He inclined his in acknowledgment before his attention fixed on something behind her.

“This way.” Pereira escorted her down the boulevard, towards a dark-haired man standing beside a fiacre, his hand on the horse’s collar. At their approach, the man moved quickly to open the vehicle’s door, climbing in before turning to extend a hand to her.

She accepted his hand and clambered into the fiacre as quickly as her voluminous skirt allowed. The fiacre was on the small side, its single seat too narrow for two people to ride with any degree of separation given the width of her opera gown, but she settled without hesitation beside him as the fiacre started moving.

He was young, not much older than herself—perhaps. His face was youthful, but something in his eyes wasn’t when he slanted a quick glance towards her. “The name’s Quinn.”

“No doubt you already know mine.” It was more of a croak than she would have preferred, but at least it was easier to inject self-assurance into her voice now that it had stopped shaking.

He smiled at her words but said nothing.

A burning line of pain in her bosom when she rolled her shoulders prompted her to glance down. Several small patches of crimson splotched her primrose gown just below her left breast where the knife had bitten through the bodice’s stiff fabric.

“Looks like ’twill wait, where he nicked you.”

Mr. Quinn’s impassive remark pulled her eyes abruptly back to his face. “I certainly won’t die of it.” She could match his detached tone. “Where are you taking me?” She’d offered, through Isobel, to tell these men all she knew of Compton and his associates should they succeed in getting her away. They would have questions for her, difficult questions. She would have answers.

Difficult answers.

“A small apartment on rue du Parc Royal. ’Tis in quartier du Marais. Blackmore will meet us there. Probably a French agent or two as well.”

“Blackmore?” She rubbed her throat. It was still sore, inside and out. Bruised, probably.

That smile again, not precisely mocking but far from benign. “You met him as Beaumont.” He shifted, and something hard dug into her side: a pistol, which she got a good look at when he took it from beneath his coat to lay casually across his knee.

She looked away from it into light-colored eyes that were also far from benign. “Do you expect trouble?” she asked. Rasped, really. She needed wine to soothe her raw throat and her shot nerves.

“Expect it? Not especially, not after that.” His thigh came fully into contact with her own as he leaned forward, his shoulder nudging hers as he checked the pistol’s priming. “’Twas likely their only play for the moment, there in the square, but ’twould be foolish to be complacent. ’Tis not impossible we’ll be stopped.”

Her stomach lurched. So close to safety and yet still so far.

She meant to be stoic, to give this man no emotion whatsoever—she’d become quite adept at that by necessity—but her unease must nonetheless have shown on her face. He twisted to face her.

“Pereira’s job was to escort you safely from the theater. ’Tis my job to see to it that if anyone stops us, they’ll quickly regret it,” he said, entirely matter-of-fact. “’Twill be my job tomorrow too, seeing you and your sister safely out of Paris and all the way to London. You may rest assured I’ll shoot anyone who tries to stop you leaving.” He might have been discussing the weather rather than promising bloodshed and violence.

And it might have unnerved her once upon a time. Now it only brought her cold comfort. A small measure of faith too, for this was not a man who hid his nature behind polished manners.

“Are you a good shot, Mr. Quinn?”

His mouth curved. “Aye, Miss Muir. I don’t miss when I aim to kill.”

Chapter 4

January 1819

Auchencairn, Kirkcudbrightshire, Scotland