Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  “Come,” he repeated and stepped back.

  It was just enough room. She brought up her knee with unrepentant force. He yanked on her wrist, pulling her to one side as he turned his body in the opposite direction, but it could not save him. At least, not all of him.

  It could have been surprise, as much as pain, that made him release her. Two steps and a leap put her on the horse’s back. After she was well out of his reach, she dared a glance over her shoulder and found the man standing, but bent, with his hands on his knees. Standing was a fine thing; he’d be able to get out of the cold at least.

  She slowed her horse and could not resist one last taunt.

  “Go home. Go home and remove yer hands from all things Scottish, aye?”

  His head snapped up and even though she was turning away, she feared his glare was far too familiar.

  I only imagined it, she thought, while her clever mount wove through the trees for which she had no attention. The other one, the man who haunted her dreams and stole her sleep, would have no business in Scotland, surely.

  Unless. Her heart tripped at the thought of it. Unless he came looking for me.

  BONES FOR BREAD

  The Scarlet Plumiere Series: Book 2

  By L. L. Muir

  AMAZON KINDLE EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Ivy & Stone

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  Bones for Bread © 2013 Lesli Muir Lytle

  All rights reserved

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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  Dedication

  To Dorothy

  For your honesty of life,

  your blindness in love,

  and for passing it all down.

  You are my hero.

  PROLOGUE

  The Pipe and Spittle, Brigadunn, Scottish Highlands, 1816

  The nervous wench set a pint just within his easy reach and scurried away like a wee mousie from a cat.

  He snorted. It must have been his rare-seen smile that frightened her, but he couldna hide his glee for all the tryin’ in the world. Though the rain be fallin’ sideways on the far side of the tavern door, it was a fine, fine day indeed.

  He took a celebratory swig and used his sleeve to wipe the bubbles from his stubbled lip. The course cloth of it dragged across his face and he grimaced. If any man in Brigadunn deserved to wear finer clothes, it was he. But he couldna walk away from the role he played, at least not for a wee while anyhow.

  But soon.

  Soon.

  He took another drink and let the suds alone, avoiding a second reminder of the rags he wore, favoring a happier thought.

  He couldna understand why the Fates would deal so generously with him. After all, he was a ruthless man down to the bottom of his boots. He’d spilled more blood than Paddy had spilled beer, and truth be told, there was a time he would have let his own mother freeze if it meant her shawl would earn a bit of silver. So why would his enemy be delivered into his hands like a boon from Heaven?

  As the warm drink disappeared down his gullet, he wondered at what sort of pagan god might have taken notice of him. What noble service might he have performed, accidentally, that would inspire some deity to bless him?

  He could think of nothing. Truly.

  Perhaps he was favored for being such an enterprising man. Wasn’t it written in The Bible that God preferred a soul who could help himself? So mayhap it had naught to do with the Fates, and all to do with God using a mortal arm to exact a bit of vengeance on the wicked—or at the very least, a man as ruthless as he.

  A sign is what it was.

  God was delivering his enemy to his very doorstep. What choice did he have but to do God’s will? If he and the Almighty were of a mind, there was a tree somewhere in the glen destined to feel the weight of the Right Honorable Earl of Ashmoore.

  Or rather, his lordship’s weight and then some, for don’t a body weigh a bit more when it be swingin’?

  He laughed when he imagined the look on Lord Ashmoore’s face when he realized not all his enemies lay in France.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The North of France, two years before. . .

  They’re coming!

  Blair swung her heavy plaid skirts into an alley as the three English gentlemen stepped out of the tavern, their faces pinched in frustration and not from the glare of the afternoon sun. She was fair certain she wore the same expression—since she sought the same people they sought, their bad luck was hers to share.

  She held her breath as they passed by, headed for their horses. Their steps were sharp and nearly in unison, as if they’d marched together so often that walking in cadence was a habit. Just as it was her heart’s habit to speed its rhythm as she anticipated getting caught.

  For weeks, she’d observed the men, followed each errand, and listened in on every conversation she could. Sometimes accompanied by a common man, the three had combed a full circuit of the moderate town surrounding the Chateau de Sedan, with Blair following at a careful clip. And it had come to nothing.

  What they all needed was a fresh wind of hope to fill their sails. And if they didn’t get some soon, she wondered how much longer she could keep trailing behind them, hoping they could see something she could not.

  The gentlemen had just met with Etienne MacDonald, the Marshal of France himself. The aging man had sworn upon his life that if hostages were being held near his beloved Sedan, he would know it. They’d taken the man’s word and decided to look elsewhere.

  Her eyes closed against the wave of disappointment pushing at her breast. The medieval chateau had looked so imposing, so sinister. She could easily imagine a large dungeon where hostages were locked away until their ransoms were paid. Even easier to imagine was the marshal filling the role of villain—but only until he’d spoken. There was nothing but honesty in his speech. Nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and he’d not even been looking her way.

  Damn the man.

  Her heart was weary, her body as weak as the soup she’d hovered over while eavesdropping. But the image of her brother, suffering in some bastard’s pit, prodded her on. If she allowed her mind to dwell on the fact that his ransom date had come and gone, she wouldn’t be able to keep her legs beneath her. Better to keep them moving, aye?

  She sighed and peeked out of the alley. It was safe to follow.

  If the men moved their arses, they could all return to their rooms in Charleville before the gloami
n’. Rather than leave first and risk missing some detour, however, she had no choice but to wait and follow. But oh, how she wished she could collect her horse and give it its head. How she longed to scream her frustrations to the wind as it whipped her cloak out behind her and dried her tears even as they fell.

  Instead, she would follow from a wee distance, as she had for more than two weeks now. And no doubt she’d end the day with picking her way along the dark streets of Charleville, hoping her feminine form would be none too obvious, hoping she would never need to clear her blade from her skirts and harm anyone. Though, today harming someone might be just the thing to soothe her spirits.

  The gentlemen turned into the livery and she counted to twenty before she crossed the street to the less reputable looking stables where she’d left her own mount. She could have patronized the more respectable business, but it would do no good rubbing shoulders, even casually, with these men. They had proven to be more wary than most, and she was a mite surprised they hadn’t confronted her by now. They’d noticed her in their shadows. There were far too many glances in her direction to be accounted for otherwise. But perhaps they failed to see her as much of a threat.

  She was not a threat, of course, to anyone but those who’d taken her brother. To them, she would be the Angel of Death. They would not be the first men she’d killed, but they might be the first to be deserving. It would be easier if they were deserving. Surely, they wouldn’t be allowed to haunt her if they were villains of which the world was well rid.

  As they often did, the faces of those men she’d felled in battle rose to the fore of her mind and waited for her to bid them leave. But this time, she shook them away with a single toss of her head. She was weary enough for one day.

  Thankfully, they didn’t hang about to argue.

  As Blair came around the corner, the stable hand jumped to his feet, but relaxed when he noted it was her. The slow considering look he gave her, from toes to nose, would have made most women turn tail and run. She was not most women.

  The fool took a bold step toward her.

  She took a menacing step toward him.

  “My horse,” she said firmly, not taking her gaze from his. “Now.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She narrowed hers.

  Amused, he waited.

  She gave him nary a blink.

  Finally, he dropped his chin in a half nod, then did as he was bid.

  She mounted before reaching for his payment—a single coin she fished from a small pocket in her cloak. She couldn’t help but smile at his disappointment, that he’d heard no chime of other coins on her person. There was no use of him asking for more.

  She tossed his payment in the air. He released the bridle in order to catch it, and she turned the beast to go.

  By the time she reached the street, she could still see the last two gentlemen riding out of town. Had the larger man taken a grand lead? Or was he still about? Had they sickened of being followed and meant to confront her on the road between them?

  Her mount shifted its weight beneath her while she considered. But if she wished to reach Charleville—base camp, so to speak—she could not dally long. She drew a deep breath, huffed it out. Then she nudged her horse, urged it to the right, and entered the eastern flow of carts. She rode two blocks before turning, then continued a block to the north and turned west.

  She sensed no one behind her as she left Sedan, but her imagination summoned myriad possibilities in her mind. By the time she reached Charleville, her head was fair spinning with foul deeds that might have happened along the road, leaving her spent and wearier for it. She would need to find a way to bridle her imaginings, however, for as soon as she found her brother and got him safely returned to Scotland, she was going to be alone for a fine long time. For it was certain she wouldn’t be returning with him.

  She’d never be welcome home again, but Martin would. And didn’t young Finn need someone besides their aging father to look after him?

  She entered Charleville long after the sun had set. Her grasp of time had been far afield all the week. But at least the buildings here were familiar to her. And well they should be, after a month of coming and going, first on her own, then following the Englishmen. For weeks she’d searched the area around Charleville, finding nothing. Then, when the English had arrived, themselves searching for kidnappers, she’d felt in her soul she was in the right place. But their two weeks of searching had turned up no more than hers had.

  So frustrating, like looking for a lost shoe near its mate. You know it’s there. It has to be there. But for all the looking, you canna see it.

  Behind her, a foot shuffled against the cobbled road and she saw in her mind a figure made of shadow rising up to steal her away to some faery hill.

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered. Wasn’t it always herself who chided her fellow Scots against wasting their lives with foolish superstitions? Of course it was. If they could but see her now, shaking and silly over childish fancies, they would chase her from the village.

  She forced her mind onto pleasanter thoughts. Again, a dark figure rose in her imagination. This one was not so sinister, but made her heart race at the same clip. The Englishman in black. The tall one who could wrap her neatly in his arms and pull her into the recesses of his soul if she wasn’t careful.

  She could not resist glancing around her, wondering—if he appeared, there, in the dark street behind her—would she run?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blair left her horse in the hands of a capable lad, then walked through the rear entrance to the Hotel Place Ducale. Although she had rented a room in the same establishment as the Englishmen, there was little risk of rubbing shoulders with them there; they’d let a suite of rooms on the second floor, she’d let a small maid’s room on the ground floor for which she was charged no mouse fee. After all, who could guarantee there would be no vermin below stairs?

  She was relieved to see all three of the gentlemen’s horses being wiped down in the yard. The men, she expected, were tucked in nicely at the auberge around the corner where they usually took their meals—and their libations. The wise thing to do would be to follow them there, to eavesdrop on their next plan, but she was wilted as a thirsty thistle and wanted only her bed.

  The disappointment of the day was tugging at her heart and if she got to sleep quickly, she might avoid her now-regular nightmares. And another day would bring another chance at finding Martin.

  No matter how discouraged the Englishmen were at night, they were always up with the sun with a new plan, a new place to look, a new lead to follow. They had yet to fail her since the day they’d arrived in Reims, the day she’d realized they, too, were searching for kidnappers in the area. And because she had run out of leads herself, she’d attached herself to their tailcoats—from a distance, of course—and thanked God she had been given new hope of finding her brother. All she needed to do was keep them in sight and pray they succeeded where she had failed.

  Heaven forgive her, she was even too tired for proper prayer. Tonight, she would have to leave the worrying to her trio of heroes.

  When the attendant mumbled a greeting, Blair found herself leaning on the polished hotel desk, staring into a faraway corner.

  The fellow looked down his nose at her, as he’d done each time she’d asked for the key to her room. Apparently he could not forgive her for that first night when he’d suggested he join her in her room for a drink—and she’d laughed. But tonight, there was a bit of a sneer to one side of his nose.

  He placed her key on the counter, then pulled his hand back quickly, as if he were afraid she might touch him. What she was tempted to do, if she weren’t so weary, was to free Wolfkiller from its sheath, slice the nasty man’s cravat in half, then sheath the blade beneath her skirts before the man could catch a flash of candlelight. For the time being, she would simply have to enjoy the fact that she could do it.

  She scooped up the key and laughed as she walked away, surpr
ised she had the strength for even that.

  The single sconce in the servant’s hallway had not been lit. Her room would be the fourth on the left, far enough into the darkness to give her pause. If it were any other day, she might insist the attendant come light the way for her, just to cause him bother, but with her small haven so near, she could feel her pluck quickly draining from her. Her legs wobbled to get her attention—they would get her to the door and no further. A walk back to the lobby was out of the question.

  No matter. She could feel her way. And getting the key in the lock would be a simple trick. She’d done it dozens of times. She could do it in the dark.

  Blair walked into the shadows and reached out for the wall, counting the doors as she passed them.

  One.

  Two.

  There should be a table.

  There was.

  Three.

  Four.

  She couldn’t bluster away the image of that shadowy creature standing behind her yet again, lying in wait for the moment she would turn her attention to unlocking her door. Her heart jumped and bumped in her chest as she struggled to find the keyhole. She’d expected the task to be so much easier.

  Finally, the key slid home and she turned it. Refusing to act the ninny, she walked quietly inside and closed the door behind her, as if a scream wasn’t building in her chest and demanding to be released.

  Locking the door in the dark was a simple feat. She blew out her breath in controlled silence, then pressed her back to the door. Her hood was heavy as she lifted it from her hair and pushed it onto her shoulders. Next, she freed a heavy comb from her nape and shook her head, welcoming the cool air into her curls.

  “So,” came a dark voice from beside her. “Vous este une femme.” You are a woman.

  As she jumped away, her hand went immediately to her skirt pocket. Her fingers stretched through the hole inside which led to a scabbard secured to her thigh. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt of Wolfkiller, but before she could pull the blade free, hands grasped at her, then arms descended around her, encircling her, holding her arms to her sides.