Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  Of course he wasn’t in the habit of worrying over the size of his opponents, but if a single man protected an entire castle, small or not, he might be a challenge even for the notorious Earl of Ashmoore, the deadliest gentleman of the ton.

  He smiled at the memory of the night Northwick christened him with the title. He’d knocked unconscious five pugilists in a row before stopping for a drink. And after that drink, he’d taken on ten others. Later, their carriage had been attacked by five well-armed men and he’d insisted on taking on the lot of them himself. His friends had refused, and faced the band by his side, but it was the knife from Ash’s boot and his already bloodied fists that had taken all five men to the ground. None would have died from their wounds but the largest man who refused to cease his attack until he had ceased breathing.

  “Sometimes an animal must be put down,” Stan had said.

  Harcourt had attributed Ash’s ability to Battle Fever that must have still been raging in his blood from the previous bouts.

  Northwick hadn’t cared the why of it. He’d merely been grateful to be standing beside the deadliest gentleman of the ton and not opposite him. And the sobriquet had stuck.

  Perhaps he should merely have it announced at Givet Faux that he was on his way. Perhaps they would flee and leave Northwick sitting on the front steps with a written apology pinned to his coat.

  What a sight that would be!

  Dear God, please let North be alive, he plead for the thousandth time. Let us not be too late!

  He’d nearly forgotten about Stanley and was about to urge his horse to a gallop when he heard his friend rejoining them from behind. Stan’s face was flushed. In fact, he appeared upset.

  Ash glanced over his shoulder to find the dark form of Scotia still trailing them, but a bit further back than she had been.

  “What did you say to her?” he demanded, then hoped he hadn’t sounded as defensive to his friend’s ears as he had to his own.

  “Stubborn. . . Ridiculous. . .” Stan shook his head and took a breath.

  “What did she say?” Harcourt asked, slowing to come alongside their handsome friend.

  Stan rolled his eyes. “How the bloody hell should I know? When I stopped my horse, she stopped hers, refusing to come nearer. When I started toward her—slowly, mind you—she turned her horse and retreated, watching me over her shoulder as she went. When I stopped, she stopped. It is as if there was a long stick between us that would not allow us to get even a step closer than we were.” He frowned at Ash. “You never said she was disfigured. Is there perhaps something wrong with her face that she would be embarrassed to have me see her?”

  Ash shook his head, then laughed. He glanced back again and found her following at exactly the pace of their little band, then he laughed again.

  “Do not take it too much to heart, Stanley,” Harcourt soothed. “It must be that to some women, you are simply too handsome to bear.”

  The jibe served to cheer his fair-haired, too-blessed friend. Harcourt was pleased, as usual, with his own wit. And Ash was pleased his Scotia, whom he determined to stop thinking of as his, had yet to be exposed, face to face, to the perfection that was Stanley, Viscount Forsgreen, the future Duke of Rochester. He also realized how long it had been since the three of them had known a reason to laugh.

  God willing, there would soon be another.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The morning’s ride was tearing Blair apart, but not for the reasons it should.

  Of course she was filled with equal parts hope and dread—hope she was about to find her brother, and dread she was not. But what distracted her was another pairing—a wish and a fear.

  She wished the large one wanted a word with her half so urgently as the blond one did, but apparently her dark visitor had nothing to say to her that morning. Her fear, of course, had everything to do with how angry he must be that she’d gone against his wishes—er, dictates, truth be told. The poor man was simply in the learning stages—learning she did as she damn well pleased.

  No doubt he’d imagined her knitting by the fire in all patience until he got around to remembering her, got around to telling her whether or not he’d found her brother.

  All patience, my arse.

  Of course she’d been treated thusly all her life. No man wants to admit that a woman might defend herself just as well as he could, and in her case, better—except for the previous night’s encounter in her room, when it would have been a shame to harm such a pretty man who wanted nothing more than a conversation. After examining the memory all morning, she could come to no other conclusion for the mercy she showed him. Any other man might have suffered a hot candle to his eye for daring to lay hands to her person or her blade. By all rights, it should have been he who searched frantically for the key, to escape her.

  In the end, he’d turned out to be no different than most men when he’d insisted she allow him to make arrangements for her. Most men wanted to prove she was witless while at the same time proving themselves to be gallant heroes. Most men she’d known were fools.

  The question was, how foolish would these Englishmen turn out to be? When she insisted on accompanying them inside this Givet Faux, would they make a fuss, or not? She could hardly wait to find out.

  Her mount stumbled, then danced to one side. Had it sensed her anticipation?

  It came to a halt, complaining as it did so.

  She quickly unhooked her right knee and slid to the ground on the left, next to a raised hoof. She hoped she’d acted quickly enough, before the animal was badly hurt. Thankfully, the beast stood still while she bent beside it.

  Embedded in the pad of its foot, and held tight by the well-worn shoe, was a large rock with jagged edges that had cut into the pad and drawn blood. She removed the stone. The foot was bruised, the beast in pain and shouldn’t be ridden.

  She patted the leg, then released it. She straightened, then glanced down the road where the three gentlemen, and a fourth—the man they called Everhardt—had stopped at the top of a small rise. They had turned their mounts to face her, most likely when her horse had complained.

  Her difficulty was obvious. The fact she did not remount should have been explanation enough. She could not ride her horse. Which meant she must needs ride behind one of them. They would, after all, arrive in the same place, just as they had every day in the past weeks. Surely they realized. . .

  Ash nudged his horse forward and in doing, nudged her heart into beating rather faster than usual at the thought of sitting so close to him, with her arms around his middle. But after a few steps, he reined his beast to a halt.

  She could nearly hear his thoughts as he thought them.

  If I do not rescue you now, I get what I wanted in the first place.

  She tried to convey her own message with the lift of her chin.

  Ye canna stop me, so I suggest you take me with ye.

  He lowered his own chin, staring at her like a bull preparing to charge, and answered her with a slight, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

  She stomped her foot before she could refrain. Cold water splashed beneath her skirts onto her thick woolen socks, reminding her that acts of temper rarely worked to her advantage.

  She glared back at the man, but shrugged to mask her roiling emotions. She then turned and plucked up a tuft of grass, combined it with a ball of soft mud, and bent next to the horse once again. With one hand, she lifted the foot into view; with the other she pushed the soft mass against the wound. When she was hopeful it would stay in place, she stood and urged the beast forward. By the time she tossed a defiant glare at the men on the hill, they were gone.

  Leading a wounded animal along, it took a good half hour before she caught sight of Givet Faux. The curtain wall of the modest-sized citadel had crumbled away enough to reveal four horses in the bailey. Everhardt stood beside them. The other three Englishmen were nowhere to be seen.

  Blair could hardly beat on the door and demand to be admitted, though she
wished to do just that. Equally unwise would be to interrupt whatever plan the men had hatched between them. The only option to her now was to wait and see if the men emerged with their friend or her brother. The fact they’d left their man outside led her to hope for less violence than she’d envisioned. But neither could she imagine how courtesy might win the day. Of course she prayed they were successful. And if they were, she might even forgive them excluding her.

  Martin was all. If Martin were saved, she could forgive anything.

  She imagined them emerging with her brother and the image gave her permission of a sort, to hope, to believe that Martin was actually inside. She was usually so careful not to get her hopes up, but this place was just too right, too accurate a depiction of the evil fortress housed by men evil enough to take her brother.

  Somewhere from the recesses of her heart, she heard a small warning, like the warbling of a bird, a warning not to expect too much.

  She shook the warning away as she led her poor mount into the trees that ran up the near side of the keep. Of course she would not stand before the steps with her arms flung wide, but she would be close enough to get to her brother quickly, especially if they all came out fighting.

  Finally, she found a deeply shadowed spot from which she could watch the front door and Everhardt. Whatever happened, he would react first. She would have to settle for reacting to him.

  And she waited.

  Everhardt mounted one of the horses. The rains returned and intensified. He dismounted and wedged himself beneath one horse’s neck.

  At least the poor man would have the luxury of one warm shoulder, she thought as she pulled her hood forward, then stood to avoid a small channel of water growing beside her. As for Blair, she was perfectly warm thanks to her tightly woven dress and cloak. The wool repelled the rain and kept all of her warm but the tip of her nose.

  The rains subsided, and still they waited.

  Everhardt had apparently deemed it long enough and pulled a sword from his side, then headed for the entrance.

  Blair’s heart jumped into her throat and she considered calling out to him to wait for her, that she’d join him. But the opening of the keep’s doors froze her feet to the spot.

  She wasn’t brave enough to look, yet she was unable to turn away. The only compromise was to close her eyes slightly, to peek out her wet eye lashes. Her fingers gripped her own arms beneath the cloak, her fingernails biting into her skin, but she could not help herself.

  The blond they called Stanley emerged first and paused at the base of the stairs. The distance was too great to see his expression. His hands were raised, but only because he was pulling on a pair of gloves.

  The second man to emerge was Harcourt. He moved quickly down the steps. Blair had rarely seen the man without a smile on his face, but there was no flash of white teeth as he turned in her direction, headed for the horses. Stanley turned and followed.

  Blair inhaled once, then twice, refusing to think while she waited.

  The tall black form of Ash appeared. He walked slowly, took his time descending the steps. Perhaps he was waiting for his friend and Martin to be brought to him! Behind him, two men emerged, one a great deal larger than the other. They remained by the door. Were they, too, waiting for the others to emerge? Had they been so mistreated they needed help?

  If she had to judge, she would guess the big man at the door to be even larger than Ash. His expression was also unreadable, but she could tell he was watching the dark Englishman closely. Everyone was watching him.

  Instead of turning toward the horses, Ash walked straight ahead to the crumbling wall and took to the steps, that portion of the wall still intact. Once at the top, he put his hands to his hips and surveyed the valley of the River Meuse, as if the keep were his own castle and he was taking some measure of his surrounding kingdom. When he looked her way, her breath caught. It was if he were looking into her soul, as if, through all those trees and shadows, he knew just where she was standing.

  He gave the slightest shake of his head, just as he’d done on the road. He knew her question, and the answer had been no.

  But perhaps this time he was telling her not to show herself. That was reasonable. Perhaps he predicted she would run to Martin’s side. . .

  She shook her own head then, to stop the ridiculous thoughts from multiplying inside it.

  He knew her question. Was Martin inside?

  And the answer was no.

  He didn’t want to tell her face to face because they’d have to agree there was nowhere else to look. And maybe if they never said it aloud, it wouldn’t be true.

  Tears distorted his image, but she would not look away.

  He continued his survey of the hillside, then dropped his arms and descended the damaged steps. Once he was mounted, the four men left Givet Faux without so much as a backward glance. As soon as they disappeared over the rise in the road, Blair numbly turned back to the keep. The smaller man slapped the larger one on the back, then the pair went inside.

  The rain returned, speaking to her in hushed whispers, intent on conveying so much, yet saying nothing. She could think of nothing better to do than listen. The small channel of water at her feet began to grow again and she felt it trickle against the side of her boot, but she couldn’t care enough to move.

  It may have been minutes, it may have been hours, but finally the numbness wore off and she forced herself to look away from the doors from which her brother would not emerge. Martin was not inside. The reunion she’d envisioned would not happen today. It was the same disappointment as yesterday. Nothing had changed.

  And yet, everything had changed.

  “This is our last hope,” came Ash’s deep whisper from the night before.

  “This was your last hope,” the rain mocked as it diluted the salt-water washing down her face.

  If the rain was right, if Martin was lost to her, she was a boat drifting at sea. No sail. No oar. Tied to nothing. Holding to nothing. . .

  Blair looked once more at the crumbling wall, saw again the black-clad figure of Ash, watched the slight move of his head from side to side. Only this time, she imagined him mouthing the words, “No hope.”

  She tried not to think too unkindly of him. She’d run out of hope herself before she’d stumbled upon the men in Reims. Who was she to judge?

  For the past few weeks, it was if she had been living off their faith and determination. They carried both around like giant pockets full of coins. She’d reached in, day after day, to take what she needed. But today, there was no clink of coin upon coin. No use of her asking for more.

  Gone.

  A wave of pain washed up inside her body and when it hit her chest, she crumbled to her knees and silently wailed her brother’s name.

  Martin!

  Martin!

  Why did he not wail back, to tell her where he was?

  Martin!

  She shook her head, pounded her fists on the wet mud, refused to believe he was dead. In her head she screamed her refusal to God and demanded He bring Martin back to her.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her. Delirium. The journey, the quest, had worn her to the bone. She needed sleep. If only she could sleep, tomorrow she could find her head and a direction to search. If she was but a drifting boat, with no Martin for an anchor, she had nothing else to do with her time but search. When she’d allowed herself such thoughts, she’d imagined that if all hope was lost, the searching would cease. But what else was there to do?

  She swallowed and forced down the self-pity that rose like bile from her stomach.

  No. She needed no pity. Just because the Englishmen had given up, did not mean she had to give up as well, aye? If her choices lie between mourning her brother and hoping unreasonably, she would hope unreasonably.

  She closed her eyes to calm herself. In the darkness, she saw again the shake of the dark one’s head. But this time, she denied his pity. He’d best save it for himself.

  “Forgive m
e, Martin,” she said aloud. “A weak moment. But the moment has passed.”

  From the east came a rumble of thunder. She chose to think of it as a fine answer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What gentleman would leave me behind with a lame horse?

  He’d known where she’d been standing. He could have circled back around for her, bloody man.

  Suddenly warmed by ire, she rose to her feet and gave her beast a pat for his patience. Over her shoulder, she heard a squeak and turned.

  The front doors had opened again. She told herself not to expect Martin to walk out of them, but she’d forgotten to tell her heart, which tumbled and fell in her chest when a small dark man emerged. Though she saw no others, he seemed to be arguing with someone just inside. He gestured to the rainy sky, then at his boots. A moment later, his shoulders fell and he turned down the steps. The doors closed behind him.

  He tucked something inside his shirt, grimaced once more at the sky, then struck out for the road on foot. What interested her most was the fact he was walking south, and swiftly, as if he would like to catch up with the men on horseback.

  “Ye’ve as much a chance as I do,” she whispered, and set off in the same direction.

  She moved through the trees the way she’d come, but soon the whinny of another’s horse brought her up short. After a moment of waiting, she moved on carefully, though silence was hardly necessary with the rain knocking about in the leaves.

  A dark chestnut mare stood tethered to a tree. A fine white handkerchief dripped from a branch above its head. If it weren’t raining, the white flag would have been easily seen from the road.

  He hadn’t left her after all.

  As she untied the flag, she gave God thanks the dark little man hadn’t noticed the horse first. She’d traveled approximately a kilometer when she passed the man. He was splashing along in the mud. As she left him behind, he called out to her in French that it was cruel for her to ride away with two horses and leave him in the rain. Of course, it would have been foolish for any woman to stop for a strange man on such an ominous evening, even if she were capable of defending herself; she assumed the man would understand.