Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  Blair gifted her frail friend with the sweetest smile she could muster. They grinned at each other like idiots for a long moment.

  “My Lord Northwick,” she finally said.

  He pulled back from her. “Here now, I’ve been warned you grant no man title. You are up to mischief.”

  She shrugged. “Did they perchance tell ye that if not for my information, they wouldn’t have found ye yet?”

  He frowned. “They said something to that effect.”

  “So, in truth, ye owe me yer life, ye might say.” She rolled her eyes coyly.

  He nodded. “Indeed, I do, my lady. As I said, I owe you all.”

  She smiled at the honor he’d given without pause.

  “I would thank you in whatever way would make you happy, I assure you,” he said simply. She waited for conditions, but he added none.

  She gained her feet as ladylike as possible considering her breeches. “I already have a promise from Stanley, that he’ll see to it my brother is helped as far as Inverness. It would make me happy if you and all your friends would support the story that I died.”

  Northwick laughed. “Do you realize Stanley is Viscount Forsgreen, His Grace, the future duke of Rochester?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. I’ve been eavesdropping for weeks.”

  “Ah.” He laughed again.

  She pointed to Wolfkiller. “It would also make me happy if you gave this to my brother when you tell him. It will help convince him that I’m dead. Tell him I died of a fever. I won’t have him torturing himself, thinking I’d died trying to rescue him.”

  “Done.” His head bowed briefly, but solemnly.

  “Will ye fair well enough, if I leave ye here?”

  He waved her away. “Ash will be back shortly, have no fear.”

  She bent and kissed the man on the cheek, then looked to the trees. Without a horse, she needed to move fast.

  “And what shall I tell him?” North asked quietly. Apparently he was grateful enough not to raise a hue and cry if she fled.

  She considered for a moment. A dozen silly possibilities went through her head, but she discarded all but three.

  “Tell him. . .tell him I was never the enemy. That he should wear a white shirt at least on the Blue Moon. Tell him I had to leave because. . .because I have many more men to taste.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ash had everyone mounted and loaded and still they hadn’t returned.

  If she was suffering another bout of wailing, she would have to finish along the way. He was done with waiting.

  He stomped through the trees to give her enough notice to compose herself, but as he crested the little rise he saw Northwick lying on the ground with a smile on his face. But Scotia was nowhere in sight!

  As he bent over his friend, he noticed the Viking blade at his side and relaxed. Surely the lass would never have left without it.

  “Northwick. Wake up, man.” He held out a hand when North’s eyes opened, then pulled him gently to his feet before collecting the weapon. “Where is Scotia?”

  North smiled, but the smile dropped away along with Ash’s stomach.

  “She’s gone, Ash. I’m sorry. She asked for a boon and I had no choice but to grant it.”

  Denial came easy. “She wouldn’t leave without her weapon, surely. And a horse. She wouldn’t be so foolish. . .” But then again, she’d believed he was going to execute her. Any smart woman would have run. He was the foolish one, not to have expected it.

  He found it hard to breathe and turned away so North wouldn’t notice. He searched the trees, trying to guess which way she’d gone. Even in thick woods, he could catch up to her quickly on horse. He’d beg her forgiveness. She’d grant it. They’d embrace for an hour or so, then they’d join the others on the road. He just had to get Northwick back to the others.

  “She had a message,” North said as Ash wrapped an arm around him.

  “And what was that?”

  “She said to tell you she was never the enemy.”

  Ash grunted, refusing to admit what he’d believed one way or the other, for it was true, he’d gone back and forth on the matter a hundred times.

  “Did she tell you how she knew how to find you and her brother?”

  “No. But I admit I never asked.”

  Ash grunted again.

  At the top of the rise, he paused for North’s sake.

  “There is more,” his friend said. “She suggested you wear a white shirt at least once in a blue moon.”

  Ash laughed. The fact that she’d thought it right for him to wear a white shirt gave him the ridiculous impression that she saw something redeemable in him. It was also a fact that until that moment, he hadn’t realized why he’d always felt most comfortable in black clothing. And waving from the rear of his thoughts was the idea that if this woman could forgive him for misjudging her, then some minor mercies might also be within his reach. Of course, he’d have to find her first.

  He sobered, remembering his friend was watching him closely. “Anything else?”

  North grinned, then grimaced, then grinned again. The truth be told, Ash was glad to see the man enjoying himself, even at his own expense.

  “Tell me,” he said, then reached for North’s arm so they could get moving.

  North evaded him. “I think I’ll stand back a bit while I tell you.”

  Ash folded his arms and waited, feigning patience. He toed the fragile start of a pine tree pushing its way out of the dirt.

  “She said she had to leave. . .” North took another step back. “God as my witness. . .because she has many more men to taste.”

  In one long step, Ash closed the distance and grabbed North’s shoulders. He then turned his friend to face the way they’d come.

  “Which way did she go, North?”

  His friend laughed.

  “Which way!”

  Eventually, North got hold of himself and pointed.

  Ash left him teetering on the knoll.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Two years later, Scotland

  “I regret to report, Laird Ashmoore, that yer stock was taken last eve.” Allen Balliol stood with hat in hand, though to Ash he did not appear the least bit regretful. Balliol had been making himself at home in the manor when Ash had arrived a week ago to take control of the cursed Scottish property. Being demoted to the position of shepherd had perhaps soured the man’s disposition. But no matter.

  Ash raised a brow. “I am sorry to hear that, Balliol. Pray allow the Frenchwoman to see to your wounds.”

  The man laughed, as did his two sons, one perhaps twenty years, the other half as old.

  “I received no wounds, sir. They trussed me up, but dared not harm me. I supposed ye’re unaware that Balliol is a royal family north of Hadrian’s wall. . .yer lairdship.” Balliol’s chest lifted, as did his nose.

  “Then allow the woman to treat the damage done by the ropes.” Ash gestured toward the kitchens where the Frenchwoman, Fantine, proved daily that she was just as talented a cook as she was a healer.

  Balliol frowned and waved his wrists in front of him. “No damage.”

  Ash folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. The older son took a step back, but his father stood his ground. The young one merely looked back and forth between them all as if expecting entertainment.

  “So. You did not try to liberate yourself? To raise a cry?” Ash took a threatening step forward, which usually sent men running. The fact that Balliol remained unaffected, after losing a hundred head, meant the Scot would need to be cowed another way. Ash would have to make an example of him in order for the rest of his sojourn in Scotland to be relatively peaceful. For peace was what he’d come for, no matter what his friends back in London believed.

  Balliol rolled his eyes and smirked. “I dared not struggle.”

  “I thought you said they would dare not harm you,” said Ash.

  The older son glanced nervously behind him, at the open doorway. Th
e young one laughed. His father clouted him on the ear, though gently. And in the doing, Balliol exposed his weakness.

  “It be The Highland Reaper’s men that took ‘em,” the older man said with a roll of his eyes. “None can be expected to fight against The Reaper. Ye’ll learn that soon enough.”

  Actually, I will not be the one learning today.

  Ash looked at the boy. “Your name, son. What is it?”

  “This is me own lad, Finn.” Balliol took half a step to the side, clearly ready to protect the boy.

  Ash looked at the nervous one. “And you?”

  Balliol answered again. “Me oldest, Martin. Fought against Napoleon. Came home a hero.”

  Martin blanched. Ash would wager the young man had either told his father tales, or the father lied on his behalf. As expected, the question served to get the man’s attention off the younger one.

  “Come here, Finn.”

  The boy stepped forward eagerly, oblivious to his father’s grasping fingers.

  Ash took the lad’s shoulder, led him to his side, then turned him so they both faced his father.

  “Finn Balliol,” he said, “you are my hostage until my animals are returned. Do you understand?”

  The boy’s eyes widened as he took in the significance of the hand on his shoulder. Then he looked at his father, whose face was rapidly turning purple. Finally, he looked up at his captor and nodded.

  Ash removed his hand. “I will ask for your word of honor that you will not try to escape.”

  The boy’s eyes went wider still. He frowned at his father for a moment, then down at his overlarge boots. When he finally lifted his chin, he nodded once, then avoided looking at his father altogether.

  Balliol screamed in frustration and headed for his son, but a heartbeat later, Ash had a short blade at the man’s neck.

  “Ye canna have me lad! Take the other one, if ye mun!” Balliol was in anguish. The lad meant a great deal to him; he would learn quicker than expected.

  “You cannot have my stock, sir. Return them and the boy will be yours again. Return them not, and the boy remains with me, to raise as I see fit.”

  “Ye bloody bastard!”

  Finn came forward and wrapped his arms around his father as if he were afraid the man would press himself into the dagger. “Dinna worry, da. Just go ask The Reaper to give them back. And dinna forget the pony!”

  Ash growled. “They have my horses?”

  Finn shook his head. “They left you one so you could leave Scotland faster than if you walked.”

  Balliol squeezed a handful of his son’s hair, then stepped back. The look he gave Ash promised vengeance. “Spill but a drop of his blood, I will kill you for it.” With that, he headed for the door, but at the entrance, he paused without turning. “Feed him. He’s wee yet.” Then he was gone.

  Oh, but Ash nearly felt sorry for this Reaper fellow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Highland Reaper hurried from her tent to interview the runner. The man was seated on a log with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his wind, but jumped to his feet when she approached. With the false shoulders beneath her black cloak, none would guess she was a woman, at least as long as they never heard her speak. Of course, someone would, eventually. She just had to do as much good as she could for her fellow Scots before someone saw through the disguise. Or beneath it.

  And when they did, she’d have to leave her beloved country again—if her neck was not in a noose.

  Jarvill hurried to her side to act as her voice. She had spread word that The Reaper’s throat had been cut while fighting in Antwerp, and that he was now reduced to whispering. Besides the excuse for her voice never to be heard, it also served to fortify the belief that The Highland Reaper was not an easy man to kill.

  “Who are ye, then?” Jarvill demanded.

  “Kevin Kjar, from Brigadunn,” he gasped. “I’ve a message from Allen Balliol. Was told to speak only with The Highland Reaper.”

  “Oh, aye. Ye may speak to The Reaper alone if ye mun, but he’ll give ye no answer save through myself or Coll. Which shall it be, then?”

  “So, ‘tis true? Ye can but whisper?” The man had whispered the last. Blair almost burst out laughing, but she was anxious to see what message her father would have for the famous outlaw.

  Jarvill clouted the man on the ear and sent him into the dirt. “No one insults the man and lives.” He then pulled a dirk from his belt.

  Kjar put his hands over his head. “I meant no insult. I beg pardon!”

  Blair kept her arms folded beneath her disguise and her hood pulled far forward. In the dim light of the gloaming, Death himself might be standing among them for all they could tell. But she was fair to certain Death would be a bit taller. The cushions she wore in the heels of her boots helped, but not much.

  Finally, she gave one nod and Jarvill sheathed his blade.

  “Yer a lucky mon, Kevin Kjar, make no mistake. Now, will ye give yer message or no?”

  “I will! I will. And thank ye.” Kjar kept to his knees, and folded his hands before him. “Balliol requires ye to return the beasts ye collected last eve. He says to tell ye that the Anglishmon has taken his son hostage until the lot is returned.”

  Blair’s blood turned cold. She was grateful the shadows kept the runner from witnessing the anguish she could not manage to keep from her face. She breathed in, then out again. Breathed in, then out. Then she leaned and whispered in Jarvill’s ear.

  “Which son?”

  Jarvill repeated her question.

  “The youngest, Finnian,” said Kjar.

  “Bastard!” Jarvill gave voice to her own reaction. The man was as clever as he was loyal. He knew what she was thinking most of the time, bless him. “Where does he keep the lad?”

  “At the manor house, inside, with nary a tie to bind him. Balliol believes the Anglishmon has cast a spell on wee Finn so’s the lad will no’ leave the house.”

  Blair turned and walked away so the man might not hear her if she failed to keep her lips together. Her father was such a fool to blame every difficulty on superstitions. How was she ever to help her people when so many were swayed by such nonsense? It wasn’t just the young who needed educations, but at least they were teachable. It would be a start. And she would keep teaching them as long as she was able.

  When she’d calmed down, she walked back to the runner. She told Jarvill what to ask.

  “What has become of the lad’s owl?”

  Asking about the bird would raise no suspicion. Anyone who knew of Finnian Balliol knew he was the lad with the wee tawny owl—called Shakespeare—that regularly perched upon his shoulder. Few would remember the bird used to belong to the sister.

  “Finn does not have the owl with him, sir.”

  Shakespeare would starve if Finn wasn’t able to feed him. Depending on when he last fed, the owl might not last more than a week. But perhaps Shakespeare might remember her well enough. If they couldn’t rescue Finn right away, she’d have to take the risk and collect the bird herself. If her father caught her, it would be disastrous. But leaving Shakespeare to starve was something Blair simply could not do.

  “Do ye have any message, then? An answer for Balliol?” Kjar bowed his head as if bracing himself for another blow from Jarvill.

  Blair whispered once again in her devoted friend’s ear, then headed back to her tent.

  Jarvill laughed. “Tell Balliol not to be holdin’ his breath.” Then he turned to follow. When he came even with her, he spoke quietly. “Please tell me yer not more worrit about the damned foul than yer wee brother.”

  To punish her friend for even thinking such a thing, she kept her silence.

  “Oh, Saints preserve us, Blair. It’s yer own brother. Surely ye’ll not punish the lad to spite yer father.”

  “I have no father, Jarvill.” She ducked into her tent where a single wee candle burned strong. It offered so little light no shadows could be cast against the walls, but at le
ast she could see a mite.

  She kept a candle burning at all times, and for a pair of reasons. First, it was The Reaper’s reputation to never sleep. And second, she could not stomach the darkness alone. She never fashed when others were about, or even if she was on her own with a bit of light from the moon or stars. But since those days in France, if her candle sputtered out and left her blind, the ghosts would come. And all of them.

  Blair shook her fear away and tossed her cloak across her pallet, then she turned her back to Jarvill so he might help her remove her false shoulders. They stayed put much better when they were laced from behind. After a few tugs, the contraption was loose enough to remove over her head.

  “If I have no father,” she continued, “then there is no one to spite. But I think I should go collect Finn as meself, and not The Reaper.”

  She reached for the cloak again. Jarvill draped it around her. Without the false shoulders, it dragged the ground.

  “Aye?” said Jarvill. “And what if someone recognizes ye?”

  “Then I shall make ghostly noises and frighten them away.” She laughed quietly.

  Jarvill wasn’t amused. “I fear this Englishmon is no’ the kind of mon who is easily frightened.”

  She laid a hand alongside Jarvill’s face and looked into his eyes. She hoped he could see her smile with dim light from the candle shining upon it, for she truly wished to ease his mind.

  “Jarvill, mavournin’. There is only one English peer I fear, and the English are a bit thick on the ground in this world. Not much chance of the new laird of Brigadunn Manor being the sole man who makes me tremble. Or would ye care to make a wager?”

  Jarvill frowned, his slashing brows were easy to see despite the light.

  “I wish ye’d tell me what that mon did to ye,” he said. “I’d hunt him down, English or no, if ye’d but say the word.”

  It was high time she was honest with Jarvill. He was like the level-minded brother she never had. He might understand, even if she didn’t understand much of it herself.

  “Weel,” she said. “I’ll tell ye, but ye’ll make yerself sick with laughing at me.”