Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  He took the letter and Tolly walked away without so much as a bow. Then he turned back.

  “Oh, and didn’t I forget something else, then?”

  “Pray tell,” Ash drawled.

  “That Martin Balliol’s here, awaiting yer pleasure.” The man turned to leave again.

  “Oh, Tolly. Would you not care to know what I’d like done with the young man?”

  “Aye, but of course, me laird. Of course. Forgive an old fool.”

  Ash was mollified by the fact Tolly recognized his mistake. He’d never correct it, of course, but at least he recognized it.

  “Send Martin to the kitchens where Sarah can make him a meal. I’ll call for him in a while, after I’ve finished my business here.”

  Tolly looked around the room as if searching for some hint of what that business was, then he shrugged his shoulders and left. Ash only hoped the man remembered his instructions by the time he found Martin.

  Ash opened the letter from Northwick. The man must have written it only days after Ash had left London for it to have arrived so quickly. Why couldn’t his friend just go off and enjoy his honeymoon like every other bridegroom and leave Ash in peace? The last thing he wanted to dwell on—indeed the primary reason he’d left London in the first place—was the acrid smell of love in the air. He’d done his part to bring North and Livvy together, for a more suited pair he’d never seen, but that didn’t mean he wanted to sit ‘round and watch them giving each other moon-eyes.

  And he wasn’t about to go shopping the marriage mart for some miss who might be a good match for the devil’s spawn. Good lord what kind of a woman would that be? And just because his friend was happily wed to a suitable woman, did not mean Ash wanted the same fate. Although he had to admit he’d have been tempted by Livvy himself if North would not have fallen for the woman first, and if he were in any way worthy of a woman like her. But thank heavens he was not. Livvy had been suitable, yes, but not typical, and it was the latter trait he admired the most.

  But Ash was more interested in being suitable for a certain Scotswoman. . .

  He quickly shook the notion from his head. He’d never be suited to a stodgy, suitable life, let alone a suitable woman. Besides, the only woman he found himself drawn to was Scotia, and she might as well be a phantom considering his chances of ever finding her again. And every other female in Britain would pale when compared to a willful Scottish lass with an ancient Viking blade strapped to her thigh. . .

  Her image wavered in his mind’s eye. The cloak, her plaid skirts tied into pantaloons. That hair. Wolfkiller held tight in a firm hand. The beauty mark near her eye. . .

  He leaned forward as if he might see those eyes more clearly if he did so. Darkness surrounded her. A horse suddenly beneath her. She was just too far away to see details. Then her voice came to him.

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

  Ash shook the combined images away. It was simply a symptom of his own jumbled thoughts. He wanted Scotia, not The Reaper’s woman. But since it was unlikely to see either of them again, it would be better to remove his mind from all things Scottish, at least.

  He turned his attention to his friend’s letter. He was not quite finished with being angry at the man, but by the time he finished reading the thank you note from North, followed by a beautifully written letter of gratitude from Livvy, he was mollified. The missive contained little else but for a warning that Stanley was a bit restless and might one day soon show up on his doorstep.

  Ash decided that to answer the letter would be to encourage North, and possibly Stanley, so he forbore.

  As it happened, Finn was a capable reader and eventually became so engrossed in his books that he hadn’t noticed Ash leave the entire library to him. It was for the best, as the boy was not hovering about while Ash fidgeted in his seat, waiting for his devious plans to unfold in the kitchens.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tolly reappeared.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lairdship, but now Constable Wotherspoon is here to see ye.”

  A blessed distraction.

  Ash nodded. “I’ll see him here.”

  Ash wasn’t surprised the constable had come to call. In fact, he was a bit more surprised the man hadn’t called upon him sooner. As a courtesy, Ash had sent a message to the man the day he’d arrived, informing him Brigadunn had changed hands and as the current owner, he intended to stay in the area until the property was in order. As he was a Peer of the Realm, Ash expected the man to come quickly to offer any assistance Ash might need, as an answering courtesy, but there was every chance the Scottish and English customs of courtesy might not run down the same roads.

  Ash rose to his feet when the man entered the room, prepared to return the man’s bow. Since the constable only tipped his head to the side, Ash gestured to a chair and resumed his seat.

  “Constable Wotherspoon.”

  “Laird Ashmoore.” The man ignored the chair and, as if all manners could now be ignored, he placed his hat back atop his head.

  Ash tried not to stare at the green thing sitting high on his guest’s wide head. Tufts of hair stood out above both ears as if they were intended to keep the hat from slipping down to its rightful position. When it was time to leave, Ash planned to watch closely. Would the fellow have to walk awkwardly to keep his hat from tipping off onto the floor?

  In addition to the silly hat, one of the constable’s ears drooped a good three inches lower than the other—something Ash had never seen on another man. And his nose consisted of three rather red bulbs in the center of his face. At least he was reasonably certain it was a nose as the middle bulb was much larger than the others.

  If it weren’t for the fierce emotion in the man’s eyes, Ash would have suspected someone had been jesting when they’d made the man a constable.

  The emotion, if Ash wasn’t mistaken, was pure hate. And failure to take this man seriously would be unwise.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ash said, leaning back in his chair. His fingers wrapped around the leather cushioned arm and toyed with the handle of the blade hidden beneath it.

  A shuffle of feet just outside the door tempted his attention away from the officer of the law, but he resisted. No doubt the man had brought any number of men along with him to obey his orders. Ash wondered if Everhardt would be among them.

  His guest’s eyes narrowed as if he were deriving some private pleasure from his own poor manners.

  “It has come to my attention that ye have a criminal in your possession. As the law in this district, I’ve come to take the lad off yer hands.”

  Ash smiled his most deadly smile. Most men found an excuse to leave the room when they saw it. The constable returned it with one of his own.

  Yes, this man was going to be a problem.

  Ash resisted the urge to rub his hands together.

  When the small stirrings in the hallway turned into a scuffle with Finn’s voice added to the mix, Ash forced himself to keep his seat. If the bastards harmed the lad, they would pay dearly.

  He slowly inclined his head toward the door. When dealing with a dangerous animal, one should always move slowly.

  “I regret you have been misinformed, Constable. I harbor no criminals here. The lad staying here chooses to be here. The son of a business acquaintance, as I’m sure you already know. He is no prisoner, nor has he committed any crime. But of course you’ll wish to ask him yourself.”

  The man sneered, then moved to the door. “Bring him inside.”

  Ash suppressed the urge to beat them all to a pulp and toss them out on their arses for daring to search the house for the lad. But he would savor that beating another day, he was certain.

  Four men shuffled inside. Two of them held Finn’s arms. The lad continued to struggle until Ash caught his eye. A slight shake of his head had the boy standing straight and behaving immediately.

  “Ye’ll look at me, laddy.” The foul man grabbed Finn’s chi
n and jerked his head to the side. When Finn glared at him, the man’s free hand twitched, as if he were restraining his own habit to strike children.

  Ash did some restraining of his own.

  “Tell me,” the man barked, “why ye’re being held here, against yer will, Finn Balliol. And if ye lie to me, I’ll know it.”

  Finn laughed. “Aye, I’m being held against my will, but it be only these blokes doing the holdin’.” He nodded to the men holding his arms.

  The constable waved an impatient hand and the boy was released.

  “Ye and yer family stole his lairdship’s animals, and ye are a prisoner here until the stock is returned, isn’t that so?”

  Finn turned to Ash. “Is he calling me father and brother thieves, sir?”

  Ash gave a sober nod, though he was hard-pressed not to smile. He couldn’t have been prouder if Finn was his own son. But he felt it prudent to intervene before the constable tricked the lad into insulting him.

  “I’m sure our good constable was jesting, Finn. For everyone knows it was The Highland Reaper who took my stock.” He stood and let his size do a little of his talking for him. “Did you have more questions for the lad? No? Well, then, Finn, you may be about your business. Feel free to keep a footman nearby, in case you need. . .aid.”

  With tongue in cheek, Ash watched as the young man bowed first to him, then to the constable, then walked calmly out the door.

  Ash resumed his seat. “Anything else?”

  “Aye, there is,” said the constable, then he waited for Ash’s full attention before he would go on. “Might I ask how long ye’ve been returned from the Continent?”

  “Two years,” Ash answered. “Give or take.”

  “Interesting.” The man gave a meaningful look to each of his men, then turned back to Ash. “That be all fer now, milord.” And without the manners of a ten year old lad, he quit the room.

  The last of the constable’s men paused at the door, gave Ash a wink, then hurried away. Ash was grateful Everhardt was an astute fellow who would have already recognized his temporary employer was a dangerous man. It looked as if it might be a long while before the soldier would be free to give Ash an update, but Everhardt’s safety came first.

  He only hoped Everhardt remembered that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  To further punish Allen Balliol, Ash assigned the task of replacing his herds to Martin. It was clear the younger man needed to play a more honorable role in his life. For all the good it did Balliol, his eldest seemed little more than a medal the father wore upon his chest and bragged about when given the chance. The fact that medal might be a farce seemed only to bother the son and not the father. Martin was ashamed of something, Ash was certain. He only hoped honorable work would help the young man leave his shame in the past.

  As he himself was trying to do.

  As soon as Martin had gone, Ash called for Sarah. He invited her to sit in the chair facing his desk, then took his seat again.

  “How went your visit with the young man?” he asked, then noted her intense blush. “I trust you did not find it too unpleasant an assignment.”

  “No, my lord. Martin. . . I mean to say Mr. Balliol is not at all like Finn.”

  Ash considered the girl more closely. Why had he never before noticed the ragged edges of her sleeves, how the dress was ready to burst at the seams of her shoulders? If it weren’t for her generous apron, she’d be quite indecent.

  Good God, but she’d been entertaining Martin Balliol dressed that way!

  “Before you report what you’ve learned, Miss Sarah, I would know if the young man acted in any manner inappropriate while in your company.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “No, sir. He would never—but perhaps I don’t know what you mean.”

  Ash shook his head quickly. “Never mind. Let us move on. I’m going to arrange for some suitable clothing for you, since you’ll be eating at my table. I’m afraid it will be local stuff for now. Once we return to London, I’ll arrange for a finer wardrobe for you, as befitting your station.”

  “Pardon, my lord. But what station would that be?”

  What station indeed?

  “Forgive me for a moment,” he said and escaped the room, his heart pounding as hard as his boots upon the floor. Once in the hallway, he turned and leaned on a table against the wall. When he lifted his head, he found his reflection staring back at him from a large oval mirror.

  Bloody hell! What in the world had come over him? Since when was it wise for blood-thirsty killers like himself to become the benefactors of children? Was Brigadunn to become an orphanage? The child had an aunt to care for her, and even though the woman was a common Frenchwoman, there was nothing common about her skills. Sarah would do well to learn all she could from her.

  And just when had he become concerned over the station of others? That they live the life they were born to live? But the answer was obvious.

  Livvy.

  North’s wife. She’d been forced to hide from Society when Society was in dire need of her wit and wisdom. And together with their other two brothers in arms, Harcourt and Stanley, Ash and Northwick had seen to her rescue and returned her to that Society. Of course, it hadn’t been easy, what with Livvy determined to save the entire female population of London and risk her neck in the doing.

  An incredible woman. A rare woman. But a woman who had found a hole in the armor around his heart, had reached in and proven to him he was a bit more mortal than he thought he was.

  But mortal meant vulnerable, and he refused to be that. He looked into his own eyes and rationalized his interference in Sarah’s life was merely what any gentleman would do in his situation, and since his current role was that of a gentleman and not assassin, he would do well to maintain that role.

  After a brief consultation with her aunt, Ash returned to the library.

  “Sarah,” he said as he resumed his seat behind the desk.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Your father was a baron.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Tears sprung to her eyes.

  “You are a lady by birth.”

  She answered with a nod and wrapped her arms around her stomach. He pressed on, even knowing he was causing her upset. He hoped what he said next would remedy that.

  “I see no reason why you should not resume your rightful station. Of course, the choice is yours, but if you agree, I would arrange to become your guardian—and adoptive uncle, if you will. You would be presented to society as my niece.”

  Her mouth opened but she said nothing. Of course he wasn’t expecting her to jump to her feet in celebration—

  Actually, that was exactly what he’d expected.

  “Of course you can take your time to consider it. I realize you may not wish to have your name associated with mine, considering my reputation. . .in certain circles.”

  Sarah nodded as if she understood exactly to what he referred. It was best that she did.

  “I know you care for your aunt very much, but you should know I’ve already discussed it with her. We’ve agreed that the choice is yours.”

  She nodded again, looking no less upset, but her arms slowly relaxed and her hands eventually made it back to her lap. The silence became uncomfortable, but she made no comment, gave him no indication of what her ultimate decision might be.

  “Now. Onto other matters. If I haven’t caused you to forget the conversation, I should like to know what you learned from Mr. Balliol.”

  She grew pensive.

  “The Highland Reaper? What did you learn about The Reaper?”

  “Oh, yes! Martin said the man’s been causing mischief for a pair of years, but he’s never taken an entire herd before. Martin’s embarrassed they were taken on his father’s watch, I think. He asked about Finn and said his father is sick with worry.”

  “I’m concerned only with The Reaper at this point, Sarah. If you don’t mind.” He’d be damned if he’d bring a cantankerous elder into his orphanage.


  “Oh, forgive me. Of course.” She concentrated for a moment before going on. “The trouble has gotten worse over time. Men have disappeared from time to time. Women and children have fled from the glen. Some men came home from the war to empty houses. Females are scarce throughout the county. But when folks are hungry, they’ll wake in the night to find food at their door.

  “As for the man, his throat was cut, in battle apparently, but he survived. Martin’s father says The Reaper can’t be killed. But because of the injury, he cannot speak. There are two men who do the talking for him. He whispers, you see, but only to them.”

  “And did you learn what this mute villain looks like?”

  “No one knows his face. He always wears a black cloak and hood. Not a tall man, but he has the shoulders of a bull.”

  “Did Martin have an idea where he might be hiding himself?”

  “Yes, my lord. He and his men live in The Witch’s Vale, where the mist never leaves nor does anyone who dares enter. I must confess, I laughed at Martin, that is to say, Mr. Balliol. It sounded like a story to frighten small children. But he insisted it is all true.”

  “Anything more?” He tried to sound patient but it was all he could do to stay seated. He had the general location of the villain’s lair. His instincts screamed at him to act. But there was also a certain woman involved, a woman who had already managed to evade him once. If he didn’t plan the hunt carefully, she might get away again.

  “Martin said that many have gone looking for the man, to ask for help, but the way is laid with traps and misdirection. The secret to finding The Reaper is a riddle, but it makes no sense. And once in the vale, you’ll never be allowed to leave. Martin thinks The Reaper kills those who find his lair. He believes it’s why he’s called The Reaper.”

  Ash raised his hand to stop her. “I don’t suppose he told you the riddle?”

  She grinned and nodded. “Tic, Toc. A map before. A quarter less, or three quarters more. You see? It makes no sense.”