by Muir, L. L.
With all his miniscule might, he lifted the bottle over his head and brought it down upon the decanter. Glass and the tainted brandy flew everywhere, but none of it would find its way into another mouth, another belly.
With the house turning into a storm-ravaged ship beneath him, Ash’s stomach finally turned. But he knew it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Blair waited in the barn.
Her heart was rocking so hard beneath her ribs she was worried the sound would wake the household. But they’d had little choice, she tried to convince herself. They’d needed to do something drastic. This Englishman would not tuck tail and run as the others had.
“For the good of the people,” she murmured. She wouldn’t have risked such danger just because the man reminded her of Ash. But even as her whisper fell silently among the straw, she knew it was a lie. May God forgive her, she was a coward. Frightened of a memory. Frightened of anyone who might stir that memory.
Of course this English lord could never compare to Ash. She’d had only a fleeting look at him in the darkness with the lighted windows of the manor behind him. She wouldn’t be surprised to find he was a lanky chap with blond hair and that her imagination had taken control of her eyesight. But there had been some look about him that promised he would never be intimidated by the likes of a country phantom.
The call of a nightingale—her signal to open the barn door.
She pushed it wide and stood back as Jarvill and Coll carried their victim through it. Her stomach dropped when she realized the Englishman was wrapped in a sheet, but she closed and bolted the door before she dared make so much as a squeak.
Coll dropped his end of the load and walked to the wall where the light of a single candle glowed from within a closed lantern. He opened it an inch, then took up his end of the wrapped body once more and helped Jarvill place it on the chair she’d prepared in the center of the floor. The body was limp as a wet flag.
He’d drank too much. They’d killed him!
Blair was going to be ill. No matter that he was a Peer of the Realm, he’d been a man—a gentle enough man who’d kindly invited her to return to the manor and talk things over, a man who she’d nearly maimed in her bid to escape. If they’d known he would drink so heavily, they’d have put a great deal less Belladonna in his brandy.
God forgive them!
Jarvill began tying the man’s torso to the chair. Coll knelt to do the same with his feet.
“Why tie him to the chair if he’s already dead?” she whispered.
“Why indeed,” Jarvill answered, “unless he’s not dead after all? We had to wrap him in a sheet to carry him. If the barn were another fifty steps away from the manor, we’d have not been up to the task, aye? He’s a monster, is this one. I understand now why you claimed he’d not flee like the rest.”
He wasn’t dead? He wasn’t dead!
It wasn’t just her soul she was relieved for. She felt the same way about her enemy as she did for a large animal. It would have been a true pity to put him down when he’d done little to deserve it. He’d taken her brother as a hostage, but Finn had been well cared for—better cared for than under their father’s roof. How could she begrudge the man for that?
Coll strained to move a heavy leg.
Ash had been a monster as well. Heaven help her, did England produce so many that size?
Jarvill pealed back the sheet so he could bind the man’s hands, and he was right to do so. A man like Ash might be able to burst his bonds; they’d be smart to use every inch of rope possible. The collar of his shirt got caught and was peeled back as well, but she wasn’t about to ask Jarvill to fix it. She didn’t want her friend to think her some bawdy maid to notice such a thing. But she did notice.
She also noticed how the white fabric stuck to the body beneath.
“Why is he wet?” she whispered again.
Coll snorted. “Had to dip his head in the horse trough. He’d tossed up his accounts on the rug. Slept right through it, aye? But he smells better.”
She took a step back, not wanting a whiff of sick. There were few animals in the barn, not enough to make it warm, but she tugged off her cloak and handed it to Coll to play the part of The Reaper. She had too many things she wished to say to this man and not the patience to relay it through one of her friends. The sooner they were away, the sooner she could get warm.
She shivered, but it was more out of pity for how cold their prisoner must be than for herself. But the longer she gazed at that half-bare chest, even in shadows, the warmer she got.
“Wake him,” she told Jarvill.
She stayed a good ten feet back. Coll came to stand beside her with his hands on his hips, his hood pulled forward. Standing behind the chair, Jarvill tipped it back on its hind legs and shook it. The man’s head wobbled a bit, then settled again when the chair rested back on all its legs.
“There’s a fine chance the man willna wake, if the cold water didna stir him,” said Jarvill. He walked around to face the unresponsive man, grabbed the man by the hair to lift his face, then slapped him none too gently. “Wake, yer lairdship.”
The man growled. A few breaths later, he snored. Jarvill released his hair and the man’s chin dropped back to his chest.
Blair huffed. She wasn’t going to be getting warm any time soon, it seemed.
“Here,” Coll said. He retrieved a stool from the wall and sat down, then slapped his knee. “Come. Sit. This cloak can cover us both.”
“Shhh!” She shook her head at him. “No speaking while you’re wearing the cloak. Remember it.”
Coll nodded, then lifted the dark fabric like bird’s wings. Since she’d removed her attention from the prisoner’s chest, the cold air had begun seeping into her bones, so she accepted her friend’s invitation and sat on his knee. The dark wings wrapped around her and her chills were gone in no time at all.
Jarvill sank down into the straw piled in the corner, wrapped his plaid in a cozy cocoon, and lowered his head. And with nothing to worry over while they waited for their sleeping giant to rouse, Blair allowed her thoughts to roam where they would.
Ash.
Did he ever think of her? And if so, did he think of kissing her? Or did he still believe she’d been the enemy? Did he rue the night he could have executed her in the stables near Givet Faux? But instead of heartache washing over her and bringing tears to her eyes, as it usually did, it only disgusted her. She’d barely known the man and yet she’d been hurt more by his cruel assumption than by the prospect of her own execution.
She could only hope that she’d outgrown whatever defect had inspired such nonsense. It gave her hope when the memory only tugged at her a bit. Never again would she allow a man to leave her distraught and hopeless. She was The Highland Reaper—the one sought by others when they were similarly afflicted.
She was the cure.
Blair sighed and wondered if the man would wake before sunrise. If not, they would have to maneuver his bulk onto a horse and take him to The Vale with them.
Finally, the man’s head moved. Then it bobbed. A moment later, the chin rose from the chest and the man stared straight ahead. At her.
He shook his head as if trying to shake off the effects of the drug.
Wake, ye bloody bastard.
It was time. She dared not wait until he had complete control of himself.
She nudged Coll’s arms and he opened them slowly. Then she stood and walked toward the Englishman, veering away at the last moment to walk around him. She began to hum. Finally, she put words to the tune.
“Fee. Fie. Foe. Fum. I smell the blood of an Anglishmon. Be he live, or be he dead. . .” She paused to run a finger along the man’s neck. “I’ll grind his bones to make me bread.” Then she laughed and hummed her way back to Coll, who had risen from the stool.
“Poison,” the Englishman muttered, turning his head from side to side.
Blair wondered if he was still not sober enough to remember her dr
amatics.
“No. Not poison,” she said. “but it could have been. Remember that, yer lairdship. It could have been. And the next time it will be. If ye fail to leave us in peace.”
He laughed. It steadied his head.
“I came to bring you peace, woman.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Ye can either go home to England or go home to yer maker. But ye will make yer choice now, or it will be made for ye.”
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. She wanted a good look at his face, but she dared not allow him to see her mark. There was no telling just how much he would remember in the morning.
“Shall I have the lad taste my food?” he queried.
Blair refused to react, but instead bent her head toward Coll who pretended to whisper in her ear.
She nodded and turned back to the prisoner. “One less Balliol whining over the crown of Scotland, says The Reaper.”
The man’s head turned as if noticing Coll for the first time—the black cloaked figure he’d likely been itching to catch. He looked back and forth between them, then shook his head.
She shivered.
“She’s cold, man. Give her your coat.” The man’s head wobbled. “Coward.”
Jarvill took his plaid from his shoulders and brought it to her. She rolled her eyes, but took it just the same. Then she realized she could use the material to hide her face so she could get a better look at the man they’d nearly killed.
“Bring the light,” she whispered to her friend. “I would see his face.”
Jarvill hesitated, but did as she bid.
With the wool draped over her head like a hood, she turned toward the Englishman, glad she’d be able to stop imagining a resemblance to the man who haunted her dreams even when she wasn’t asleep.
Blair dared not get too close waited for Jarvill to bring the light. The prisoner waited silently, but the tilt of his head told her he was aware of every movement. His shoulders stiffened and he pulled at his restraints when her friend walked up behind him. She was relieved to see him alert, even though it meant he would be harder to handle.
She nodded at Jarvill, who lifted the lantern at the same time he took a handful of the man’s hair and pulled back.
Dark, hauntingly handsome features rose into the warm light. He winced from the brightness, then blinked while his eyes adjusted. She winced as well—not from the glaring light, but from the pain in her chest as she realized this was no apparition brought on by her imagination.
“Ash.” Her lips formed the name, but no sound escaped her.
He squinted at her, then closed the eye closest to the lantern and looked again. The strain must have been too much, for both his eyes rolled back in his head, then closed and remained closed. Jarvill released his hair and looked for her reaction. She was quick to compose herself and Jarvill relaxed. . .at least until Ash spoke again, his eyes still shut.
“Release me, Scotia, my love. And I’ll give you back your ring.”
Blair sighed. Her heart melted at the endearment. After all this time, he still thought of her as Scotland. With little thought for witnesses, she moved forward, reached out a hand and held it against his cheek. It was flesh and bone beneath her hand, not some ghost conjured to soothe her. With her other hand she pushed the plaid back from her face, willing him to see her as clearly as she saw him, willing him to be pleased.
And he was pleased.
“Ah, Scotia. You seem so real to me,” he said. “Kiss me quickly, before you disappear.”
“What the devil?!”
Coll’s curse came from just behind her, but she could not resist tasting those lips while she could. Some insanity ruled her—likely that same defect which had turned her into such a fool in France. She’d resolved never to let it happen again, and yet nothing could stop her from taking what she wanted, if only for a moment.
Hopefully, Ash would remember her as only a dream come to warn him away, as she’d intended.
His taste brought back a whirlwind of memories, not all of them unpleasant. He had enough wits about him to kiss her back. She could have wept when he did so, the pressure of his lips against hers was pure absolution and she returned it with all her heart.
Coll put a hand on her shoulder but she gently shook him off as she ended the kiss. She could not help hovering close to Ash’s face, drinking in the sight of him. She’d nearly forgotten those eyes. Dear lord, how could she have forgotten those eyes?
Jarvill took a step back, shaking his head as he went.
“Scotia,” Ash whispered. “Forgive me.”
She paused staring at his lips while she tried to understand what he was apologizing for. France? Suspecting her? Letting her go? Kissing her? She wished he’d specify his regret, but she’d be damned if she’d ask.
She could feel the weight of unseen armor being lowered onto her shoulders; a barrier between her and the man for whom far too many tears had been shed already. She’d had years to learn how to protect her heart. She might have kissed him, tasted him, but he could not hurt her again.
“Leave Scotland, sir, and all yer sins will be forgiven ye,” she said with a smile.
“Scotia.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, only this time, he pressed much harder. It was her turn to feel drugged. That invisible armor shuddered beneath his assault. She could almost believe she was back in the woods with him where he’d pressed her up against a tree. It was a frustration to be sure, not being able to pull off his ropes and wrap herself around him, but she settled for a feel of his hair between her fingers. Her own mane created a curtain around them and she drank her fill of him, breathed his scent into her lungs, then reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, pulled away.
He breathed out with an exaggerated sigh. “How can I leave when you taste like that?”
The barn door burst open and two footmen entered with pistols raised.
Jarvill tossed the lantern at their feet and turned to her. “Go!”
While the armed men were distracted by the spreading fire, Coll ran to the opposite end of the barn and held open the small door, the arm beneath his black cape beckoning to her. Blair turned to follow, but her skirts were caught. When she failed to pull them free, she looked behind to see what held her, only to find Ash’s hand fisted around a wad of the dark fabric, a rope dangling from his wrist.
She turned back to her friends. “I’m caught!” she cried. “Leave me!”
Jarvill stepped back inside.
“No! I order ye to go, do ye hear? Both of ye, go!”
A pistol fired and a ball struck the wood just above the open door. She was grateful neither of the men had been hit, but even more grateful it got them moving.
Ash’s men stomped out the last of the flames and with them, any light. She put all her strength into wrenching her skirts free, but Ash held fast. A moment later, another man’s hands wrap themselves firmly around her arm.
“Tie her up,” Ash growled. “She’s slippery.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A heavy rain announced the first day of spring. Ash stood at the parlor window and watched the torrents cut tiny rivers into the drive as if the heavens were attempting to wash away all his sins with one good bath. But since such absolution was impossible, there was no point to getting wet.
Besides, he couldn’t quite bring himself to stray very far from the prisoner now locked in his larder. Neither could he bring himself to take her into the village to have her placed behind a descent set of bars. The rain you see. Deucedly inconvenient. And no signs of letting up.
Pity, that. He smiled.
But even if he was angry over being poisoned, he’d rather forgive Scotia and let her free before he’d involve the constable. It was likely real justice was rarely served by the bastard, and Ash would never willingly place a possible innocent in the man’s keeping.
Scottish law deemed landowners to be their own authority and as long as Scotia remained on his land, he could meet out his own
justice. And damn him, but the possibilities had not only chased away his headache, but had him all but whistling the afternoon away. There was every possibility his staff assumed the poison had addled his brain considering how he’d danced around the manor all day, trying his best to keep away from the kitchens and the prisoner residing in the larder. But he needed a sound plan in mind before he dared speak with her again. She was capable of making the very earth move beneath his feet if he were to stare too long at her lips, let alone get a taste of them. He needed a plan that would succeed whether or not he found himself in a puddle on the floor. A plan that could not fail.
A plan to remove this Reaper fellow from her life.
He forced his smile away in order to concentrate, but the only thing that came to mind was the damnable larder door!
Not another room in the house was suitable for housing such a clever creature. There were too many windows in the manor by half. What he needed was a medieval tower with only arrow slits to allow in a bit of light and air. In fact, keeping her prisoner in a tower sounded like such a perfect solution to his problems he considered asking Tolly if there were any such properties nearby. But then again, his first Scottish property wasn’t working out so well. Taking on another would be foolhardy.
But a tower. . .
It would be punishment enough, he thought. Instead of seeing her jailed, she would simply be locked in a tower for the rest of her days. And he could be her warden, see her every day, and never need to forgive her.
He shifted his weight and sensed something hard beneath his boot. A small crystal shard, from the broken decanter, no doubt, had imbedded itself into the bottom of his boot. He carefully removed it and tossed it into the fire. If there were the slightest trace of the drug upon it, it was dangerous.
If he hadn’t ultimately been able to empty his stomach, her concoction would have been the death of him. Of course she’d argued that it wasn’t her fault that he drank enough for four men. And that had been the end of their argument. Or rather the beginning of the end. He didn’t know why it always happened that every conversation concluded with his lips on hers. Perhaps he was simply putting her in her place, reminding her he would always have the upper hand.
