by Muir, L. L.
“True! True!” The old woman’s voice warbled through the red door.
Everyone laughed but Ash. He pulled Stan aside and tried to speak low so the others wouldn’t hear.
“You do not understand. She is in there waiting, hoping. . .someone. . .will come for her. Praying she will be rescued from yet another blackheart. And the boy? How can I let him believe, for four days, that I would not come for him?”
Stan gave him a pitying look. Ash worried his friend had not been listening, so he tried again.
“Stanley. Please. Her heart will break. Not because she cares for me, but because she. . .counts on me. You are asking me to break her heart for another three days.”
Over Stanley’s shoulder, he caught a baleful eye from Jarvill. And if he hadn’t known before, he did now. Jarvill was Blair’s Balliol’s Reaper. And The Reaper didn’t care for an English lord to be discussing a woman’s heart that supposedly belonged to him.
As they stared at each other, the red door opened. They all turned when the old woman emerged, a covered basket in her hands.
“No worries, young Ashmoore. I will be sure to tell yer lady that yer friends had to drag ye away, that it broke yer heart to go. And the laddie too. They will be happy ye’re safe. And The Highland Reaper himself will thank ye, mark me words.” She winked once again, and left.
Jarvill glared at the door as if he might follow after the woman and change the message, but instead, he turned and glared at Ash.
Ash glared back. “If you’re not the cursed Highland Reaper, then who the hell is?”
Jarvill’s brows rose for a moment, then he grinned from ear to ear. After Ash closed the distance between them, however, Jarvill was far too busy sleeping to smile at anyone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ash woke on the floor of the larder. After returning from the village, he’d come as some sort of reparation for Blair and her brother forced to make their beds in jail cells.
The pallet remained, though he’d given no orders for it to be removed once Scotia had escaped. Perhaps Fantine had some sense of intuition that he’d need to visit the space his prisoner had occupied. He’d often wondered if the Frenchwoman was able to read his mind. Perhaps she was also able to read his heart.
He sighed, but he was not yet ready to rise. He resolved to spend only ten minutes more thinking of Scotia. Then he would put all thoughts of her aside for the remainder of the day. Surely, with Stanley’s help, he could come up with some task to occupy his mind. But for the moment. . .
Scotia. Come to me.
The plea was not new. He’d invited her memory hundreds of times in the past two years, but this time, he had a clear image of her face, her hair, the sound of her voice.
He remembered the feel of her lying in his arms the morning before, pretending she was not yet awake. Her back to his chest. Her waist rising beneath his hand in time with her breathing. The smell of her hair.
In the night, they’d laughed. Over what, he could not recall. But he remembered distinctly the vibration of her laughter moving from her body into his. He’d absorbed it like a thirsty man bending to drink from a stream. He’d sought to make her laugh over and over again until they’d laughed themselves silly, like children. Worn themselves out as if they’d been running through fields in the sunlight.
He only wished he would not have fallen asleep. He might have had hours upon hours of simply holding her while she breathed.
Lord help him! He was in as serious a state as Northwick had been. A man in love. Of course it couldn’t have been so simple an affliction as an obsession. It was obsession that had brought him to Scotland. This was more.
This was dire. This was a catastrophe.
She could not feel anything similar for him if she was willing to risk falling into the constable’s hands in order to get to another man.
And why should she give him a second thought?
After all they’d been through together—the horror at Givet Faux, the fact he’d threatened to hang her, the night she’d poisoned him, the long night she’d spent alone in the darkness on that very pallet, fearing her demons—there was little to endear him to her. And worse yet, there was little hope a life together would be so different. It was foolish to wish otherwise.
He was the man who was determined to bring her lover to justice. How could that win her heart? His life was draped with a web of violence. Why would she wish to join it? It was unfair for him to want her to.
Unfair.
He sighed again and got to his feet. When he emerged from the larder, Fantine was concentrating over a bowl. He doubted her concoction warranted that much attention.
“Fantine?”
“Oui, monsieur?” She did not look up. Nor did she pretend to be surprised by his sudden appearance.
“You may clear away the pallet,” he said and walked out of the kitchen intent on locating Stanley. He watched in fascination when his feet brought him back a moment later. Or perhaps it had been his stomach that led him. He could only think to ask her if she might make him something for breakfast.
“Oui, monsieur. And zee pallet? Are you certain?” Still she did not look up.
“Leave it.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
This time, he was grateful she had such serious mixing to do, for if she would have looked at him then, she might have noticed his blush. And he was blushing, for what other reason could there be for the heat in his face?
There would be no harm, he reasoned, for leaving the pallet where it was for the next two days. After the trial, after he removed her from the constable’s grasp, she would be gone from his life. And there would be no need for her memory to haunt his larder. . .
~ ~ ~
Blair imagined the constable meant to show her a long and miserable night when he’d given her a single thin blanket and a bare floor for sleeping. But he obviously had no idea how horrible the night could be when one is waiting for news of a kidnapped brother. At least she’d known where Finn was, tucked safely nearby and not wandering through the mist on a dangerous mountain. That happy thought kept her warm enough.
Neither was Martin much of a worry. Even if he had spent the night searching for Finn, he’d not been alone. Surely between the two men, they could have kept each other from walking off a cliff in spite of the markers.
If she was lucky, they hadn’t even noticed the markers.
She set her sights on keeping Finn’s spirits up. Each and every time the lad had nodded off to sleep, she’d thank heaven she could allow her shoulders to droop for a wee while. She tried not to think too much about Ashmoore or his lips. If he or the others managed to rescue her, she would trust her people into his keeping, and she would leave the glen for good. Her father would never hear of her again. Ash would never learn she was The Reaper. Her brothers would have to be content with the knowledge that she still lived, somewhere.
And if there was one dream she could not indulge in, it was the fantasy of winning Ashmoore’s heart. Even if he were enamored of more than just her Viking blade and too-willing lips, what future could she have with him? An English earl had obligations to marry within their station, or some nonsense. The only position he might offer her would be that of his mistress.
Though it might be tempting to accept any opportunity to belong in his life, she could not accept the occupation her father had predicted for her if she were to follow an army about France. But even if she had no father, she could not do it. She was a good girl. If one discounted a few broken commandments, of course.
No. That dream was not for her. And she feared she might not ever wish for the life of a wife and mother if the husband in question was not Ash. . .
~ ~ ~
For the next three days, there was yet another reason for Blair to appear cheerful. Fact was, her refusal to fash and fret frustrated Wotherspoon to no end, which cheered her all the more. But all that pretending wore on a body, and when no one was looking, she pressed her hands against her face
and cried as silently as she could.
When darkness fell, she would have welcomed her ghosts if that same darkness hid her worries. But the spirits never came. Whether her ghosts avoided her brother just two cells away, or the snoring of the night guard in the next room, she couldn’t be certain. Or perhaps they’d come to call that night in the larder but found her wrapped in Ash’s arms and decided never to return.
She smiled and imagined telling him he was so fearsome a man that even ghosts were frightened of him.
“That smile will be wiped clean off yer face before the day is done, I’ll warrant,” the constable sneered.
The guard beside him slipped a key into the door and she could feel the grind of metal against metal as the lock turned.
She jumped to her feet and fairly skipped to the opening.
“Good morning, Finn,” she sang cheerfully and offered up her wrists for the manacles to be placed on them.
“Morning, sister mine,” her brother said sleepily.
Apparently, they weren’t to have any breakfast again today. She only hoped her brother wouldn’t complain, for nothing cheered Wotherspoon as much as complaining did. The man was already whistling. No need to make him sing.
When the manacles slipped easily from Finn’s wrists, another guard brought a length of scratchy rope to use instead. She held Finn’s gaze as he was tied. He never flinched. Together, they were led outside and down the middle of the street. She and her brother held their heads high. In other circumstances, her father would have been proud.
The heavens hung low and gray but either held back their rain for some later time, or had wrung themselves dry in the past few days. There was no telling the direction in which the sun might lie, so it would have been difficult to identify the time of day if Blair had not been so recently awakened.
For all the people gathered to watch them go, one would think it was a holiday, albeit a somber one. No one cheered, no vegetables were thrown. Curiosity won out and she dared a look about her, finding that the people had gathered to show their support, not to mock them.
In spite of his bindings, Finn grinned and waved. As Blair’s gaze dragged along the line of people, she realized every face was familiar. Every face! They weren’t just the townspeople—the crowd included the women and children from The Vale, many with their husbands now beside them.
They’ve come down the mountain. . . for me.
Her tears blurred the faces, but she smiled back at them. When she came near to sobbing outright, she turned her attention back to the road, to what lay before them. She raised a shoulder and wiped her eyes on her blouse to clear her vision. Around the bobbing figure of the guard pulling her chain, she saw the mob gathered before the kirk. The doors stood wide, the entrance a square of shadow. But all around the steps stood a hundred people or more. Half way between her entourage and the kirk stood a scaffold with six nooses hanging from the topmost beam.
Six? Why six?
She glanced at Finn, but he had not yet noticed. He still grinned. Still waved.
She looked about the street, to see if others had noticed as well, and found an army at her back. Those whom they had already passed had moved into the road and brought up the rear.
She glanced at the constable, walking at her right side, and found his face red as a rose, his nose fairly purple. His odd green hat was pulled low for once, and, tilted forward. It hid his eyes from most, but not from her. They flashed. His cheeks rippled from the clenching of his jaw.
She thought it wise not to laugh aloud, for the man was dangerous. She’d known him for half her life and remembered he had a bully of a son her age who bullied all but her. When they’d been ten, the boy had called her Princess. Likely he’d overheard her own father calling her the same. . .
Princess.
The constable had called her Princess but had been mocking her—just as the Scot at Givet Faux had done.
She stopped abruptly, her feet unable to function when her mind was working over-hard to summon the memory of the other Scotsman’s face. Could it be that the stocky boy with hair the color of young carrots had become the large brute from Givet Faux? That man’s hair and beard had been a much darker red. His body had been that of a blacksmith.
What had the boy’s name been? Ian? Ivan? Ivan Wotherspoon!
“Ivan,” she said aloud, ignoring the tug on her wrists. She turned to the constable, who had stopped to frown at her. “I remember your son, Ivan.” She swallowed. “Is he here?”
Wotherspoon’s frown disappeared as if all emotion had been melted from the man’s face like so much hot wax. He stared at her, unblinking. She simply stared back, unable to break whatever spell held them there in the middle of the road.
Finally, his shoulders turned. She assumed he was going to resume walking without answering her question, but then his shoulders turned back toward her, and with them, his outstretched arm. When her body flew to the side, she remembered thinking it strange that she hadn’t felt him strike her. By the time she hit the ground, however, her face argued otherwise. After the briefest explosion in her head, she remembered no more.
~ ~ ~
Ashmoore watched the strange exchange between Blair and Wotherspoon and wished they were standing closer to his side of the street so he might hear their words. As he noted the entire crowd leaning their way, he realized he was not alone in that wish. The constable’s back was to Ash, so he could not read the man’s lips. And Blair hadn’t said much at all. She appeared confused, which was a bad sign. He always assumed his Scotia was a step ahead of the rest of them.
Suddenly, the constable recoiled. . .and struck her! Her body flew to the side before he heard the delayed sound—the smack of Wotherspoon’s hand!
His own body moved without thought, shedding the tattered cloak he’d worn for disguise as he burst into the street. The roar he’d heard had come from his own mouth, he realized, when he was suddenly out of air. He thought only to get to Wotherspoon, to kill him with his bare hands, to feel the destruction as it happened.
A few steps more.
The crowd moved in around him, and he worried they might impede his progress. There were already women kneeling beside Scotia. He was grateful since he’d be unable to care for her until the offender was dead.
He reached for the man.
The bastard raised a pistol.
It made no difference. A bullet couldn’t stop him.
But the pistol pointed away. . .at Scotia’s limp body.
Ash stopped and bid the red haze to recede, to let him see clearly.
The bastard’s eyes dared him to move.
Distinct clicks. Four of them.
He knew without looking Wotherspoon’s henchmen were holding pistols on him, but he would not look away from the rabid dog. The one he would destroy. In time.
Wotherspoon’s face was mottled with color. His hat sat low on his brow. He had Ash off his property, and now in his custody, and yet the man did not seem pleased. Something was amiss, but Ash doubted it was anything in his favor. In fact, his senses warned him he was in real danger.
Wotherspoon shook his head and seemed to recover from a haze of his own. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, after a deep breath, he opened them again.
“Come,” he said. “Yer just in time fer yer own trial, Ashmoore.” To the pistol bearers, he said, “Bring all but the egg-haired Viscount. Take that one back to the jail. Unless his king comes for ‘im, he’s not to be released. I shall deal with ‘im after.”
The constable then tucked his pistol behind him, then resumed his march to the kirk as if nothing at all had happened.
Ash was prodded to follow. He exchanged a quick glance with Stanley. Three armed men were leading his friend off in the opposite direction. It was Stanley whose assignment for the morning was to get Finn Balliol into his carriage and out of the constable’s reach. Once that was accomplished, Stanley would attempt to use his royal position to intimidate. Neither of which he could do from insi
de a cell.
Of course they would find a way to get the lad to safety, and there was every chance Stan’s position in British society would hold no sway whatsoever considering the constable’s obvious distain. But Ash had a new concern that sent a shiver up his spine like so much sweat dripping backward.
It seemed there was, indeed, a spy at Brigadunn.
Ash looked to his left and found Martin looking at him expectantly. “Find the spy.”
Martin nodded smartly, and after a brief glance at his sleeping sister, shouldered his way back into the crowd.
CHAPTER FORTY
Considering the crowd, or rather, the entire village in attendance, there was no choice but to hold the public trial in the church. With the current weather, it would prove unwise to hold it on a hillside. The only other option in the area was Brigadunn Hall, but that would have never been considered. Once on his own land, Ash would be the highest authority. In town, just beyond Ash’s property, Wotherspoon ruled in most matters unless the District Sheriff was available. There was no bailiff, and Ash had been led to believe that the sheriff only came around once or twice a year, for Brigadunn was located far from the heart of the largest district in Scotland. And that district included much of the rather difficult-to-navigate Highlands.
With the darkness outside and the dimness of rush lights, the figures depicted in the stained glass windows appeared menacing. The shadows in the recesses of the chancel, behind the lattice, jumped and moved with the candlelight like a collection of unworldly beasts waiting to be unleashed as soon as someone was pronounced guilty.
For the moment, Ash was contained rather effectively on the second pew with two men wedged next to him on both sides. Three of the constable’s men sat behind him, and another three on the front row. If he tried to jump over the bench, he’d have to jump high enough to clear the tallest man. So it appeared he was going to be tried after all. At least it was gratifying to know the constable considered it necessary to assign ten men to control him alone.
