Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  Ash had not just confessed to being The Reaper! He had not!

  But he had. Dear heavens what had he been thinking? Had he truly believed the bumbling constable could have produced enough proof to hang her? Was the sheriff so daft that a man such as Cornelius Wotherspoon could have convinced him that anyone allied with The Reaper should be hanged?

  Of course not. The sheriff seemed an intelligent man concerned with upholding the law. The sort of man who had earned his office. Why then had Ashmoore given the constable his fondest wish? Was he planning something? Did he have a grand escape planned for them all? Did she dare trust?

  Absolutely not. Ash was out of his mind, clearly. But why confess to being The Reaper. . .unless he was protecting her? Did he know her secret? Stanley had promised never to tell, and she trusted the future duke to keep his word. And there wasn’t a soul in town who would give her away to the Englishman from whom she’d stolen a hundred head.

  If she told him now, would he take back his confession? Or would he be more resolved to it?

  The Earl of Ashmoore was about to hang, but why? Why confess if not to protect the true Highland Reaper?

  Dear lord!

  To protect The Highland Reaper—the man he believed she loved.

  It was all so ridiculous, she could not help but laugh, giddy with the knowledge that there was no other man for Ash to be jealous of, and that Ash was jealous in the first place. He cared for her after all, and possibly as much as she cared for him, for wouldn’t she willingly hang in his stead? She had no idea how to manage it, however, since she could not possibly allow him to know her secret. And if they ended with fighting over the noose, the constable would be happy to hang them both.

  She continued to laugh until she had everyone’s attention.

  “He’s lying,” she declared. “I ken what The Reaper looks like, and this is not the man.”

  Wotherspoon scoffed. “And what else would we expect his whore to say?” He grinned, but his eyes flashed, just as they had in the street, before he’d struck her.

  Then she remember why he’d struck her and turned quickly to Ash and shook her head. “Doona give the devil so much as a pebble, do ye hear? He’s not who you think! His son, Ivan, was at Givet Faux! The Scotsman, remember?”

  The constable screeched and flew toward her with his claws raised. Thankfully, her soft-hearted guard thought to step in front of her.

  “Givet Faux?” Ash repeated. “Wait,” he said aloud. “Wait. Just a moment!”

  The sheriff was suddenly on his feet. “To what are they referring, Wotherspoon? What is Givet Faux?”

  The constable, having been thwarted by his own man, turned back to the large table and looked at the sheriff as if he’d just sprouted a second head. He took one measured step, then another, his head tilting to the right, then to the left. And in the face of such odd behavior, Blair had no notion what to expect, but if Wotherspoon were involved in the villainy of Givet Faux, along with his son, he was even more dangerous she suspected.

  “If Lord Ashmoore is willing to cooperate, and he has. . .indelicate matters to confess,” said Wotherspoon solicitously, “the least we can do is oblige a peer of the realm and clear the chapel.”

  “You suddenly trust him?” the sheriff asked.

  Wotherspoon put a hand over his heart. “I do. After all, he has already confessed. His friends in London will know of his guilt soon enough. He is finished.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Done.” He turned to the man standing over his shoulder. “Clear the kirk.”

  With much grumbling, the population of Brigadunn filed out of the building row by row. Blair could feel their attention upon her as they went and imagined them gathering around the gibbet, waiting to see who would be offered to the nooses at the end of the day.

  Wotherspoon motioned to Ash’s guards. “All of you, out. Man the outer doors, of course, in case the earl changes his mind.” To the man standing between himself and Blair, he smiled. “Ye as well, Farson.”

  Farson glanced at the sheriff, then at Ash, his dilemma clear. Ash simply nodded and moved to take the man’s place. Her heart tripped with every step that brought him nearer. When he reached the box, he took her hand in his and gave her fingers a squeeze.

  A moment later, the guards were gone. All that remained, besides Ash and her, was the constable, standing cheerfully to one side of the table, and the sheriff, standing behind it with his gray brows raised to his hairline.

  Ash turned and faced her. In sotto voice, he said quickly, “No matter what happens, you get low and make your way to the side door immediately. No matter what, do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “No matter what.” He then grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close for a quick kiss.

  “Here, now,” the constable complained. “I’ll not have you getting on like cats. Step aside, Ashmoore.”

  Ash looked one last time into her eyes and turned back to the sheriff. “My lord sheriff, if I may. Givet Faux was a den of vipers who kidnapped many a man in the midst of the war in France. My friends and I liberated a number of these unfortunates, and with no reliable law in the immediate vicinity, we executed those vipers. It seems the constable’s son was among them.” He slowly stepped around the box to stand before it, shielding her. “I suspect Constable Wotherspoon was party to the murder of The Earl of Northwick’s parents as they were in route to pay his ransom. No doubt Wotherspoon and his son had some larceny business on the side.”

  Wotherspoon kept smiling. “Turned a pretty penny, too, until you and your lordly friends came along and murdered my son.” His voice grew hoarse as he said the last, and he didn’t seem concerned in the least that the nervous sheriff was listening carefully.

  He pointed a finger at Blair and a shiver when down her spine. “Ivan decided he wanted this fancy piece for a wife, fool that he was. But since she’d rejected him when they were young, he thought he’d keep Martin drugged and stupid, wait until she ran home, then he’d bring her brother to her. Play the rescuing hero. Thought she’d notice him then, the eegit. But she didna run home like a proper lass, did she? Likely murdered my son herself. There were six of them, all told, covered in blood.”

  “Thus the six nooses outside?” Ash tucked a hand behind his back. His gesture bid her to wait.

  “Mm hmn,” she murmured softly.

  Wotherspoon glanced curiously at the sheriff then, as if just remembering he was still present. “I was hoping the rest of his friends might arrive, given time, and given their spy, who had to have reported my suspicious dealings. But alas, only the blond could be bothered to come. But Northwick lost his parents,” he told the man, counting off a finger. “Punishment enough, for now.” He waved an arm at Ash and her. “These two will hang in a moment.” Fingers two and three. “And the blond will hang before word reaches London that he was tossed in jail. The title Future Duke was a bit premature, wasn’t it?” Four. “That leaves only two others; your soldier/spy and a Lord Harcourt.” Fingers six and seven. “Hardly fair, Milord Sheriff—six to suffer for taking three times as many lives. But it will have to do.

  “I am certain I can run yer spy to ground before he leaves the glen,” he told Ash. “Hiding at Brigadunn manor, I hear. Then perhaps I’ll hie off to London. Harcourt will be an easy target at some memorial service in yer honor, no doubt. And poor Northwick will need to be put out of his misery.”

  “That leaves only one obstacle.”

  Blair was certain that obstacle was the sheriff, but before she could shout much of a warning, Wotherspoon had removed his pistol from the back of his breeches. Without a pause, he swung his arm around and pulled the trigger. The sheriff stood still for one heartbeat, then another. Then he sank to the floor and disappeared beyond the table’s edge.

  Get low and make your way to the side door.

  Blair dropped behind the banister surrounding the box and shuffled off the edge, ducking between pews and heading to the right as she’d be
en told. She would follow her own instincts, but it was important Ash know where she was. She only hoped he had a plan for himself.

  She suddenly understood how Jarvill and Coll had felt when she’d ordered them to leave her behind in Ashmoore’s barn.

  The narthex doors flew open and guards poured around the font and up both aisles.

  “Cease him!” the constable shouted. “He’s killed the sheriff! And find the whore! She is in here somewhere.”

  She reached the end of the pew and took a peek. The transept was but six feet away. The pounding of the guard’s footfalls mimicked the hammering of her heart. She didn’t have time to dally. She jumped into the aisle but at the sound of numerous pistols cocking behind her, she stopped, then turned. A shot in the back was no way for The Highland Reaper to end.

  Four men stood scattered in the pews with their pistols pointing her way, though two of them looked sheepish about it. If it weren’t for the stern-looking pair in blue, she would have turned and fled with no fear. Their size and the way they were dressed, however, pegged them as the sheriff’s men. And with their leader slain, they were no doubt hungry for blood.

  She held perfectly still.

  Her eye was drawn by the flurry of activity in the rest of the nave as men stumbled over each other, still searching. Ash had gotten away!

  “Come out, Ashmoore!” called Wotherspoon. “We have yer whore. Come out, or she will wish she were dead before she ever reaches her noose!”

  “Nay!” she shouted. “If ye can hear me—”

  One of the sheriff’s men stepped forward and raised a hand to strike her if she continued. She looked him in the eye and grinned.

  “Run, Ashmoore!” she screamed, then braced herself for the blow. But it never came. She opened her eyes when she heard the guard hit the floor, his grunt sounding quite like that of a pig as Ashmoore’s weight took his breath away. A powerful fist to the guard’s jaw took away everything else.

  “That,” Ash said to his victim, “is for thinking to strike my woman.”

  My woman? The words poured over her like warm water on a cold morning, but she had no time to dwell on it. Perhaps, if she lived the day, she would find the time.

  The two less confident men shrank back, but the last guard was not so easily cowed. He side-stepped around his fellow’s legs and stood at arm’s length from Blair, his pistol aimed at her head.

  “Hold, or I’ll discharge my weapon, sir.”

  Ash raised both hands in the air and planted a knee in the oblivious guard’s chest as he got to his feet.

  “The constable shot your sheriff, young man,” Ash murmured. “Offer him neither your trust, nor your back.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  With a rope, they attached the manacles locked around Blair’s wrists to her left ankle. She could walk, but would not be able to run. Ash was then trussed up in similar fashion, but his hands were tied behind him since he had no skirt that might need lifting on the steps.

  She was shocked when the sheriff’s guards believed Wotherspoon’s explanation of how Ash jumped him, took his weapon and shot their leader. She tried to point out the first man needing killing was the constable, and not the sheriff at all, but they remained unmoved. With no other authority at hand, Wotherspoon pronounced sentence and ordered Ash and her to be hung immediately. He sent four men to the jail to retrieve Viscount Forsgreen, their co-conspirator.

  The villain paused just inside the kirk doors and leaned close.

  “I’ve had an idea,” he said quietly. “The three of ye will remain hanging until all six nooses are filled. I imagine yer spy will go collect Northwick and Harcourt for me. All he’ll need do is tell them some madman has hung their friends, don’t ye suppose? I needn’t lift a finger.”

  Laughing, he lifted his odd hat onto his head and walked out into the misty rain waving a hand for them to follow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Blair refused to give up hope even though they were being led to the scaffold. She imagined the six of them standing with their nooses lying limp against their throats, their bodies splashed with the blood of the fallen at Givet Faux. Stanley, Harcourt, and Northwick. Everhardt, Ashmoore and herself. Surely it was the same tableau Cornelius Wotherspoon imagined when he thought of his son’s death.

  But even viewing it from the constable’s point of view, she could not see the justice in it. They’d fought their way inside the citadel to save others. They’d fought their way out for the same reason. Not a just court in the land would condemn them. Why, then, had she been so quick to condemn herself?

  Half way there now. The crowd parted, though begrudgingly, as they were urged along.

  She felt Ash’s eyes upon her and turned to meet them. Ash. The man she loved. The man who loved her. A future she never dared hope for. A future that would never be unless someone intervened.

  She searched the crowd. The familiar faces watched her, watched the constable. But none of them seemed too fashed by the fact she was headed for her death. Did they expect The Reaper to appear and save her?

  But there was no Reaper. And it was time to share that secret, with Ash at least.

  She turned to him once more, tugged on her lead to move closer to him. He did the same. They were two feet apart. It had to be enough.

  “There is no Reaper,” she hissed.

  He looked at her sharply.

  “There is no Reaper,” she repeated.

  He shook his head. She had to try again.

  “I sleep with the Reaper, but I sleep alone. Do you understand?”

  Ash’s brows shot up beneath his mussed hair.

  She gave him a wink.

  He looked away quickly, then wandered toward the edge of the crowd. She did the same, scouring the mob on her side of the street. Just ahead, a man turned sideways, the hilt of a blade stuck out from his belt. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d shown her a’ purpose.

  Blair hurried forward, creating slack between herself and the man who pulled her along. Then she hurried to the side. By the time the rope jerked tight again, she had the blade in her hand.

  She looked at her guards, but their attention had turned to Ash, who had stumbled. No one noticed her weapon, so she held it to her leg and pulled a fold of her skirt over the top of it. She looked over her shoulder and gave Ash a wink. The man allowed himself to be helped to his feet and kept walking.

  Ten feet away, now.

  She was so nervous, she feared she would never act in time. But she tamped it down. She was The Reaper. The Reaper was fearless. For one last time, she must be capable and fearless.

  The barrel of a pistol pushed into the side of her neck and moved along with her. She dared not slow.

  “I’ll take that blade, ye wee bitch.” The constable’s breath caught her by surprise and she coughed. The pistol pressed harder. The metal bit into her skin.

  Slowly, she let her skirt free and gently lifted the knife up for the taking. The man wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled it away, slicing open the meat of her thumb as he did so. Still, the metal remained at her neck. She could feel a tremor in it now, as if Wotherspoon were barely restraining himself.

  “Come now, constable.” Ash called. “There’s no fun in hanging a dead woman.”

  Wotherspoon snorted and the pressure was gone.

  “Harken ye, people of Brigadunn,” the bastard bellowed. “Yer Highland Reaper has confessed. His whore shall hang beside him—”

  The crowd laughed and whistled, as if he’d made a clever joke.

  The fool frowned, then shrugged. “Yonder comes The Reaper’s accomplice to join the condemned.”

  Again, they laughed.

  Four guards made their way through the mist, as they neared, it was clear they’d brought no one with them. The rain spattered every face, setting the crowd to blinking, but none of them ducked their heads or ran for shelter. They laughed at the sky as if they’d all gone quite mad.

  “Look!” a lad cried.

  “The
Reaper,” someone whispered, and it was repeated a dozen times.

  The crowd sobered. Sitting on horseback, an odd, shadowy figure with two heads nodded as it came down the road from the jail. Darker and darker it grew. And darker still when it became clear—a black-cloaked figure, its horse dark with rain. And upon his shoulder, sat a very wet Shakespeare. The ring of dark feathers surrounding the bird’s face was unmistakable.

  Blair wondered at Stanley’s skill with her bird and glanced at Ash. But Ash was not looking at The Reaper. She followed his gaze to four other cloaked figures in the crowd standing close enough to intervene if necessary—Martin, Coll, and Jarvill. The last was a white-blond man whose hair was simply too unique to be hidden in a hood.

  Stanley!

  Then who is playing Reaper?

  The mounted figure raised a fist to Shakespeare and the bird hopped onto it. “Hoo-hoot,” it sang.

  “Ke-wick,” answered a female owl in the distance.

  The Reaper dipped his fist and then flung the bird into the air. The fool had removed the owl’s jesses. They might not ever see it again!

  The mysterious figure now pointed at Ash.

  “Who are ye, to claim my name?” he demanded.

  A chill ran up her spine at the timber in the man’s voice. Heaven help her, she knew it!

  “He is not The Reaper,” the man bellowed. Turning his finger toward Blair, “And she isna my whore.”

  “Shoot him!” Wotherspoon screamed. But none obeyed. The sheriff’s men stood still as if they’d not heard the order. Exasperated, the constable lifted his own pistol toward The Reaper. But if he wasted his shot on the stranger, he would have no leverage if his men were no longer with him.

  Blair glanced at the sheriff’s man at Ash’s back. He still held to Ash’s lead, but his pistol was pointed down and away.

  “Show yerself,” the constable demanded.

  The Reaper’s horse shifted its weight, but the man made no move.

  Wotherspoon’s weapon, once again, swung in Blair’s direction.

  “Show yerself, I say.”

  The man took a deep breath, then lifted a hand to his hood and pulled it back.