Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

“Come,” he repeated and stepped back.

It was just enough room. She brought up her knee with unrepentant force. He yanked on her wrist, pulling her to one side as he turned his body in the opposite direction, but it could not save him. At least, not all of him.

It could have been surprise, as much as pain, that made him release her. Two steps and a leap put her on the horse’s back. After she was well out of his reach, she dared a glance over her shoulder and found the man standing, but bent, with his hands on his knees. Standing was a fine thing; he’d be able to get out of the cold at least.

She slowed her horse and could not resist one last taunt.

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

His head snapped up and even though she was turning away, she feared his glare was far too familiar.

I only imagined it,
she thought, while her clever mount wove through the trees for which she had no attention. The other one, the man who haunted her dreams and stole her sleep, would have no business in Scotland, surely.

Unless
. Her heart tripped at the thought of it.
Unless he came looking for me.

BONES FOR BREAD

The Scarlet Plumiere Series: Book 2

By L. L. Muir

AMAZON KINDLE EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

Ivy & Stone

www.llmuir.weebly.com

Bones for Bread © 2013 Lesli Muir Lytle

All rights reserved

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This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication

To Dorothy

For your honesty of life,

your blindness in love,

and for passing it all down.

You are my hero.

PROLOGUE

The Pipe and Spittle, Brigadunn, Scottish Highlands, 1816

The nervous wench set a pint just within his easy reach and scurried away like a wee mousie from a cat.

He snorted. It must have been his rare-seen smile that frightened her, but he couldna hide his glee for all the tryin’ in the world. Though the rain be fallin’ sideways on the far side of the tavern door, it was a fine, fine day indeed.

He took a celebratory swig and used his sleeve to wipe the bubbles from his stubbled lip. The course cloth of it dragged across his face and he grimaced. If any man in Brigadunn deserved to wear finer clothes, it was he. But he couldna walk away from the role he played, at least not for a wee while anyhow.

But soon.

Soon.

He took another drink and let the suds alone, avoiding a second reminder of the rags he wore, favoring a happier thought.

He couldna understand why the Fates would deal so generously with him. After all, he was a ruthless man down to the bottom of his boots. He’d spilled more blood than Paddy had spilled beer, and truth be told, there was a time he would have let his own mother freeze if it meant her shawl would earn a bit of silver. So why would his enemy be delivered into his hands like a boon from Heaven?

As the warm drink disappeared down his gullet, he wondered at what sort of pagan god might have taken notice of him. What noble service might he have performed, accidentally, that would inspire some deity to bless him?

He could think of nothing. Truly.

Perhaps he was favored for being such an enterprising man. Wasn’t it written in The Bible that God preferred a soul who could help himself? So mayhap it had naught to do with the Fates, and all to do with God using a mortal arm to exact a bit of vengeance on the wicked—or at the very least, a man as ruthless as he.

A sign is what it was.

God was delivering his enemy to his very doorstep. What choice did he have but to do God’s will? If he and the Almighty were of a mind, there was a tree somewhere in the glen destined to feel the weight of the Right Honorable Earl of Ashmoore.

Or rather, his lordship’s weight and then some, for don’t a body weigh a bit more when it be swingin’?

He laughed when he imagined the look on Lord Ashmoore’s face when he realized not all his enemies lay in France.

CHAPTER ONE

The North of France, two years before
. . .

They’re coming!

Blair swung her heavy plaid skirts into an alley as the three English gentlemen stepped out of the tavern, their faces pinched in frustration and not from the glare of the afternoon sun. She was fair certain she wore the same expression—since
she
sought the same people
they
sought, their bad luck was hers to share.

She held her breath as they passed by, headed for their horses. Their steps were sharp and nearly in unison, as if they’d marched together so often that walking in cadence was a habit. Just as it was her heart’s habit to speed its rhythm as she anticipated getting caught.

For weeks, she’d observed the men, followed each errand, and listened in on every conversation she could. Sometimes accompanied by a common man, the three had combed a full circuit of the moderate town surrounding the Chateau de Sedan, with Blair following at a careful clip. And it had come to nothing.

What they all needed was a fresh wind of hope to fill their sails. And if they didn’t get some soon, she wondered how much longer she could keep trailing behind them, hoping they could see something she could not.

The gentlemen had just met with Etienne MacDonald, the Marshal of France himself. The aging man had sworn upon his life that if hostages were being held near his beloved Sedan, he would know it. They’d taken the man’s word and decided to look elsewhere.

Her eyes closed against the wave of disappointment pushing at her breast. The medieval chateau had looked so imposing, so sinister. She could easily imagine a large dungeon where hostages were locked away until their ransoms were paid. Even easier to imagine was the marshal filling the role of villain—but only until he’d spoken. There was nothing but honesty in his speech. Nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and he’d not even been looking her way.

Damn the man.

Her heart was weary, her body as weak as the soup she’d hovered over while eavesdropping. But the image of her brother, suffering in some bastard’s pit, prodded her on. If she allowed her mind to dwell on the fact that his ransom date had come and gone, she wouldn’t be able to keep her legs beneath her. Better to keep them moving, aye?

She sighed and peeked out of the alley. It was safe to follow.

If the men moved their arses, they could all return to their rooms in Charleville before the gloamin’. Rather than leave first and risk missing some detour, however, she had no choice but to wait and follow. But oh, how she wished she could collect her horse and give it its head. How she longed to scream her frustrations to the wind as it whipped her cloak out behind her and dried her tears even as they fell.

Instead, she would follow from a wee distance, as she had for more than two weeks now. And no doubt she’d end the day with picking her way along the dark streets of Charleville, hoping her feminine form would be none too obvious, hoping she would never need to clear her blade from her skirts and harm anyone. Though, today harming someone might be just the thing to soothe her spirits.

The gentlemen turned into the livery and she counted to twenty before she crossed the street to the less reputable looking stables where she’d left her own mount. She could have patronized the more respectable business, but it would do no good rubbing shoulders, even casually, with these men. They had proven to be more wary than most, and she was a mite surprised they hadn’t confronted her by now. They’d noticed her in their shadows. There were far too many glances in her direction to be accounted for otherwise. But perhaps they failed to see her as much of a threat.

She was not a threat, of course, to anyone but those who’d taken her brother. To them, she would be the Angel of Death. They would not be the first men she’d killed, but they might be the first to be deserving. It would be easier if they were deserving. Surely, they wouldn’t be allowed to haunt her if they were villains of which the world was well rid.

As they often did, the faces of those men she’d felled in battle rose to the fore of her mind and waited for her to bid them leave. But this time, she shook them away with a single toss of her head. She was weary enough for one day.

Thankfully, they didn’t hang about to argue.

As Blair came around the corner, the stable hand jumped to his feet, but relaxed when he noted it was her. The slow considering look he gave her, from toes to nose, would have made most women turn tail and run. She was not most women.