Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (13 page)

As disgusted as she was by his breath and the odd lump in his lip, she allowed it. Kissing him back would have been impossible. She only hoped that whomever he’d mistaken her for wouldn’t have been eager for him either. There were redheads aplenty in Scotland. And if much time had passed, he likely misremembered the woman’s face. Unless she wanted to die, she must keep him believing, at least until she got her hands on another weapon.

“Won’t we travel too slowly on just one horse?” she asked carefully.

“Nay, Princess. They’ll be heading for the city, to a doctor. They have what they came for. No need to chase after me. And by the sounds of it, they didn’t have much use for ye, either.”

Blair ignored the reminder, ignored the kick to her stomach, and realized she did have a bit of hope left after all. If Ash really believed she was party to Northwick’s kidnapping, he would come for her, if only to kill her. . ..

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Come now, Princess,” the Scot said softly. “Another kiss before I put you in the saddle, aye?”

Before the man could put his lips on her a second time, Ash’s brought his blade between them and pulled. The sharp blade slid through sinew as easily as flesh. Of course he might have been a bit too enthusiastic, since he nearly took the man’s head from his shoulders, but he couldn’t find it in him to be contrite. In fact, he couldn’t find a tender feeling anywhere in his enraged body at the moment, and a good thing too. It wouldn’t be easy to kill the woman. Best to just have done with it and go.

“About bloody time ye arrived,” she said.

He paused to consider his response and whether or not it would be bad manners not to clean his blade before using it on the fairer sex.

“Are you not ruffled in the least,” he asked, “that a man has nearly been decapitated as he leaned in to collect another kiss from you?”
Another
kiss. A
second
kiss. Because she’d already kissed the blackheart once before, damn her.

“Doona be a fool. He clearly mistook me for someone else.”

She used the hem of her cloak to wipe at the bastard’s blood smeared across her breast. She’d simply stepped back as his body had fallen at her feet, the cold-hearted witch.

“Clearly,” he sneered. “But wouldn’t he have discovered his error the moment he’d tasted your lips the first time?”

Her head shot up, her eyes wide.

“Tasted? I. . . Can you tell what someone tastes like?”

A deep breath was not enough to pull his mind back from where her innocent comment had sent it, so he leaned forward and busied himself cleaning this blade on the dead Scot’s shirt.

When he stood again, gripping the hilt of that blade with intent, she seemed completely oblivious to her danger. She couldn’t seem to keep her attention on anything but his lips. When she finally glanced down at his weapon, however, she instantly paled.

She shook her head and looked away.

“Ye decided I was the enemy long before the bastard kissed me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, then reconsidered and forced them to her sides. “And of course, we’re the both of us Scots.” She swallowed. Her eyes shone, moist with tears. “Already yer enemy by blood alone.”

He realized what she was trying to accomplish. She was trying to make herself angry at him, to keep her fear at bay.

She turned her back suddenly. Her head never bowed, but her shoulders shook slightly. She took a slow breath. Then another. He could hear her swallow. Could tell when she caught her breath again and held it. Then let it go.

For a full five minutes, he stood there, refusing to be moved by her silent tears, refusing to offer comfort to an enemy he was about to execute. But even so, his stomach clenched over and over while he waited.

But hadn’t he been expecting her to cry? Hadn’t he, minutes ago, been hoping her brother would be there to comfort her when the horrors of the day finally settled in her mind?

He was just about to take a step toward her when she again pulled up the hem of her cloak, wiped her face, then dropped it once more.

Then she turned. Her face was red but dry. She kept her eyes cast down.

“I’m ready,” she said boldly, but her voice faltered.

She lifted her chin. Swallowed. The blood drying on her neck cracked along the edges, folded into little lines.

He adjusted the grip on his blade.

She closed her eyes.

“Inverness,” she whispered. “Remind yer friend.”

Inverness
. Either Harcourt or Stanley had promised to get her brother as far as Inverness.

She was trying to distract him, make him believe the unconscious man was really her brother, that she’d been telling the truth all along.

“
She’s one of them
,” he remembered the man say from the next cell. He’d likely been referring to Scotia and not the other woman. It was Scotia who condemned her, after all. And he’d carried out the sentence without question. Scotia who had killed the woman as surely as he had.

And it was Scotia who was toying with him now.

No! Not Scotia
. Just a woman. An evil one with no name who would use her considerable talents to find other victims if he allowed her to escape.

Though she made no sound, tears leaked from the corners of both eyes and poured in opposite rivers toward the sides of her face.

“Please doona torture me, Englishman.” Her voice was little more than a whisper sent skyward. A prayer.

A Scotswoman refusing to call an Englishman
my lord.

Another rush of tears damped the edges of her hair. Curls had escaped their confines and lay beside her neck, but none would impede the sword. A sleek but strong neck. A neck he had, more than once, imagined kissing.

His wild imaginings were pushed aside by an emotion he couldn’t identify—or wouldn’t. And he finally acknowledged the fact that he would never harm her. Even if she proved to be the enemy.

“Ah, Scotia. What am I to do with you?”

She opened her eyes, lowered her chin, confused. He knew the very second she realized he wasn’t going to kill her—she crumbled into a heap in the straw and sobbed.

She had believed it all along.
Well, and why shouldn’t she?
demanded a voice in his head.

“You knew I would come?” he asked awkwardly. He couldn’t console her, but perhaps he could distract her. “You never supposed I would take my friends and go?”

“I knew you would never let him get away unpunished.” She pointed at the body that lay between them. “And you still believe I’m one of them, do ye not? If ye mean to hang me, I’ll tell ye true I’d rather be done with it now.”

“No,” was the only word he could manage.

She nodded and pushed herself to her feet, then began brushing the straw from her horrid skirts. Realizing those skirts were beyond saving, she stopped. She was a bloody mess. Another tear slid off her cheek. She turned her back again and cried again, though silently.

He forced himself to stand his ground until he was certain what he would do. For only God knew what that would be.

Someone approached and he turned to find Harcourt enter the stable with his sword drawn. He glanced at the Scot’s body, then sheathed the weapon. Obviously, his friend believed the Scotsman had been the only threat remaining. Ash couldn’t bring himself to correct him for the moment.

“Here, now,” Harcourt said. “She’s crying.” He took a step toward the woman, but Ash stopped him. She might prove to be innocent in the end, but he wouldn’t risk his friend’s life until he knew for certain.

“Give me your weapons, if you mean to go near her.”

It was impossible to say whose gasp was louder—the woman’s or Harcourt’s.

She awkwardly moved to the wall and braced herself against it as if she could no longer stand on her own. Her curls trembled, as did his heart, but he dared not move.

“You can’t mean it,” his friend said, even while he unsheathed his sword once again and laid it upon the ground. He then pulled a knife from inside his collar and a dagger from his stocking. He handed them to Ash, though not without an admonishing frown before he hurried to the woman’s side and wrapped an arm around her back.

Seconds ticked by.

“Bring her,” Ash growled. His voice was harsh but every bit of him felt harsh when another man was touching her, even if that man were one of the Four Kings.

“No.” Her voice rang loud against the low ceiling. The horses’ ears flipped up and back. The saddled mare stomped nervously. Harcourt took a step back.

Finally she turned to face him. Even in the dim light, her face was red, dark. The look in her eyes had changed. It was as if another woman stood before them, no longer cowering in the corner, but filling it.

“If you mean to hang me, I suggest you find a tree and a rope. I’ll not follow you another step.”

For all her bravado, the fresh stream of tears gave her away.

“Bring her,” he said again, then turned and walked out.

He’d taken half a dozen large strides up the hillside when he heard it—the absolutely inconsolable weeping of a possibly innocent woman.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The wagon they’d taken from the Palais des Morts had proven too jarring for some of the more seriously injured, so they’d had no choice but to stop and rest mid-morning. They left the road but did not halt until they were well out of sight of it. The party was split between those who feared more villains would come for them, and those who
hoped
they would come, if there were, indeed, more of them.

Blair was simply content her brother was safe. Everyone seemed certain the effects of the drug would wear off soon, but that was just the problem—the effects would wear off soon. Of course she wished to speak with him, to ensure he was well, to hear his voice and see his eyes alight with recognition. But it was a luxury she’d decided she shouldn’t accept.

If she was to have any hope of Martin returning home without her, he
must
believe her dead. And if she was dead, she could not revel in reunion. She needed to get on her horse and put a great deal of distance between herself and the man who still didn’t trust her. A man who might at any moment convince himself it was time to hang her after all.

“Do not be dismayed, miss,” Harcourt said as he bathed her face. “Most women suffer a similar reaction to violent battle. Surely you remember it, if you were at Bergen op Zoom.”

Blair closed her eyes and sighed. She’d barely gathered her wits about her and already this one was testing her. So much for thinking of him as the kind one.

“73
^rd
Highland Regiment. Under Gibbs. Would ye care to know how many men I killed and what they looked like?” she asked pleasantly. “I assure ye I can describe them all. Each man comes to me at night to tell me about their wives and children. Or would ye care to know about the battle? Of course, I could have read all that in a paper, could I not?”

He paused in his ministrations to laugh, but went right back to washing her.

“I’m relieved you seem to have no wounds, miss.”

“And ye think if ye keep calling me ‘miss’ I’ll get impatient and tell ye my name.”

He grinned. “And will you?”

“No.”

“My given name, by the way, is Presley.”

“Presley.” She gave him the sternest look she could muster.

“Yes, miss?”

“I had never seen that Scotsman before in my life. I have no idea who he supposed me to be. The man lying over there is my brother. Though his features are distorted and swollen, I know his hands well. We worked beside each other all our lives. You’ll find a scar on his wrist just here.” She demonstrated on her own wrist. “From a wolf pup he raised. When the wolf turned wild and attacked him, I killed it with my blade. As its name is Wolfkiller, and is possibly older than Scotland herself, I doubt that was the first wolf it killed. I’d like it back, by the way. I’ve never traveled unarmed before.”

Wolfkiller landed in the dirt beside her, followed by one skean dhu, then the other.

She looked up to see the dark one looming over her. She looked down quickly.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then tucked the blade in the sheath that was currently strapped to her leg over the breeches someone had acquired for her from the keep. As soon as she was able, she would burn them, of course, but her dress was soaking wet and so completely stained with blood one would assume the original color was black. She tucked the daggers into her boots. Though equally blood-stained, she kept them on. One can never run quite as fast as when one is wearing one’s own boots.