Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (15 page)

“So, in truth, ye owe me yer life, ye might say.” She rolled her eyes coyly.

He nodded. “Indeed, I do, my lady. As I said, I owe you all.”

She smiled at the honor he’d given without pause.

“I would thank you in whatever way would make you happy, I assure you,” he said simply. She waited for conditions, but he added none.

She gained her feet as ladylike as possible considering her breeches. “I already have a promise from Stanley, that he’ll see to it my brother is helped as far as Inverness. It would make me happy if you and all your friends would support the story that I died.”

Northwick laughed. “Do you realize
Stanley
is Viscount Forsgreen,
His Grace
, the future duke of Rochester?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. I’ve been eavesdropping for weeks.”

“Ah.” He laughed again.

She pointed to Wolfkiller. “It would also make me happy if you gave this to my brother when you tell him. It will help convince him that I’m dead. Tell him I died of a fever. I won’t have him torturing himself, thinking I’d died trying to rescue him.”

“Done.” His head bowed briefly, but solemnly.

“Will ye fair well enough, if I leave ye here?”

He waved her away. “Ash will be back shortly, have no fear.”

She bent and kissed the man on the cheek, then looked to the trees. Without a horse, she needed to move fast.

“And what shall I tell him?” North asked quietly. Apparently he was grateful enough not to raise a hue and cry if she fled.

She considered for a moment. A dozen silly possibilities went through her head, but she discarded all but three.

“Tell him. . .tell him I was never the enemy. That he should wear a white shirt at least on the Blue Moon. Tell him I had to leave because. . .because I have many more men to taste.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ash had everyone mounted and loaded and still they hadn’t returned.

If she was suffering another bout of wailing, she would have to finish along the way. He was done with waiting.

He stomped through the trees to give her enough notice to compose herself, but as he crested the little rise he saw Northwick lying on the ground with a smile on his face. But Scotia was nowhere in sight!

As he bent over his friend, he noticed the Viking blade at his side and relaxed. Surely the lass would never have left without it.

“Northwick. Wake up, man.” He held out a hand when North’s eyes opened, then pulled him gently to his feet before collecting the weapon. “Where is Scotia?”

North smiled, but the smile dropped away along with Ash’s stomach.

“She’s gone, Ash. I’m sorry. She asked for a boon and I had no choice but to grant it.”

Denial came easy. “She wouldn’t leave without her weapon, surely. And a horse. She wouldn’t be so foolish. . .” But then again, she’d believed he was going to execute her. Any smart woman would have run. He was the foolish one, not to have expected it.

He found it hard to breathe and turned away so North wouldn’t notice. He searched the trees, trying to guess which way she’d gone. Even in thick woods, he could catch up to her quickly on horse. He’d beg her forgiveness. She’d grant it. They’d embrace for an hour or so, then they’d join the others on the road. He just had to get Northwick back to the others.

“She had a message,” North said as Ash wrapped an arm around him.

“And what was that?”

“She said to tell you she was never the enemy.”

Ash grunted, refusing to admit what he’d believed one way or the other, for it was true, he’d gone back and forth on the matter a hundred times.

“Did she tell you how she knew how to find you and her brother?”

“No. But I admit I never asked.”

Ash grunted again.

At the top of the rise, he paused for North’s sake.

“There is more,” his friend said. “She suggested you wear a white shirt at least once in a blue moon.”

Ash laughed. The fact that she’d thought it right for him to wear a white shirt gave him the ridiculous impression that she saw something redeemable in him. It was also a fact that until that moment, he hadn’t realized why he’d always felt most comfortable in black clothing. And waving from the rear of his thoughts was the idea that if this woman could forgive him for misjudging her, then some minor mercies might also be within his reach. Of course, he’d have to find her first.

He sobered, remembering his friend was watching him closely. “Anything else?”

North grinned, then grimaced, then grinned again. The truth be told, Ash was glad to see the man enjoying himself, even at his own expense.

“Tell me,” he said, then reached for North’s arm so they could get moving.

North evaded him. “I think I’ll stand back a bit while I tell you.”

Ash folded his arms and waited, feigning patience. He toed the fragile start of a pine tree pushing its way out of the dirt.

“She said she had to leave. . .” North took another step back. “God as my witness. . .because she has
many more men to taste.”

In one long step, Ash closed the distance and grabbed North’s shoulders. He then turned his friend to face the way they’d come.

“Which way did she go, North?”

His friend laughed.

“Which way!”

Eventually, North got hold of himself and pointed.

Ash left him teetering on the knoll.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Two years later, Scotland

“I regret to report, Laird Ashmoore, that yer stock was taken last eve.” Allen Balliol stood with hat in hand, though to Ash he did not appear the least bit regretful. Balliol had been making himself at home in the manor when Ash had arrived a week ago to take control of the cursed Scottish property. Being demoted to the position of shepherd had perhaps soured the man’s disposition. But no matter.

Ash raised a brow. “I am sorry to hear that, Balliol. Pray allow the Frenchwoman to see to your wounds.”

The man laughed, as did his two sons, one perhaps twenty years, the other half as old.

“I received no wounds, sir. They trussed me up, but dared not harm
me
. I supposed ye’re unaware that Balliol is a royal family north of Hadrian’s wall. . .yer lairdship.” Balliol’s chest lifted, as did his nose.

“Then allow the woman to treat the damage done by the ropes.” Ash gestured toward the kitchens where the Frenchwoman, Fantine, proved daily that she was just as talented a cook as she was a healer.

Balliol frowned and waved his wrists in front of him. “No damage.”

Ash folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. The older son took a step back, but his father stood his ground. The young one merely looked back and forth between them all as if expecting entertainment.

“So. You did not try to liberate yourself? To raise a cry?” Ash took a threatening step forward, which usually sent men running. The fact that Balliol remained unaffected, after losing a hundred head, meant the Scot would need to be cowed another way. Ash would have to make an example of him in order for the rest of his sojourn in Scotland to be relatively peaceful. For peace was what he’d come for, no matter what his friends back in London believed.

Balliol rolled his eyes and smirked. “I dared not struggle.”

“I thought you said
they
would dare not harm
you
,” said Ash.

The older son glanced nervously behind him, at the open doorway. The young one laughed. His father clouted him on the ear, though gently. And in the doing, Balliol exposed his weakness.

“It be The Highland Reaper’s men that took ‘em,” the older man said with a roll of his eyes. “None can be expected to fight against The Reaper. Ye’ll learn that soon enough.”

Actually, I will not be the one learning today
.

Ash looked at the boy. “Your name, son. What is it?”

“This is me own lad, Finn.” Balliol took half a step to the side, clearly ready to protect the boy.

Ash looked at the nervous one. “And you?”

Balliol answered again. “Me oldest, Martin. Fought against Napoleon. Came home a hero.”

Martin blanched. Ash would wager the young man had either told his father tales, or the father lied on his behalf. As expected, the question served to get the man’s attention off the younger one.

“Come here, Finn.”

The boy stepped forward eagerly, oblivious to his father’s grasping fingers.

Ash took the lad’s shoulder, led him to his side, then turned him so they both faced his father.

“Finn Balliol,” he said, “you are my hostage until my animals are returned. Do you understand?”

The boy’s eyes widened as he took in the significance of the hand on his shoulder. Then he looked at his father, whose face was rapidly turning purple. Finally, he looked up at his captor and nodded.

Ash removed his hand. “I will ask for your word of honor that you will not try to escape.”

The boy’s eyes went wider still. He frowned at his father for a moment, then down at his overlarge boots. When he finally lifted his chin, he nodded once, then avoided looking at his father altogether.

Balliol screamed in frustration and headed for his son, but a heartbeat later, Ash had a short blade at the man’s neck.

“Ye canna have me lad! Take the other one, if ye mun!” Balliol was in anguish. The lad meant a great deal to him; he would learn quicker than expected.

“You cannot have my stock, sir. Return them and the boy will be yours again. Return them not, and the boy remains with me, to raise as I see fit.”

“Ye bloody bastard!”

Finn came forward and wrapped his arms around his father as if he were afraid the man would press himself into the dagger. “Dinna worry, da. Just go ask The Reaper to give them back. And dinna forget the pony!”

Ash growled. “They have my horses?”

Finn shook his head. “They left you one so you could leave Scotland faster than if you walked.”

Balliol squeezed a handful of his son’s hair, then stepped back. The look he gave Ash promised vengeance. “Spill but a drop of his blood, I will kill you for it.” With that, he headed for the door, but at the entrance, he paused without turning. “Feed him. He’s wee yet.” Then he was gone.

Oh, but Ash nearly felt sorry for this Reaper fellow.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Highland Reaper hurried from her tent to interview the runner. The man was seated on a log with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his wind, but jumped to his feet when she approached. With the false shoulders beneath her black cloak, none would guess she was a woman, at least as long as they never heard her speak. Of course, someone would, eventually. She just had to do as much good as she could for her fellow Scots before someone saw through the disguise. Or beneath it.

And when they did, she’d have to leave her beloved country again—if her neck was not in a noose.

Jarvill hurried to her side to act as her voice. She had spread word that The Reaper’s throat had been cut while fighting in Antwerp, and that he was now reduced to whispering. Besides the excuse for her voice never to be heard, it also served to fortify the belief that The Highland Reaper was not an easy man to kill.

“Who are ye, then?” Jarvill demanded.