Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (17 page)

“Tomorrow morning, Finn, be certain you are in place to pull her chair out for her.”

“Yes, sir.” By his tone, one would think the boy had been ordered to the most disgusting chore imaginable.

Nursemaid. If he didn’t hire one, Earnest Merriweather, Earl of Ashmoore, was going to be playing the part.

Halfway through the meal, the silence became tedious.

“Tell me of the rest of your family, Finn. What of your mother? Should we send ‘round a note assuring her of your safety? Promise her you’ve been well fed?”

“I’ve no mum,” Finn said around a mouthful of food. “She died when I was born.”

Ash decided the lad had been given enough dining instruction for one day and decided further table manners could wait until Finn no longer worried that each meal might be his last.

He resumed the conversation over rolls and butter.

“Brothers and sisters, Finn?”

“Ye’ve met Martin.” Half a roll disappeared while the words escaped.

Ash nodded. “No sisters then?”

“Just the dead one.”

The boy had tried to sound flippant about it, but there was a sting there, in his eyes.

“So, just the three of you, then?”

“Aye.”

The lad’s eyes filled with tears. For a brief moment, Ash thought the lad might even stop chewing, heaven forfend.

“And this sister of yours. What is your fondest memory of her?” he asked. Truth be told, he couldn’t recall a meal during which he’d actually encouraged conversation. He was typically a man of very few words. Why he felt the need to cheer this boy was a mystery.

After a deep breath, the boy’s face lightened. “Shakespeare,” he said.

Ash offered a genuine smile. “She read you Shakespeare?”

“Oh, aye, she did that, but I mean my pet owl, Shakespeare. She raised him, then gave him over to me when. . .when she knew she’d be leaving, about the same time Martin began nattering on about going to war.”

“A pet owl, you say?” For a moment, Ash was reminded of the owl ring and the woman who’d given it to him, but he shook the memory away and gave the lad his attention.

“Well, ye see,” Finn said, “an owlet isna so clever. It thinks the first thing it sees is its mum. And so Shakespeare thought my sister was his mum. She trained it so it would only feed from her hand. Would never e’en kill a mouse for himself, silly creature. But he’s clever in other ways, of course.”

Ash smiled, more than a little relieved the lad’s tears were gone. “I’m sure he is.”

Finn reached for another roll but paused and waited for Ash’s nod of permission before taking one. Then he launched into a list of things he’d fed to the owl at one time or another. When he could think of nothing more to add, he looked down at his empty hands, obviously wondering where the roll had disappeared to, as if he didn’t remember shoving little pieces of it into his mouth as he spoke.

Ash pushed the plate and last three rolls under Finn’s chin. One would have thought it was Christmas.

It must have been the Highland air to blame, but he found himself curious. “Your sister knew she was leaving? Do you mean to say she knew she was dying? Was she ill?”

“Nay. She got sick long after she left.” Finn took a drink, as if the last roll were stuck in his throat. Then he set the glass aside and continued on, a bit more cheerfully. “But wee Shakespeare would feed only from her hand, and so would starve without her. So at first, I would wrap my hand around hers when she fed him. After a bit, I would hold the meat and she would wrap her hand around mine. Eventually Shakespeare began eating from my hand with my sister standing off a ways. But then one morning she was gone and the owl had no choice in the matter, aye?”

“Sounds like a clever lass,” Ash admitted. He felt his supper rising in his throat as punishment for letting his mind stray to another clever lass he’d known, once upon a time. He’d wasted three weeks of his life trying to find that particular Scotswoman. When he’d finally come home with his tail tucked, his friends had blessedly agreed to never again speak of her or their French nightmare. He only hoped his friends were doing a better job of forgetting.

“Och, aye, she was clever. Father called her something else, but I’ll not repeat it. He told her if she left, she would be dead to ‘im. When we came in from the fields one day, my sister had left us a cold supper on the table and a letter under the salt. Da tossed it into the fire without readin’ it.”

Finn’s eyes were filling again.

“And where is this owl now?” asked Ash, hoping the bird was not dead as well. Why the hell hadn’t he simply allowed the lad to eat in silence?

“He’s back at the old home with me father, where we lived before movin’ into yer fine manor. It’s not far, so I never brought the bird here.” Finn frowned. “I reckon he’ll need to feed in few more days.”

“Well, then, let’s hope The Highland Reaper returns the cattle before Shakespeare gets peckish.”

Finn swallowed. “And if not?”

Ash huffed. What did the lad expect, leniency for a bird’s sake? If Finn Balliol didn’t understand that he was the hostage of one of the deadliest men in England, it was high time he realized it. The Earl of Ashmoore could bend other men to his will with simple stare. He did not go about bending to the tears of children.

Although Finn’s eyes were dry, his chin quivered, but only the once. His hands gripped the edge of the table. His back was straight as if expecting a blow. Perhaps the lad did understand after all.

Ash set his napkin aside, stood, and pushed his chair beneath the table.

“If The Reaper fails you,” he said, “he’ll fail the bird as well.” He toed the leg of his chair with a shiny boot, unwilling to see what reaction his reply might have earned. “But it just so happens,” he continued, “that I’m rather fond of that particular playwright. I’m certain there is something resembling a mews here at Brigadunn.”

He’d barely gotten the words out before he was attacked ‘round the middle. If the child had been fed better, he might have knocked Ash to the ground with his demonstration.

He refrained from encouraging the lad and held his hands high lest he be tempted to rest them on the small shoulders.

“Finn Balliol, I’ve done you no favors,” he said sharply.

The boy straightened and stepped back, biting his lips to keep from smiling.

“You cannot expect my servants to construct this mews, do you hear? You’ve hard work ahead of you. And any scraps you feed to that blasted bird will have to be earned.”

Finn threw back his shoulders and stared ahead as any soldier might. Ash paced before him like some commanding officer caught up, if only for the moment, in pandering to a child. He remembered all too fondly the days of playing soldier, long before the realities of war and blood, and the deaths of comrades changed his dreams. He could not begrudge the lad enjoying the game while he could.

“You will not leave the immediate grounds,” he barked. “And if I call your name, I expect you to appear immediately. Remember, you are on your honor here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ash was surprised the boy didn’t salute, especially when his own hand rose of its own accord. He pushed a wayward lock of hair from his forehead and quit the room before he was tempted to ransack the house in search of miniature soldiers. He walked to the study in search of parchment, intent on sending for a small set of such toys for the lad, but before he’d so much as located a pen, he crumpled the parchment into his fist.

What in the world had he been thinking? The cattle would be restored and young Finn Balliol would be collected by his father. And he’d be damned if he was going to play soldiers himself. His time would be better spent considering the war in which he was presently engaged. . .

. . .the war with a man called The Reaper.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ash headed for the manor after making certain his mare was secure. If the outlaw decided to come take his last mount, the clever strategy would be to sleep in the stables. It would make their inevitable meeting more probable, and the sooner the better. After he had removed the so-called curse from the property, he could find a more hospitable place to spend his summer. He certainly wasn’t ready to head back to London, but there was something to be said for a good night’s sleep when one did not fear what one might wake to find in the morning. Or rather, wake to find missing.

He’d known the cattle would be taken as soon as they’d arrived, but he’d lain awake for two nights before The Reaper got ‘round to collecting them. He thought it might be easier to sleep after the bait had been taken, but he doubted he’d rest much tonight unless he brought the mare into the house and slept on the animal’s back. Even then, he would not be surprised to wake up in the morning to find that he’d been kidnapped right along with the horse.

Surely, out of spite, The Reaper would come for more instead of returning the rest, for why would the villain care for the fate of a single boy? Ash was not surprised to find himself affronted on behalf of young Finn. The lad was clever, fearless even, and if Ash was not careful, he would come to care for the lad.

Snow was coming. He could smell it. No matter that the skies had been blue all day, there was no mistaking the impression of change in the air. Indeed, so strong was that impression, he wondered what other change, besides the weather, might be imminent. Of course, in Scotland, there was little chance of spring making an appearance in March, but it was not the change of season that he sensed.

A shudder ran down his spine and he stopped in his tracks. Something was amiss. Perhaps The Reaper had come, just as Ash suspected he would.

He turned and looked back toward the stable he’d left only a moment before. Thanks to the moon riding low on the far side of the manor house, his dark form would not be easy to discern, even though he was standing in the open.

The items he’d propped against the stable doors leaned exactly where he’d positioned them. A large and noisome cart blocked the only other access to his mare.

He stood, still as death, and waited. Nothing moved. No breeze to usher in the storm. Even the moonlight held its position on the outbuildings.

He turned and looked at the house, expecting to see Finn still standing all forlorn at parlor’s side windows, like a little boy who’d been forbidden to play outside. It was well past time for the lad to be abed, but Ash had told him he could make his own decisions, so long as he stayed put. A little responsibility was good for a body.

But Finn wasn’t at the window. Deeper within the house, a light was doused. Nothing strange there, if it weren’t for that shiver now tickling behind his ears. What if The Reaper had come, not for the horse, but for the lad?

Ash’s legs burst into action, though he made little sound as he hurried to a window. He closed his eyes for just a moment so they might adjust to the darkness within. Then he pressed his head to the edge of the frame and peered inside.

Two forms stood in the entrance to the parlor. The first was easily Finn. No other young lads were about the place. The other looked to be Sarah. They were arguing again. Perhaps they’d never ceased. Ash had left the house an hour before to get away from the god-awful noise. Sarah presumed to boss the boy in spite of him reminding her, each and every instance, that she was not his keeper.

It looked as if Sarah had decided the boy should be in bed and was trying to drag him there. But Finn’s bed was above stairs and she was trying to pull him toward the rear of the house, away from the staircase. She appeared to be of a size to accomplish the deed, but something was amiss.

Sarah was not a full head taller than Finn, was she?

Ashmoore wanted to clout himself on the head when he finally realized that the woman could not be Sarah. Neither could it be the larger Frenchwoman. The mass of hair should have given her away as well, or perhaps the woman wore a hood. It could not be Finn’s mother or sister trying to rescue him, for they were dead. She simply must be in league with The Reaper!

Ash headed for the kitchen door at the back of the house, expecting to find the villain waiting there, surprised when he was not. But did he dare wait for the female accomplice outside, or confront her inside? He had no doubt their tug of war was due to the fact that Finn refused to be rescued, but the woman didn’t seem to be giving him a choice.

Ash was grateful for well-oiled hinges as he entered the kitchens. The house was silent. Unnaturally silent. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar enough with the place to avoid a large basket on the floor and the damned thing went skittering across the stones as if it were purposefully trying to give him away.

With stealth denied him, he ran for the front hall, awkwardly reaching out to feel the walls to either side of him. If the woman fired in his direction, she’d be hard-pressed to miss her target.

His heart jumped when a body slammed into him and wrapped its arms about his waist. Ash’s hands came down on Finn’s shoulders, but did not push him away.

“Finn! Are you hurt?”

“No,” the child mumbled.

Then Ash realized Finn was impeding his progress on purpose!