Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (2 page)

The fool took a bold step toward her.

She took a menacing step toward him.

“My horse,” she said firmly, not taking her gaze from his. “Now.”

He narrowed his eyes.

She narrowed hers.

Amused, he waited.

She gave him nary a blink.

Finally, he dropped his chin in a half nod, then did as he was bid.

She mounted before reaching for his payment—a single coin she fished from a small pocket in her cloak. She couldn’t help but smile at his disappointment, that he’d heard no chime of other coins on her person. There was no use of him asking for more.

She tossed his payment in the air. He released the bridle in order to catch it, and she turned the beast to go.

By the time she reached the street, she could still see the last two gentlemen riding out of town. Had the larger man taken a grand lead? Or was he still about? Had they sickened of being followed and meant to confront her on the road between them?

Her mount shifted its weight beneath her while she considered. But if she wished to reach Charleville—base camp, so to speak—she could not dally long. She drew a deep breath, huffed it out. Then she nudged her horse, urged it to the right, and entered the eastern flow of carts. She rode two blocks before turning, then continued a block to the north and turned west.

She sensed no one behind her as she left Sedan, but her imagination summoned myriad possibilities in her mind. By the time she reached Charleville, her head was fair spinning with foul deeds that might have happened along the road, leaving her spent and wearier for it. She would need to find a way to bridle her imaginings, however, for as soon as she found her brother and got him safely returned to Scotland, she was going to be alone for a fine long time. For it was certain she wouldn’t be returning with him.

She’d never be welcome home again, but Martin would. And didn’t young Finn need someone besides their aging father to look after him?

She entered Charleville long after the sun had set. Her grasp of time had been far afield all the week. But at least the buildings here were familiar to her. And well they should be, after a month of coming and going, first on her own, then following the Englishmen. For weeks she’d searched the area around Charleville, finding nothing. Then, when the English had arrived, themselves searching for kidnappers, she’d felt in her soul she was in the right place. But their two weeks of searching had turned up no more than hers had.

So frustrating, like looking for a lost shoe near its mate. You know it’s there. It has to be there. But for all the looking, you canna see it.

Behind her, a foot shuffled against the cobbled road and she saw in her mind a figure made of shadow rising up to steal her away to some faery hill.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered. Wasn’t it always herself who chided her fellow Scots against wasting their lives with foolish superstitions? Of course it was. If they could but see her now, shaking and silly over childish fancies, they would chase her from the village.

She forced her mind onto pleasanter thoughts. Again, a dark figure rose in her imagination. This one was not so sinister, but made her heart race at the same clip. The Englishman in black. The tall one who could wrap her neatly in his arms and pull her into the recesses of his soul if she wasn’t careful.

She could not resist glancing around her, wondering—if he appeared, there, in the dark street behind her—would she run?

CHAPTER TWO

Blair left her horse in the hands of a capable lad, then walked through the rear entrance to the Hotel Place Ducale. Although she had rented a room in the same establishment as the Englishmen, there was little risk of rubbing shoulders with them there; they’d let a suite of rooms on the second floor, she’d let a small maid’s room on the ground floor for which she was charged no mouse fee. After all, who could guarantee there would be no vermin below stairs?

She was relieved to see all three of the gentlemen’s horses being wiped down in the yard. The men, she expected, were tucked in nicely at the auberge around the corner where they usually took their meals—and their libations. The wise thing to do would be to follow them there, to eavesdrop on their next plan, but she was wilted as a thirsty thistle and wanted only her bed.

The disappointment of the day was tugging at her heart and if she got to sleep quickly, she might avoid her now-regular nightmares. And another day would bring another chance at finding Martin.

No matter how discouraged the Englishmen were at night, they were always up with the sun with a new plan, a new place to look, a new lead to follow. They had yet to fail her since the day they’d arrived in Reims, the day she’d realized they, too, were searching for kidnappers in the area. And because she had run out of leads herself, she’d attached herself to their tailcoats—from a distance, of course—and thanked God she had been given new hope of finding her brother. All she needed to do was keep them in sight and pray they succeeded where she had failed.

Heaven forgive her, she was even too tired for proper prayer. Tonight, she would have to leave the worrying to her trio of heroes.

When the attendant mumbled a greeting, Blair found herself leaning on the polished hotel desk, staring into a faraway corner.

The fellow looked down his nose at her, as he’d done each time she’d asked for the key to her room. Apparently he could not forgive her for that first night when he’d suggested he join her in her room for a drink—and she’d laughed. But tonight, there was a bit of a sneer to one side of his nose.

He placed her key on the counter, then pulled his hand back quickly, as if he were afraid she might touch him. What she was tempted to do, if she weren’t so weary, was to free Wolfkiller from its sheath, slice the nasty man’s cravat in half, then sheath the blade beneath her skirts before the man could catch a flash of candlelight. For the time being, she would simply have to enjoy the fact that she could do it.

She scooped up the key and laughed as she walked away, surprised she had the strength for even that.

The single sconce in the servant’s hallway had not been lit. Her room would be the fourth on the left, far enough into the darkness to give her pause. If it were any other day, she might insist the attendant come light the way for her, just to cause him bother, but with her small haven so near, she could feel her pluck quickly draining from her. Her legs wobbled to get her attention—they would get her to the door and no further. A walk back to the lobby was out of the question.

No matter. She could feel her way. And getting the key in the lock would be a simple trick. She’d done it dozens of times. She could do it in the dark.

Blair walked into the shadows and reached out for the wall, counting the doors as she passed them.

One.

Two.

There should be a table.

There was.

Three.

Four.

She couldn’t bluster away the image of that shadowy creature standing behind her yet again, lying in wait for the moment she would turn her attention to unlocking her door. Her heart jumped and bumped in her chest as she struggled to find the keyhole. She’d expected the task to be so much easier.

Finally, the key slid home and she turned it. Refusing to act the ninny, she walked quietly inside and closed the door behind her, as if a scream wasn’t building in her chest and demanding to be released.

Locking the door in the dark was a simple feat. She blew out her breath in controlled silence, then pressed her back to the door. Her hood was heavy as she lifted it from her hair and pushed it onto her shoulders. Next, she freed a heavy comb from her nape and shook her head, welcoming the cool air into her curls.

“So,” came a dark voice from beside her. “
Vous este une femme
.”
You are a woman
.

As she jumped away, her hand went immediately to her skirt pocket. Her fingers stretched through the hole inside which led to a scabbard secured to her thigh. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt of Wolfkiller, but before she could pull the blade free, hands grasped at her, then arms descended around her, encircling her, holding her arms to her sides.

“Whoa, there.
Vous n’este pas dans danger, madesmoiselle. Je vous assure
.”
You are not in danger. I assure you.

An Englishman, no matter his lack of accent. The mixture of English and French made it clear enough. The hunter had become the hunted; they’d noticed her after all.

Fighting would hardly be wise, but struggling came naturally. They wouldn’t hurt her. She’d been watching them so long, she felt as if she already knew them. But she’d be damned if she would concede control of her person to anyone.

The one she fought against had to be the large one they called Ash who always wore black and spoke not half as often as his friends—the man whose posture tensed when she came near, the man who invoked a bit of tension in herself, truth be told. And the more she struggled, the closer he held her.

She stilled, the realization much more disturbing than being held against her will. She was pressed against his chest, her head turned with her ear against his heart. Heaven help her but he was a tall drink. And wide as well. She was squeezed up against the center of him but there was room to both sides. He could likely hold two of her just as easily.

A rather stirring scent tickled her nose and not at all unpleasant. She refused to take a deep breath of him, however. Not only would she give away the fact that he had some effect on her, but she suspected she might enjoy his scent so much she’d never be able to scrub it from her memory. And scrub it she would. The horrors of war and the search for Martin were memories she soon planned to load onto a ship with her brother and send away.

Blair huffed, as much to expel the stranger from her nose as to let him know she was finished with being held down.

“Parlez Anglais?” he asked.

“Oui.” She let him know two things with her strained answer, that she did speak French, and that he was holding her too tightly.

He loosened his hold, but only just.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle. For all I knew you would run me through with your impressive blade before I had a chance to speak.”

Impressive? When had the man ever seen Wolfkiller?

It was a question she would not voice. Instead, she asked, “The lobby would not do well enough for a conversation?”

He laughed, his low voice rumbling deep in his chest and into her own.

“I’m going to move you away from the door, now. I’ll not have you escaping before I have the chance to light a candle. And I must remove your weapon. Surely you can understand why.”

She took up struggling again, but it impeded him not at all.

Slowly, but easily, he moved her hand away from her pocket, then grasped her wrist with his other hand, completely controlling her with one arm alone. Slowly, without a bit of conscience, he slid his free hand down along her side.

She gasped. “Ye wouldna dare!”

His hand froze, but she suspected it wasn’t her words that gave him pause, but her accent. He’d thought her French and she’d just let her brogue slip what with the shock of having a man dare to put his hands on her. He took a slow breath, then another, his chest inflating against her each time he did so.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, but his hand resumed its path down her side. When his fingers searched the folds of her skirt for her pocket, she fought with everything she had left, finding to her surprise that his presence inspired more strength than the bit she’d walked through the door with. But she couldn’t simply stand there and allow him to find the hole in her pocket.

She could no longer afford to fight like a lady.

“Get yer hands from me ye great bloody bastard!”

If he was shocked by her language, it failed to slow his search. He spun her around and pressed her against the wall with his body, still holding tight to her hand, which pinned her arm between her body and the wall. She screamed, for all the good it would do her. Any who heard her voice would likely assume she’d seen a wee mousie, or a rat.

The lack of comment from his friends told her they were not in the room.

She was alone, in the dark, with the man they called Ash. The fascinating one. The man who slayed the dragons of her nightmares and stomped out the evil faeries who’d taken her brother and had come for her.

The man whose hand was roaming up and down her leg!

He finally found the pocket, then reached
beyond
it, and she realized the man must have been watching her closely indeed to know where her best weapon lay.

Then she remembered his first words to her. “
So, you are a woman
.”

He hadn’t been surprised she was a woman. He’d
known!

She clamped her mouth tight and bucked against him, then froze when she realized such a move would be the most foolish of all.

The weight of him was suddenly gone, as was the weight of her dagger. She hadn’t even noticed him touch her leg. Also gone were his hands and the heat from his proximity. Blair was simply grateful for the darkness that concealed her blush, for she
was
blushing. Her cheeks burned as if she’d laid a hot coal to each of them.