Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (25 page)

The Frenchwoman snorted. “It occurred to us,” she conceded, “but zen it also occurred to us that she might take her time to untie her end of it,
non?”
She looked pointedly at Sarah, who was making quick work of her own knot. “But perhaps you should not trust us to sink of such sings, monsieur. Perhaps we should leave her in your most capable hands and return to cooking your dinner.”

She brushed her hands together as if washing her hands of any further responsibility for his prisoner and walked away. Sarah giggled once more and followed. He finally looked at Scotia and caught her giving the girl a wink and a wide smile.

Her smile dropped when she looked back at him.

“The sunshine won’t last long,” she pointed out.

He inclined his head. “Then it is most fortunate your needs coincided with its appearance. Shall we?” He gestured toward the larder door.

“We?” She swallowed forcibly, then licked her lips.

He refrained from doing the same, but only barely. He glanced at the dark recesses of her makeshift cell. Imagined following her inside and closing the door behind him.

His breath quickened, as did his heart. Thank heavens no one else could hear it.

She swallowed again, then walked into the larder as if she were walking to the executioner’s block. It was the hardest thing he’d done all day, but he closed the door behind her, slipped a heavy padlock into place, then dropped the key into his pocket as he strode from the room.

~ ~ ~

Intent on putting some distance between himself and his prisoner, so he might think clearly, he nearly passed the library without noticing Finn. It was the boy’s sniff that drew his attention. A second sniff drew his curiosity. He hurried into the room and over to the chair where the lad sat sideways with his legs pulled up to his chest.

“Are you ill, Finn? Are you cold?” He reached to touch the small forehead, to check for a fever, but the boy knocked his hand away.

“No. Go away,” he choked before running his expensive new sleeve under his nose.

Ash forbore a scolding and produced a handkerchief instead.

Finn took it and tossed it over the back of his chair, then wiped his nose on his sleeve again.

Ash sighed and walked to the African chair. He’d clearly done something wrong for which he needed some sort of punishment. The chair would at least be a start. Caring for a child was hardly an inherent talent of his, and he’d likely botched the job something fierce. Perhaps the lad was still mourning over Shakespeare, though he’d hardly been bereft until now. There was every chance that sitting in the library, surrounded by the works of that other Shakespeare, had finally summoned up some emotion.

“I am sorry about Shakespeare,” Ash offered.

The child turned hateful eyes in his direction.

“Are ye going to let her go?” he demanded.

Ash straightened. This was about the woman? Did the lad believe she’d been abused somehow? Aside from being held captive in a dark larder, of course. Then Ash remembered that the lad had defended her from the start.

“Have you decided to tell me her name?”

Finn pulled his lips between his teeth and shook his head, loosening tears to splash across his cheeks.

It was too bad of him to try to use a child against her, but he would welcome any weapon he might use to keep her away from her Reaper. They were at war, after all. She was a prisoner of war. It would be foolish to let her leave since she’d just go back to fighting against him.

“Perhaps,” he began, stomping his conscience under foot. “Perhaps, I should take a ride into the village and ask if anyone knows of a young woman with a beauty mark near her right eye. A beauty mark in the shape of a tear, turned on its head.”

The boy bolted off his chair and flew at Ash. He simply braced himself and let the child do his worst. As it turned out, the child hadn’t considered hurting him but took hold of his lapels and pulled him forward until their noses nearly touched.

“Ye must promise me ye’ll do no such thing. I’ll have your word in honor, sir. I’ll have it or I willna let go.”

“Word
of
honor,” Ash corrected, trying not to laugh at the little show of force.

The boy released him and sighed. “Thank ye, sir.” Then the lad’s arms came around his neck and he nearly choked Ash with gratitude.

When he was finally able to straighten, Ash opened his mouth to point out that he hadn’t given his word but had merely been correcting Finn’s choice of phrase, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

When the lad stepped back, the storm cloud had returned to his small face.

“If ye’ll not release. . .her. . .then will ye release me? Sir?” Finn didn’t look very hopeful so it was a bit easier to deny him this time.

“I cannot,” he said simply.

“But you must,” Finn whined.

Ash shook his head. “What has one thing to do with another, lad? Help me to understand.”

Finn shook his head and headed for the door. “I canna,” he whispered to himself, but Ash heard it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ash found Tolly in the study. The man was standing with his head pressed against the window so he went to see what had snared the butler’s attention. Amusingly enough, the old man’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open, and his gentle snore creating a circle of fog on the glass. It was a neat trick, sleeping on one’s feet.

Ash walked to the doorway and pretended to be passing by.

“Tolly?”

The butler straightened immediately and used his sleeve to wipe the fog from the glass before turning from the window.

“Yes, my lord?”

“I need you to keep on your toes. If young Master Balliol heads for the kitchens, I want him stopped.”

Tolly frowned. “As you say, me laird.”

“If he gets a chance to speak to my prisoner. . .”

“It’s my arse, sir. Yes, I understand, sir.”

Ash wondered if he’d find the man sleeping on an angle next, blocking the way to the kitchens. He couldn’t resist sticking his head back into the study. Tolly was trying to shake himself awake. It was the least Ash could do to help along those lines.

“And Tolly?” he barked.

The old man jumped. “Yes, me laird?”

“You have a strange red circle on your forehead. Were you aware?”

Tolly’s hand rose to cover the spot where his head had been pressed against the glass. It was, in fact, quite red. “I will have it examined, sir.”

“See that you do,” Ash said. “You never know but it is a symptom of something or other.”

Tolly bowed, his hand still on his forehead. “Right you are, sir.”

And with nothing else to do, he found himself whistling on the way to the kitchens again.

The reason for the whistling, of course, was the same reason for yet another trip to the larder. Hell, the reasons for his humor, both good and bad, would likely be found sitting upon a bag of wheat in the darkness. And as angry as he’d been with her for fleeing from him two years before, he still found himself thinking of her as the village beauty and he, an enamored young man with a fist full of flowers.

But she wasn’t. And he wasn’t. He must remember that. He must let her go and make a life for herself, but damn him if he’d send her off to make that life with The Reaper. And he’d let her go only when he was damned good and ready.

It seemed each time he was determined to have a long conversation with Scotia, his attention was turned away—as if she were a witch distracting him from ever getting ‘round to asking her about her witchery.

But not this time.

He stopped at the kitchen door, his hand poised yet frozen in the air. He had a fleeting thought that perhaps it was he who was not prepared for this conversation. Perhaps it was he who chose to steer away from the subject the last time he’d come to confront her.

No. I’m ready for the truth, no matter what that truth may be.

His hand fell to the door and he pushed it open. When it swung shut behind him, there was no echo left of his whistling, no smile left to his lips. He pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the larder, then pulled the door wide.

“Come,” he said and stood back to allow Scotia to pass without the need for brushing against him. It was going to be a difficult conversation without his senses turning him into a bumbling schoolboy.

She did not hesitate and stepped into the light. She, too, wore no smile, as if she realized they’d reached some crossroads. She looked about the kitchen and seemed alarmed to find no one else about.

“We’ve yet to be poisoned, if that is what worries you,” he said.

“Of course not. The Reaper no doubt believes I’ve been appointed as the new Royal Taster.”

Ash nodded. She was likely right. If she ever slipped his grasp again, they would have to worry in earnest.

He indicated a stool and once she was perched upon it, he sat on the edge of a table opposite. He crossed his arms. She folded her hands. With not a red hair out of place one might think she was sitting for her portrait to be painted if not for her less than picturesque surroundings.

“I’d like to hear your name,” he said.

She smiled. “My name is Scotia, apparently.”

He sighed his disappointment in spite of the fact he hadn’t truly expected her to give up her secrets for the asking.

“You have my ring?” She looked at his suit pockets expectantly.

He held out his arms out to his sides, his palms up in invitation. “A ring for a name, perhaps?”

Of course he hadn’t indicated which ring she might get for it. In all honesty, he didn’t know whether or not he could part with the little trinket.

“Keep it,” she said. Then her eyes skimmed his pockets again. She all but licked her lips.

He turned his head away for a moment to keep from looking at those lips. “I’m going to ask you a question now. I’ve waited two years to hear the answer.”

She swallowed audibly, then raised her chin and waited.

“How did you know Northwick was being held in the fortress? And your brother, of course.”

She stiffened and glanced at the back door. He pushed himself to his feet and had a firm hold on both her wrists before she could rise.

“It was cowardly of me not to ask you before we entered Givet Faux. We might have avoided our misunderstanding. Forgive me.” He lightened his hold, but kept her wrists in the circle of his fingers. Gentle restraints, but restraints all the same.

She shook her head. “I suppose the truth can do no harm now, can it? Northwick was rescued, after all. Try to remember that.” She looked up into his eyes.

Ash sighed. “Of course I remember it. I remember it every day.”

She smiled faintly.

He smiled in return, then raised his brows and waited.

After a deep breath, she began. “There was only one thing of which I was guilty, yer lairdship.”

He released one wrist, pulled his stool closer, and sat. “Tell me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Blair forced herself to stop glancing at the door to freedom, although she enjoyed the power she held over the man. She could make him nervous or allow him to relax depending on where she chose to rest her eyes. But after a while, she gave up toying with him when she realized she wished the truth to be known as desperately as he wished to know it.

She started with the day she’d realized that he and his friends were probably looking for the same men. He admitted he’d noticed her the day they’d arrived in Reims. For all her stealth, he’d noticed every move she’d made.

Her recounting brought them quickly to the day they’d gone to Givet Faux, but neither of them mentioned his climbing the steps and shaking his head, to let her know her brother had not been inside. Nor did she need to tell him how devastated she’d been, which was the reason she’d hung back and noticed the man leaving the fortress. Finally, she told him how she’d seen that man leave a note on their table at the auberge. When she told him what the message had said, his breath caught. Then she reminded him of the note he’d found attached to his finger with an owl ring.

“My only crime was burning the message. If we hadn’t found Mm. . . If we hadn’t found my brother and Northwick at Givet Faux, I would have told ye about it. Ye still would have been able to ransom yer friend.”