Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (29 page)

Stanley sighed. “So, Miss Balliol, is it? If you will but find a comfortable seat and settle yourself, I will tell you an astonishing tale of a lady who, until recently, hid behind the
nom de plume
, The Scarlet
Plumiere
.” He leaned forward and his grin widened. “Then you can tell me how you came to be The Highland Reaper. What do you say?”

~ ~ ~

It took an hour to do it, but eventually Blair secured the viscount’s promise to keep her secret. Only after reminding him a dozen times that he owed Northwick’s life to her, did he relent. She wondered if that mightn’t have been the case had the Earl of Northwick not recovered fully and found happiness with his new bride. If he were writhing in a hospital somewhere, she doubted his friends would have been so grateful to her. But obviously, happiness was worth a heavy price.

And no matter what happened from then on, she would have no need to fear Stanley would betray her. Of course, he tried to exact an additional price for his silence—a promise she would not try to escape—but she insisted she’d already done enough to earn his loyalty, in this matter at least. To ease his mind a bit, she told how Northwick himself had also granted her a boon when he’d allowed her to slip away quietly.

After baring her secrets and her soul to the handsome man—and in spite of the fact he sympathized with her plight—he still refused to allow her to leave. He appreciated the fact that she’d saved over a hundred women and children from starvation who’d been at the mercy of his less scrupled contemporaries, but still, he remained resolute.

He was moved nigh to tears when she described the school they’d established in the Vale, how she sought to teach the children to show respect for the superstitions of their parents and grandparents, but they shouldn’t be afraid to search for the truth. She told of the cavern they’d turned into their church and the priest they’d convinced to join them, how many of their fathers and husbands knew where they’d gone and were grateful they’d been cared for. Some men, who weren’t able to care for themselves, were able to join them.

How they still needed a leader to give them hope, that one day they might all go home. But they still needed their beloved Reaper.

And still he would not let her go.

“You remind me of someone, you know,” he said.

Blair sighed. She took the change in subject to mean that he was finished with her begging.

“Let me guess,” she said. “I remind ye of this
Plumiere
woman.”

He laughed and got to his feet, then took up one of the candelabras. His shadow flew along the curtains when he turned and motioned for her to precede him out the doors. “Of course you do. But I was thinking of someone else entirely,” he said. “Ashmoore.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Ye see me as a large brooding monster who suspects innocent women to be bedding down with the devil? Or as a cold-blooded kidnapper and torturer of soldiers?”

The viscount paused and considered. “I’ll own,” he finally said, “that even I was a bit suspicious when you fled from us in France as you did. But I thought it most likely Ashmoore’s. . .
ardor
had frightened you away. Thereafter, he carried that blasted ring about with such preoccupation, we assumed he was besotted with you.

“Since he left soon after you fled, he never did see Martin’s face after the swelling faded. What a fool he must feel to find the truth has been tending his land?”

As the viscount led her up the stairs, she confessed about the ransom demand she’d burned.

“Oh, I say, that was deucedly clever of you. And if there is anything Ashmoore appreciates, it is a clever mind.”

“Well, I’m not clever enough to have won ye to my side,” she said grudgingly.

He laughed and led her inside a bedchamber. Having never been warned of Ash’s lack of trust where she and candles were concerned, he brought the candelabra along. Before she could think to protest, he’d locked himself inside with her and pocketed the key.

He checked the drawers and wardrobe, for possible weapons most likely. After a quick look out the windows, he seemed satisfied. The candles he left on the dressing table and returned to the door. She was relieved, of course. She had no intention of staying the night locked in a room with a bed and a strange man. It would be no different than what Ash had proposed the night before.

Stanley bid her good afternoon, but then turned back with a frown.

“We are a brotherhood, you see,” he explained. “The Four Kings, they call us, as a matter of information. I would sacrifice my own mother before I’d betray Ash or the others.” His grin returned. “Well, perhaps not my mother—she’s rather a dear thing—but you get the idea. Surely you and your companions have a similar trust?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

“We are a lucky few, I think, to know such devotion.”

Again, she nodded.

“Although it is early, I suggest you try to rest. Ashmoore never fails to get his man, or woman, or young person. And remember you risk too much if you leave this place.”

She lifted a hand to keep him from turning away. “Ye said I reminded ye of Lord Ashmoore?”

“You do.”

“How so?”

He raised a brow. “If you consider, you’ll see you both are attempting to help the same people. It is only your methods that differ.”

The sentiment was much like Ash’s comment, that he and The Reaper were similar. And even though both men saw things much simpler than they truly were, she smiled and nodded. Stan had been so kind. She only wished she could ease his mind by promising she’d see him in the morning.

But she didn’t like to lie when she could help it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Stanley, Viscount Forsgreen, soon to be a duke for pity’s sake, sat atop an impatient horse just in sight of Brigadunn Manor and waited for his “responsibility” to escape from the room inside which she’d been locked for the night.

To keep her guessing throughout the day, he’d popped up at her door two or three times per hour with one query or another.
What would you find appealing for dinner? Care for some tea? What do you know of this constable fellow? What is this I hear of you poisoning Ashmoore?
And after wearing himself thin on the stairs, he decided it was time for them both to have a rest, and he’d bid her goodnight one final time.

He’d nearly laughed aloud at the regret on her face as he’d pulled the door shut behind him. Likely she felt a heavy guilt for her intentions to escape at the first opportunity. He was offended she believed he might be so gullible. After all, as The Reaper, she was a notorious thief. And notorious thieves could hardly reach notoriety if they couldn’t break themselves out of a simple bedchamber only twenty feet off the ground.

It wasn’t as if he truly wished her to escape; he only hoped she would keep herself so occupied with trying that Ash would have time to track down the boy and return home before she succeeded. And to this end, he’d put a few obstacles in her way, the first of which was a man below her window. Then second, he’d had all horses removed from the stables.

Stan imagined her cursing when she caught her first glimpse of the fellow on the ground, and he chuckled.

Of course she might choose to take his advice and rest while she could. After all, he’d been waiting half an hour and she had yet to look out the window. But, no. She’d been out sorts with worry for her brother, but tried to hide it behind the plea to let her return to the people who needed her. If it hadn’t been a fellow King counting on him, he might have just let her go. Hell, he might have escorted her up the mountain himself. But he didn’t have the luxury of acting the hero tonight.

The sunlight on the manor mellowed to a golden orange then disappeared altogether when storm clouds rose in the west. If she waited until dark, she’d have better odds at slipping past the constable, but she’d also have better odds of getting hurt trying to get out her window, especially if it rained.

He pulled his hood forward again to cover his white hair. His horse exhaled beneath him, finally accepting they might not be going anywhere.

A breeze rustled through the leaves above his head, and with nothing more to distract him, he once again marveled that Ash had missed all the clues he’d included in his letter to Stan. With all the details his friend had gleaned concerning the famous Highland Reaper, Ash must have been mightily distracted to have overlooked his own notes. Otherwise, he might have deduced, early on, the woman was the villain he sought.

For instance, The Reaper had three people in his inner circle, comrades who spoke for him and passed on his orders. None but they had ever heard the man speak. And all four of them were never seen at one time, in one place.

Some claimed the man was tall. Some said he was short and broad, like a bull. Therefore different people were wearing the disguise. It was obvious.

This business about him being hard to kill—merely rumor meant to engender fear.

People disappeared, but no bodies were found. An army of undead at his beck and call? None had actually seen this army. And any Scotsman, or Scotswoman, with a well-trained pair of collies could collect a hundred head and disappear over a hill in a matter of minutes. An army? No. An army of quiet, well-trained
dogs?
Perhaps.

The voice? The Reaper never wished to be heard. Why? Because he had the voice of a woman. If asked, perhaps some of these witnesses might have noticed The Reaper’s rather delicate hands.

Ash had chosen to believe Miss Balliol to be the villain’s mistress. Not an altogether foolish assumption. But once he’d learned she was the same mysterious Scotswoman who’d fought with them inside Givet Faux, how could Ash assume the woman would take orders from a mere cattle thief?

Of course Stan had realized, upon reading the name of Martin Balliol, that the woman might very well be the elusive Scotia. But poor Ash had never heard the young prisoner’s name, nor seen his face after the swelling began to ease. He’d been long gone, chasing after the sister. Then, after leaving the Continent, the Four Kings had agreed never to discuss the experience again. Giving up on finding North, even though it was Napoleon’s attempted escape that demanded it, had been the greatest shame of their lives, but Ashmoore’s especially. Even the mention of the country disturbed his friend until a few months ago, when they’d finally pulled Northwick aside and confessed.

If Ash had heard the name of Scotia’s brother before ever coming to Scotland, Stan might not be hiding just inside the wood line, subject to his own vow of silence, unable to cure Ashmoore of his blindness where Miss Balliol was concerned. But now it was the least he could do—even if it meant sitting a horse all night in the newly arrived, misty rain.

A mist not dense enough to obstruct his view of her window, thankfully.

His outriders were stationed at other points around the house in case she picked the lock and escaped by another route. His ears strained for a distant whistle, since it looked as if she was not so foolish as to climb down a wet wall.

His horse sighed again. If he weren’t wearing a fine pair of boots, he’d dismount and stand beside the over-dramatic beast—

The light in the woman’s window disappeared, leaving a dark square in its stead. A long moment passed and he wondered if she might actually do the reasonable thing and sleep.

The shutters opened outward. The man on the ground gave no indication he’d heard anything and continued his slow scan of the yard.

Stan expected a string of bed sheets to emerge and was not disappointed when the now caped woman leaned out the window with the very things held in one arm. But she did not drop them. There was a flash of silver, like a bird escaping from the room, sailing out and up, then catching on a small chimney, the makeshift rope of white following like the thick tail of a kite. When she pulled, however, her silver anchor slipped from her target and tumbled off the roof. The clever woman snatched up the slack before it could fall against a window below her.

It was the candelabra. He’d all but handed her the means of escape.

The next section of the house turned at a right angle just beyond her window, so the chimney stack was an easy target. He might have considered the same plan if he’d been in her position. And, like her, he would have kept trying.

After five attempts without the metal catching on so much as a nail, he began to feel sorry for her, imagining her frustration.

Poor thing. And stubborn.

A sixth try. The metal caught!

She tugged. It held!

She tugged again. It slid away.

Her arms must be flagging, he thought. Then he wondered how long it might take her to realize her plan was flawed. For pity’s sake, why didn’t she simply tie the sheets to the bedframe and lower herself to the ground since the man stationed there was pretending to be far more interested in defending the house than in preventing anyone escaping it. If she were quiet, she might easily sneak around the corner without believing he’d notice.

He couldn’t bear to watch, and yet he could not look away.