Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  And the truth of it squeezed his heart.

  There was no one to impede them as they moved their party up the steps and into the passage. All prisoners, save her supposed brother, were able to walk. Everhardt carried the young man over his shoulder while Stanley protected him from the fore and the woman from the rear with a small dagger. Only one torch burned, so the bodies lying about the floor were little more than lumps to walk around. Drying blood pulled and sucked at his boots as he walked. Stealth was impossible.

  Amid the sticky steps and labored breathing, a loud click rang out against the stones. The cock of a pistol.

  Everyone froze. To the left, a large shadow rose from the floor and became the large Scot, pistol in hand, aimed at the woman.

  Another click.

  A second form appeared from around the curve in the corridor. It was Jean-Yves, the proprietor, who had so generously allowed them an extensive tour of the fortress the day before.

  “With renewed expectations of ransom,” the Frenchman said, “we were about to pull Lord Northwick from the oubliette, but la, you have accomplished this for us.” He shook his head and made a tisking sound. “But now, we may as well put him back, since none of you are able to send for that ransom. A pity. But perhaps there are those who will pay your own ransoms, no?” He smiled. “You will return to the dungeon. Now.”

  None moved.

  None but the big Scot.

  He inched closer to the woman, shaking the end of his pistol to gain attention. “Turn yer arses ‘round or the woman dies.” He knocked her small knife to the ground, then pulled her over to his side of the corridor. She moved stiffly, as if she truly feared the man might fire.

  Ash smirked. “Fine. Kill her. She is one of you. What does it matter to us?”

  Scotia gave a short gasp, but said nothing. The fleeting worry in her eyes—was it from the threat of death or the disappointment of discovery? When he’d accused her, he had only been trying to distract the villains. He hadn’t truly believed it. Now he wasn’t sure.

  “One of us?” The Frenchman scoffed. “Too absurd.” He gestured to the Scot, then to the woman. “Kill her then.”

  The Scot slid behind her, his weapon aimed under her raised chin.

  Ash took a step forward, but froze when the Frenchman lowered his aim to Ash’s heart. If he were to die here, for any reason, he could not save North.

  “Uhn, uhn, uh,” taunted Jean-Yves.

  All eyes turned to the Scot whose beard raked over the woman’s shoulder. “It breaks my heart that ye doona ken my name, lass. Indeed it does.”

  Scotia looked down, to the right. Ash could see the temptation in her eyes. But with the man’s pistol arm wrapped around her right side, she could not reach her blade.

  Ash could not choose her over his friends. He could not. Even if he believed her innocent, he could not help her. Unless something distracted the Frenchman. . .

  “Pity,” the Scot murmured next to her ear. “But I see no future together—”

  “Wait!” Ash demanded.

  The Scot’s gave a crooked smile and pulled the trigger. The blast rang loud in the constriction of the corridor. A small puff of smoke lifted into the shadows like a ghost. The woman remained on her feet. The pistol still aimed. . .where the Frenchman’s form toppled forward.

  Ash moved the moment Jean-Yves’ arm lowered, but the Scot was prepared with a blade already at the woman’s throat, winking in the light of the torch. The big man hissed until Ash stopped his advance.

  “I’ll spare her,” the Scot said. “All ye will stay inside. When I’m certain I’m not followed, I will release her. Unharmed,” he added.

  The woman tried to speak, but he stopped her with a bite of the knife. With the blood previously smeared there, she already appeared mortally wounded.

  “Agreed,” Stan said, then leaned casually against the wall and waved a hand toward the open doorway behind the pair.

  For a moment, the Scot hesitated. Then he lifted her feet from the ground, and in four quick steps, they were gone. The door closed in their wake.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Scotsman prodded her quickly up the rise behind Givet Faux. In the darkness, she could not tell where he held the blade. She only felt the bite of it if she walked too slowly. After they cleared the rise and could no longer see the round roof of the fortress, he allowed her to stop to catch her breath while he grinned, obviously pleased by their escape and doubtful they’d be followed.

  Since he had yet to notice the second skean dhu in her other sock, she pulled at the fabric tucked in at her waist and allowed her skirts to drop into their rightful place.

  “Why did ye do that?” he demanded.

  “Too tight,” she said.

  He nodded, then gestured for her to start moving again. Soon they began their descent on the far side of the rise. After walking the next ten minutes through a damp forest, the trees grew farther apart. She could hear the distant worrying of horses. Eventually, they came upon a low building. If he was going to kill her, it would be here.

  She tripped and rolled to an awkward stop, then reached for that last dagger.

  It was gone.

  “Up then, Princess.” He gestured with his dagger. “Believe me when I tell ye I can throw a knife as sure as I can drive one home. Ye stray out of reach and I can still make certain ye’ll never make it home to again to Scotland.”

  The sneer to his words caught her attention. Besides the fact he’d called her Princess. Once upon a time, her father had called her just that. Could this brute be someone from home?

  She stood and faced him, tried to gain a better look at him in the light of the stars. Even without the moon, it seemed brighter there in the woods than it had indoors with candles and torchlight.

  She imagined him without the beard. Wondered at the jaw hidden beneath. Tried to place his eyes. Quickly went down a list of lads she’d known.

  He hesitated as well, perhaps sensing what she was about. His eyes looked earnestly into her own, as if he were willing her to remember.

  Still she remembered nothing.

  She shrugged. His face fell, then he grabbed her wrist and turned toward the low building.

  “Perhaps you could tell me where we’ve met before,” she said.

  He dragged her roughly forward so she entered before him. She heard the pop of his jaw as she passed him. When he said nothing, she thought it best to leave him be. Obviously she’d insulted him by not recognizing him, and he would not risk being insulted further.

  The low building turned out to be a stable. The Scot was confident enough to light a lantern and hang it on the wall.

  Did he want the Englishmen to find them?

  “Saddle this one,” he said, pointing at a broad-backed mare.

  She dared not question him, though she hoped he would allow her to have her own horse. Or perhaps, now that he was so insulted, he’d be going on alone and she’d be left in a puddle of her own blood.

  It was strange, she thought, as she lifted the saddle from the floor and settled it on the nervous beast, that of all the bodies falling to the ground, never to move again, she never once worried she might be joining them. That was, not until she found her sock empty. But she admitted the truth of it—her fearlessness hadn’t come from a knife in her sock, it had come from her companions. Or rather, one companion. It was Ash who’d made her feel invincible.

  At least, until he’d decided she was the enemy. . .

  Her heart clenched at the memory of him standing in the corridor, looking down his nose at her. She’d suffered the same heartbreak when her father had promised to disown her if she followed Martin to war, then again when she’d discovered Martin’s ransom demands. The last time had been over a month ago, just before the Englishmen had shown up, when she’d given up hope of ever finding her brother.

  She’d half-expected her heart to break yet again that day, but for another reason entirely. She’d come to expect only her father and bro
ther could cause her that kind of pain—never a stranger with whom she’d barely conversed, and a bloody Englishman at that.

  How had he gotten close enough to her heart to break it?

  She bore down and pulled the cinch tight. The horse grunted.

  “Stand back,” said the Scot. He stepped up to pull on the saddle. “Stronger than ye look,” he mumbled. “I’d best mind that.”

  “Aye, ye better,” she snapped. “Do I get a horse? Or would ye rather trust me at yer back?”

  At the moment, she felt like a wounded, cornered animal and she was anxious to have this battle over and done. She gave not a damn if the man had wounds of his pride to lick.

  “Look here, Princess,” he said, advancing on her, pressing her up against the wall. His body pinned hers while he took his fine time breathing in her face. “Ye’ll not speak to me so and expect no cost fer it. Ye breathe because I allow it. And at the moment, that’s generous.”

  His breath smelled of blood. His lip was split. Since she’d not noticed him in the fray, he had to have come by it from one of his own men. Perhaps the Frenchman had been killed for more reasons than she’d imagined.

  She glanced up into his eyes, curious to know what he and his accomplice had fought over.

  His beard moved as his lips curved with a smile. He’d apparently taken her curiosity for something else.

  “Ah, ye recognize me now, do ye? Princess?”

  She dared not deny it and gave him a slight nod.

  “So ye’ll fight me no more?” He pushed his forehead against hers. His black eyes searched for her soul.

  She slyly raised the corners of her mouth in a knowing smile, then she shook her head.

  “Ah, Princess,” he whispered and pushed his lips against hers.

  As disgusted as she was by his breath and the odd lump in his lip, she allowed it. Kissing him back would have been impossible. She only hoped that whomever he’d mistaken her for wouldn’t have been eager for him either. There were redheads aplenty in Scotland. And if much time had passed, he likely misremembered the woman’s face. Unless she wanted to die, she must keep him believing, at least until she got her hands on another weapon.

  “Won’t we travel too slowly on just one horse?” she asked carefully.

  “Nay, Princess. They’ll be heading for the city, to a doctor. They have what they came for. No need to chase after me. And by the sounds of it, they didn’t have much use for ye, either.”

  Blair ignored the reminder, ignored the kick to her stomach, and realized she did have a bit of hope left after all. If Ash really believed she was party to Northwick’s kidnapping, he would come for her, if only to kill her. . ..

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Come now, Princess,” the Scot said softly. “Another kiss before I put you in the saddle, aye?”

  Before the man could put his lips on her a second time, Ash’s brought his blade between them and pulled. The sharp blade slid through sinew as easily as flesh. Of course he might have been a bit too enthusiastic, since he nearly took the man’s head from his shoulders, but he couldn’t find it in him to be contrite. In fact, he couldn’t find a tender feeling anywhere in his enraged body at the moment, and a good thing too. It wouldn’t be easy to kill the woman. Best to just have done with it and go.

  “About bloody time ye arrived,” she said.

  He paused to consider his response and whether or not it would be bad manners not to clean his blade before using it on the fairer sex.

  “Are you not ruffled in the least,” he asked, “that a man has nearly been decapitated as he leaned in to collect another kiss from you?” Another kiss. A second kiss. Because she’d already kissed the blackheart once before, damn her.

  “Doona be a fool. He clearly mistook me for someone else.”

  She used the hem of her cloak to wipe at the bastard’s blood smeared across her breast. She’d simply stepped back as his body had fallen at her feet, the cold-hearted witch.

  “Clearly,” he sneered. “But wouldn’t he have discovered his error the moment he’d tasted your lips the first time?”

  Her head shot up, her eyes wide.

  “Tasted? I. . . Can you tell what someone tastes like?”

  A deep breath was not enough to pull his mind back from where her innocent comment had sent it, so he leaned forward and busied himself cleaning this blade on the dead Scot’s shirt.

  When he stood again, gripping the hilt of that blade with intent, she seemed completely oblivious to her danger. She couldn’t seem to keep her attention on anything but his lips. When she finally glanced down at his weapon, however, she instantly paled.

  She shook her head and looked away.

  “Ye decided I was the enemy long before the bastard kissed me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, then reconsidered and forced them to her sides. “And of course, we’re the both of us Scots.” She swallowed. Her eyes shone, moist with tears. “Already yer enemy by blood alone.”

  He realized what she was trying to accomplish. She was trying to make herself angry at him, to keep her fear at bay.

  She turned her back suddenly. Her head never bowed, but her shoulders shook slightly. She took a slow breath. Then another. He could hear her swallow. Could tell when she caught her breath again and held it. Then let it go.

  For a full five minutes, he stood there, refusing to be moved by her silent tears, refusing to offer comfort to an enemy he was about to execute. But even so, his stomach clenched over and over while he waited.

  But hadn’t he been expecting her to cry? Hadn’t he, minutes ago, been hoping her brother would be there to comfort her when the horrors of the day finally settled in her mind?

  He was just about to take a step toward her when she again pulled up the hem of her cloak, wiped her face, then dropped it once more.

  Then she turned. Her face was red but dry. She kept her eyes cast down.

  “I’m ready,” she said boldly, but her voice faltered.

  She lifted her chin. Swallowed. The blood drying on her neck cracked along the edges, folded into little lines.

  He adjusted the grip on his blade.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Inverness,” she whispered. “Remind yer friend.”

  Inverness. Either Harcourt or Stanley had promised to get her brother as far as Inverness.

  She was trying to distract him, make him believe the unconscious man was really her brother, that she’d been telling the truth all along.

  “She’s one of them,” he remembered the man say from the next cell. He’d likely been referring to Scotia and not the other woman. It was Scotia who condemned her, after all. And he’d carried out the sentence without question. Scotia who had killed the woman as surely as he had.

  And it was Scotia who was toying with him now.

  No! Not Scotia. Just a woman. An evil one with no name who would use her considerable talents to find other victims if he allowed her to escape.

  Though she made no sound, tears leaked from the corners of both eyes and poured in opposite rivers toward the sides of her face.

  “Please doona torture me, Englishman.” Her voice was little more than a whisper sent skyward. A prayer.

  A Scotswoman refusing to call an Englishman my lord.

  Another rush of tears damped the edges of her hair. Curls had escaped their confines and lay beside her neck, but none would impede the sword. A sleek but strong neck. A neck he had, more than once, imagined kissing.

  His wild imaginings were pushed aside by an emotion he couldn’t identify—or wouldn’t. And he finally acknowledged the fact that he would never harm her. Even if she proved to be the enemy.

  “Ah, Scotia. What am I to do with you?”

  She opened her eyes, lowered her chin, confused. He knew the very second she realized he wasn’t going to kill her—she crumbled into a heap in the straw and sobbed.

  She had believed it all along. Well, and why shouldn’t she? demanded a voice in his head.

&n
bsp; “You knew I would come?” he asked awkwardly. He couldn’t console her, but perhaps he could distract her. “You never supposed I would take my friends and go?”

  “I knew you would never let him get away unpunished.” She pointed at the body that lay between them. “And you still believe I’m one of them, do ye not? If ye mean to hang me, I’ll tell ye true I’d rather be done with it now.”

  “No,” was the only word he could manage.

  She nodded and pushed herself to her feet, then began brushing the straw from her horrid skirts. Realizing those skirts were beyond saving, she stopped. She was a bloody mess. Another tear slid off her cheek. She turned her back again and cried again, though silently.

  He forced himself to stand his ground until he was certain what he would do. For only God knew what that would be.

  Someone approached and he turned to find Harcourt enter the stable with his sword drawn. He glanced at the Scot’s body, then sheathed the weapon. Obviously, his friend believed the Scotsman had been the only threat remaining. Ash couldn’t bring himself to correct him for the moment.

  “Here, now,” Harcourt said. “She’s crying.” He took a step toward the woman, but Ash stopped him. She might prove to be innocent in the end, but he wouldn’t risk his friend’s life until he knew for certain.

  “Give me your weapons, if you mean to go near her.”

  It was impossible to say whose gasp was louder—the woman’s or Harcourt’s.

  She awkwardly moved to the wall and braced herself against it as if she could no longer stand on her own. Her curls trembled, as did his heart, but he dared not move.

  “You can’t mean it,” his friend said, even while he unsheathed his sword once again and laid it upon the ground. He then pulled a knife from inside his collar and a dagger from his stocking. He handed them to Ash, though not without an admonishing frown before he hurried to the woman’s side and wrapped an arm around her back.