Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  Seconds ticked by.

  “Bring her,” Ash growled. His voice was harsh but every bit of him felt harsh when another man was touching her, even if that man were one of the Four Kings.

  “No.” Her voice rang loud against the low ceiling. The horses’ ears flipped up and back. The saddled mare stomped nervously. Harcourt took a step back.

  Finally she turned to face him. Even in the dim light, her face was red, dark. The look in her eyes had changed. It was as if another woman stood before them, no longer cowering in the corner, but filling it.

  “If you mean to hang me, I suggest you find a tree and a rope. I’ll not follow you another step.”

  For all her bravado, the fresh stream of tears gave her away.

  “Bring her,” he said again, then turned and walked out.

  He’d taken half a dozen large strides up the hillside when he heard it—the absolutely inconsolable weeping of a possibly innocent woman.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The wagon they’d taken from the Palais des Morts had proven too jarring for some of the more seriously injured, so they’d had no choice but to stop and rest mid-morning. They left the road but did not halt until they were well out of sight of it. The party was split between those who feared more villains would come for them, and those who hoped they would come, if there were, indeed, more of them.

  Blair was simply content her brother was safe. Everyone seemed certain the effects of the drug would wear off soon, but that was just the problem—the effects would wear off soon. Of course she wished to speak with him, to ensure he was well, to hear his voice and see his eyes alight with recognition. But it was a luxury she’d decided she shouldn’t accept.

  If she was to have any hope of Martin returning home without her, he must believe her dead. And if she was dead, she could not revel in reunion. She needed to get on her horse and put a great deal of distance between herself and the man who still didn’t trust her. A man who might at any moment convince himself it was time to hang her after all.

  “Do not be dismayed, miss,” Harcourt said as he bathed her face. “Most women suffer a similar reaction to violent battle. Surely you remember it, if you were at Bergen op Zoom.”

  Blair closed her eyes and sighed. She’d barely gathered her wits about her and already this one was testing her. So much for thinking of him as the kind one.

  “73rd Highland Regiment. Under Gibbs. Would ye care to know how many men I killed and what they looked like?” she asked pleasantly. “I assure ye I can describe them all. Each man comes to me at night to tell me about their wives and children. Or would ye care to know about the battle? Of course, I could have read all that in a paper, could I not?”

  He paused in his ministrations to laugh, but went right back to washing her.

  “I’m relieved you seem to have no wounds, miss.”

  “And ye think if ye keep calling me ‘miss’ I’ll get impatient and tell ye my name.”

  He grinned. “And will you?”

  “No.”

  “My given name, by the way, is Presley.”

  “Presley.” She gave him the sternest look she could muster.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I had never seen that Scotsman before in my life. I have no idea who he supposed me to be. The man lying over there is my brother. Though his features are distorted and swollen, I know his hands well. We worked beside each other all our lives. You’ll find a scar on his wrist just here.” She demonstrated on her own wrist. “From a wolf pup he raised. When the wolf turned wild and attacked him, I killed it with my blade. As its name is Wolfkiller, and is possibly older than Scotland herself, I doubt that was the first wolf it killed. I’d like it back, by the way. I’ve never traveled unarmed before.”

  Wolfkiller landed in the dirt beside her, followed by one skean dhu, then the other.

  She looked up to see the dark one looming over her. She looked down quickly.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, then tucked the blade in the sheath that was currently strapped to her leg over the breeches someone had acquired for her from the keep. As soon as she was able, she would burn them, of course, but her dress was soaking wet and so completely stained with blood one would assume the original color was black. She tucked the daggers into her boots. Though equally blood-stained, she kept them on. One can never run quite as fast as when one is wearing one’s own boots.

  As if the big man had read her thoughts, he snorted and walked away.

  A wee while later, she felt him staring at her from across the clearing. She usually looked away, but to give him a taste of his own treatment, she stared back. He didn’t look away either. They were twenty feet from each other, and yet she could hear him breathing, feel her own lungs fill along with his. She was vaguely aware of a throat clearing nearby but she couldn’t for the life of her turn her head.

  Ash’s eyes left her only long enough to glance toward a thick grove of trees to her right, then back again. He raised a brow. His message was clear—a challenge or an invitation, it made little difference. But what message would she be giving him if she walked into those trees? She gave her head a slight shake instead. He didn’t seem to care for her answer and gave his best silent argument—a frown and a nod.

  She rolled her eyes and turned to her left. All his friends were watching her. She hadn’t noticed when Harcourt had moved away from her to join the others. To a man, they blushed and turned away. Martin was tucked nicely beneath a canopy of pines. She stood and tried to find a reason to walk away, but the blood rushing in her head made it hard to be clever.

  Ash made no bones about coming for her. The look in his eyes was the same wild look he’d had in battle. But hadn’t she proven herself? Why was he still bent on suspecting her?

  When she realized all his attention was for her mouth, a fissure of chills ran up her spine. She felt a ridiculous urge to run, but she had a thimble of pride left.

  In half a dozen strides, he’d crossed the clearing. Without pausing, he took up her hand and walked on, into the trees behind her. She had no choice but to scurry along beside.

  Her body betrayed her, thrilling at the prospect of finally being alone with the man, even if there was still a slim chance he might be leading her away to her death. But she hoped it had more to do with that night he’d come to her room, when he’d come so close to kissing her.

  As a distraction, she’d thought a great deal about kissing in the past few hours, ever since he’d mentioned the idea of tasting someone. Of course, he was the only one she thought of tasting.

  And after she’d gotten a taste of him, she would have a brief chat with Northwick, then she would go. Since Everhardt had assured her Martin would recover, she had turned her thoughts to others who needed her just as badly, others she was unable to help until Martin was found.

  She couldn’t go home again. She’d never go home again. To her father, she was already dead. Martin was a grown man. After last night, she’d done all she could do for him. He didn’t need to have his sister watching over him now that he was free and headed home. And Finn would be in good hands. Her duties to them were finished.

  She could no longer set aside the cry for help coming from across the channel.

  Her thoughts were pushed aside as Ash pulled her up a small rise, then down into the trees below. All the while, her boots thumped the ground in an awkward effort to keep pace. She wondered if he’d forgotten how short she was, if he’d forgotten her completely, since he never glanced her way after taking up her hand.

  Finally, he stopped and swung her around to face him. His breathing was only slightly labored whereas she sounded as if she’d been running from the devil. He noticed, then nodded as if he’d decided to allow her a moment to recover, but his grip told her she would stay put while she did so.

  There was barely a foot between them. It wasn’t easy, but she looked at anything but him.

  The pale trunks of birches surrounded them like cell bars. The past year’s leaves w
ere a brown blanket on the ground interrupted here and there with equally brown pine needles. And all of them were well on their way to being absorbed back into the earth. It all looked so comfortable.

  She quickly pulled her mind back from the dangerous path they were headed for and faced Ash.

  His eyes darkened even while she watched and she realized how completely fitting was his choice to wear all black. The black cloud at her side. Now standing before her. Waiting. But for what?

  He moved forward, forcing her to retreat until her back was against a thick, rough trunk. All the while, emotions rioted across his dark, stubbled face. He crowded her and a branch bobbed next to his head. He reached up with one hand and wrenched it from the tree, then tossed it aside. That simple act of brute strength sent a fresh spike of chills through her. His face was inches from her and still he’d said nothing. What was he waiting for?

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before she made a sound, his mouth descended. . .

  And she found a new appreciation for silence.

  Her fingers came up to the sides of his head as if she might be able to push him away—if she ever decided to do so. It surprised her to find that his hair was softer than her own thick curls. And who might have guessed that the rough scrape of a man’s morning whiskers would feel so fine.

  From a long and lazy distance came the realization that she could taste him.

  Finally.

  She became aware of his body pressing against her and she stiffened. He ended the kiss and pulled back to look in her eyes. In his, she saw a struggle still raging. Now they both breathed liked they’d race up that hill all over again. His eyes dropped to the rise and fall of her chest, then he growled and pulled her to him, dropping his head to her shoulder, pressing his lips against her neck.

  The act brought on chills of a new kind, an overwhelming glory of just being alive, and a growl of sorts from her own throat. This was not the first time she’d seen a man kiss a woman thusly. She wasn’t naive, but she’d always assume the women were pretending to enjoy themselves. She’d had no idea they’d experienced true bliss.

  As the rush of sensations receded, she was almost disappointed when he kissed a trail up the side of her jaw and cheek to retake possession of her mouth. Again, she was swept away in a world of excitement just behind her eyelids. When he pressed himself against her this time, she forgot to be afraid.

  A throat cleared nearby.

  “Ash?” It was one of his friends calling, and he wasn’t far away.

  Ash ignored the man and continued to press his mouth to hers, doing decadent things with his tongue that made her instantly forget about the intruder.

  “Ash, I’m sorry to interrupt, old man, but I thought it best if I. . .interrupted. I’m certain you’ll forgive me for it in a day or two. Come on, now. Turn the lady loose. If you need me to knock some sense into you, I’m sure I can manage to lift my fist. At least once.”

  Ash’s body straightened away from her first. Then he put a gentle close to the kiss that had been anything but gentle. For a moment, he rested his forehead against her own, but did not look her in the eye. He whispered, “Forgive me,” then kissed her ear and stepped back.

  Northwick stood before them propping himself up between two thin trees. If he’d had to throw a fist at his big friend, he’d have ended up on the ground. The poor man was determined to regain his strength overnight, but already he’d had to give up the saddle and ride in the wagon. The fact he’d climbed a hill to find them made her worry.

  Ash picked his way through the brush to wedge a shoulder under Northwick’s arm for support.

  “As long as you understand I won’t be thanking you for a day or two,” he told Northwick.

  “Understood.” His friend laughed. “Shall we join her brother? He seems to be rousing a bit. Not yet awake, but. . .”

  Odin’s teeth! Martin couldn’t see her!

  “Wait!” She hurried to block their way while she thought of a way to postpone the inevitable. She looked at Ash. “I would like to speak to Lord Northwick. Alone.”

  Ash frowned and gave a single shake of his head. His nostrils flared when Northwick lifted his arm from Ash’s shoulder.

  “Ash, leave us.” Northwick’s order was firm, which surprised her. None of the others dared order the bigger man about.

  Ash shook his head again. “I will not leave you helpless—”

  “Go.” North waved her closer. “She’ll see to me.”

  Ash gave a rather impressive growl and stepped forward and kissed her, briefly. Then he marched away.

  Blair opened her mouth to speak, but North held up a hand while he watched his friend disappear. Then he stepped back to the trees and leaned on one.

  “Forgive him,” he said. “When he’s emotional, he fails to communicate well.”

  She nodded, even though she thought Ash had been communicating well indeed until Northwick had interrupted.

  “I beg you, do not give up on the man. Giving up is the worst sin of all, I’m afraid.” He gestured to himself. “Of course we are all of us guilty of that sin from time to time. But tell me, why do you fear your brother waking?”

  She raised an innocent brow.

  “I saw your reaction when I said the lad was stirring.”

  Blair sighed, then nodded. She liked this man. He was as kind as his friends, but in observing him all morning, she suspected Northwick had secrets like hers—ghosts, nightmares, perhaps. Of course it was no wonder if he did, after what he’d been through, but perhaps it meant he’d be good at keeping her secret as well.

  He gestured to a dry patch of grass and she gave him a shoulder to lean on while they made their way to it. Then they sat. She felt the weight of the Viking blade and without thinking, she bent to release the straps that held the thing to her leg. Without pulling the blade free, she laid it, sheath and all, across her palms and held it out.

  “This should be given to my brother.”

  He took her offering and silently laid it aside.

  “Our father is a bit old,” she began. “He’s not the most pleasant of men, to be sure. A bit full of himself. One day, he’ll rub up against the wrong man and he’ll be humbled, I have no doubt.”

  North nodded, but still made no comment.

  “We have a young brother, ye see. I wasn’t thinking of him when I left. All I could see was Martin dying of wounds somewhere and never coming home. Now, with all this,” she gestured to France at large, “I canna be contrite for it, aye?”

  North nodded again.

  “But now I must see to my wee brother. To make certain Martin returns home to care for the lad. And my father as well, I suppose. For I canna do it. I am dead to my father, and my father is far too proud to ever take back a word, once he’s given it. No matter how he might have missed me. I swear it.”

  “But why must your brother think you are dead, lass?”

  She sighed. “He’ll not go home without me. He’s said it a hundred times since the day he found me on his heels.” She faced Northwick and took one of his hands in hers. “Can ye imagine how yer heart must break, walking up to yer father after years of bein’ away, and have him turn from ye? Have him bar the door against ye, from yer home and family? From his own heart?”

  “I can imagine something similar, yes,” he replied.

  She could almost see his own ghosts rising in his thoughts and it pained her that she’d summoned them, but she had to make him understand—he was her last hope. Martin was rousing. If she didn’t leave soon, her next plan of action, and her own redemption, would be lost to her.

  Northwick pulled his hand from hers, leaned back and braced himself. Then he sighed. “I do not believe you, of course.”

  She started. Panic rose in her chest. “What do you mean?” She thought she’d been so convincing. “What do you not believe?”

  “An imbroglio between yourself and your father is hardly reason enough to allow your family to believe you dead. There must be so
mething more.” He winked. “Would you care to tell me?”

  She gave him a good frown, but he only laughed.

  “Do not take offense, my lady. I assure you your acting ability is admirable. But if you care for your brother enough to fight for him, to kill for him, I doubt you would let him mourn you without a compelling reason.”

  After considering, she decided she could trust him with at least a summary of the truth and told him so.

  “While searching for my brother, I heard some news I canna ignore. There are. . .people. . .in distress, aye? People I believe I can help.”

  “People in danger?” He straightened, as if he were hale and hearty enough to go to someone else’s aid when his own health was in question.

  “Aye. People in danger. But the help they need canna come from just anyone, I’m afraid. I believe they need a hand from the likes of me.”

  He relaxed a bit. “Are you certain I can be of no help to you, my lady? I owe you all.”

  She smiled and patted his boney arm. “I have no doubt ye would help if ye could, milord. And I have no doubt Martin would feel the same if he knew. But Martin must go home. And I must go where I can do the most good.”

  “You will not tell me where? Or whom you must aid?”

  She shook her head.

  His brow furrowed. “Why is it you have not tried to explain this to our dark friend?”

  She laughed lightly, then shook her head. “I am not certain, other than to say I have a difficult time of it, resisting yer friend. I canna think clearly when he looks at me. If he asked me not to go. . . He could muddle my purpose, and I cannot be muddled. Others would suffer for it. Do ye understand?”

  Northwick smiled. “I believe he suffers from the same weakness where you are concerned.”

  Was it only a day ago that Ash had said she wasn’t weak, but a weakness. He was her weakness to be sure, but was she his? It wasn’t reasonable, this thrill she enjoyed at the very idea of it.

  Northwick leaned toward her conspiratorially. “If it is a consolation, I have never seen a woman affect him so.”