Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

  “Fantine,” he barked.

  The woman disappeared into the larder and came out with half a bag of flour, a cloud of white billowing at her heels.

  “Monsieur,” she said as she dropped her load on the table at Blair’s back.

  “Fantine,” he said again.

  “Monsieur?” Still, the woman didn’t look at him.

  “You may not have noticed, but we are attempting to converse here.” He gestured to himself and then to Blair, nodding pointedly. “Whatever you’re about can surely wait until tomorrow.”

  The cook gave nary a pause in her fussing about. “Non,” she said as she slammed a pan on the table.

  “I beg your pardon?” He frowned as if he really hadn’t understood the word.

  “Non, monsieur. You like your bread when you break your fast, not zose silly Scottish scones. I start zee dough when zee sun is gone. I made zee fire bright. Zee heat raises zee dough. No good for conversations. You and mademoiselle will converse elsewhere.”

  Ash folded his arms and glowered. “You are trying to keep me from putting her back in the larder,” he said, accusingly.

  “Non, monsieur. Mais vous. . .But you will do as you will, n’est ce pas?”

  Suddenly Blair understood and she was touched. Small prickles began behind her nose and tears filled her eyes. “She’s making the fire for me,” she confessed. “As she did last eve.”

  Ash turned his attention away from the Frenchwoman. “You suffered? There were not enough blankets for you?”

  Fantine stopped fussing and put her flour-covered hands on her hips. “Mademoiselle is afraid of zee dark, monsieur.”

  He snorted. “She most certainly is not.”

  “She most certainly is,” Blair said quietly. She wasn’t proud of the fact. In truth, it was a mite embarrassing to be The Highland Reaper and to always need either company or a candle.

  His brow furrowed.

  She smiled at his obvious concern. “It is true, my lord. Ever since Givet Faux. I realize it sounds silly—”

  He jumped to his feet. “Fantine! Mademoiselle will not be left in the dark.” He scooped Blair up into his arms and while frowning into her eyes, continued speaking to the other woman. “Clean up your things. When you’ve finished, send two footmen to my room with a dozen candles.”

  Blair’s heart stopped abruptly, like it had walked into a solid wall, or the solid wall of chest against which she was pressed.

  “Your room, monsieur?” Fantine didn’t move.

  “My room,” he said.

  Blair began to struggle. He squeezed her firmly until she stopped.

  “I’d rather be locked in the dark,” she spit, “than have half of Scotland believe I spent the night in yer room, ye daft bastard.”

  “Language,” he said, then tisked. After a long moment, he sighed and put her on her feet. “Just what do you propose I do with you?” He raised a finger. “Other than let you go.”

  “You could put me back in the larder, but give me a candle.”

  He shook his head. “You could burn my house down around my ears.”

  “You could lock me in a bedroom,” she suggested.

  “With a window? With a candle? Then you would burn my house down around my ears, and escape.”

  Their noses were nearly touching. Their breathing fell into the same rhythm, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it while her mind searched for any alternative to the dark little room. No matter how strong she supposed her invisible armor might be in the light of day, it was nowhere to be found in the darkness.

  “Ye could put Fantine in with me, without a candle. If I’m not alone, the darkness is nay so bad.” She bit her bottom lip in anticipation. There was little he could argue over.

  His left brow rose, and with it, the corner of his mouth. She was certain it meant trouble.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  An hour later, Ash was seated on the floor having a late picnic across the threshold to the larder. His enchantress sat just inside the small, dimly lit room while he sat just outside it. Two full candelabras burned on the table behind him. A single fat candle sat on a plate on the floor, next to a wedge of pale cheese. With both his presence and the candles, she shouldn’t be at all frightened—not even for her reputation.

  She pointed at the plate. “They’re of a color. The cheese needs but a wick and we could burn it as well.”

  “Yes,” he said. “So different, yet so similar.”

  She tilted her head to one side and a mass of curls hung nearly to the floor. He resisted the urge to run his hand through it, as he would a waterfall. The point of his efforts was to chase away her nightmares, not become one.

  “I’ve the impression ye’re not speaking of the cheese and the candle,” she said.

  He smiled. “I was thinking about The Reaper.”

  She grinned. “Would he be the cheese or the candle?”

  He pretended to give it serious consideration before answering. “The cheese.”

  “Hah! Because he feeds people?”

  He shook his head and tried to maintain a sober expression. “No. Because I’m more. . .illuminating.” Then he laughed.

  Her smile was replaced by a look of surprise. “Ye? Ye were speaking of yerself and The Reaper? So different, and yet so similar?”

  “To be honest, it is not the first I’ve entertained the idea.” He brushed crumbs from his hands, then gestured toward the remaining food and raised a brow.

  She shook her head. “I’ve had my fill, and thank ye.”

  For lack of something better to do with his hands, he cleared away the picnic. When he returned, he set the fat candle on the floor beside him, then folded the tablecloth and set it aside as well. It would make a fine pillow later, not that he’d be sleeping. If his Scotia needed to sleep with the door open, he would remain in the doorway, alert and ready for anyone who thought to either come or go.

  There was every expectation The Reaper would attempt her rescue, but he had enough men stationed around the manor to warn him well before the blackheart stepped foot inside. And if she intended to sneak past him in the night, he intended to catch her, literally, in the act.

  The chance of getting his arms around her made him almost wish she would try.

  With the barrier of the picnic removed from between them, she scooted back another foot and onto the pallet made up for her the night before.

  “So,” she said, fidgeting nervously with her finger. “Tell me what ye believe to have in common with my Reaper.”

  Inwardly, he winced. Outwardly, he’d not give her the satisfaction of seeing how the little word—my—had pained him. He turned sideways and scooted into the middle of the doorway so he could lean his back against the wide frame. If she would be comfortable, so would he.

  “First,” he said, “I will tell you what we do not have in common.”

  She grinned.

  He addressed the candle. “He breaks the law. As far as Scottish tradition is concerned, I am the law here.”

  “Therefore he breaks ye?”

  He tossed her a frown. “You know precisely what I mean.”

  “Fine. Is there more, then?”

  “Of course,” he said, though he was making it up as he went. What else did he even know about the blighter? Surely there was more of a difference between them than just their height.

  “Go on.” She sounded to be on the very verge of laughter.

  “I’m rather tall,” he mumbled.

  She scoffed. “But surely ye’ve heard. My Reaper is not a short man.”

  “No, but certainly shorter.”

  She laughed. “I concede. He is shorter, but so are all but a hundred other men, surely.”

  Ash nodded. “And he’s. . .well, quiet.”

  She giggled.

  He wanted to turn and crawl up to his room. How the devil had he come to such a silly undertaking?

  “I think you’d best move on to your similar qualities. You can revise the f
irst list afterward.”

  He nodded, though he hardly wished to go on. He’d either end with praising his enemy or vaunting himself. Neither action would help his cause, but perhaps he could drag the blackheart down into the mud beside him.

  “We’ve the both of us killed many men,” he said seriously.

  “Have ye?” Her brow creased. “Are ye certain The Reaper has ever killed anyone?”

  “The man has fought in battle. Of course he’s killed before.”

  She looked off into the shadows and nodded. He was pleased if she was seeing his enemy in a less than romantic light and decided to press on.

  “We have frightful tempers,” he said.

  Her head snapped around. She was smiling again, damn her.

  “Nay. Actually, he doesna. So that’s another trait to add to the first list. Ye’ve a temper and he has none.”

  “Fine.” Ash took a breath, realizing he was about to lose the temper he never remembered having been a problem before meeting her. “You must admit that we both care about the people of Brigadunn. We both are attempting to help the people and the land recover from past atrocities. I am simply doing so legally.”

  “Oh, aye. And if The Reaper had gold spilling from his pockets, no doubt he could do the same.”

  “But do you not see?” He turned to face her, feet and all, and absently noticed he was well inside the larder when he did so. “Brigadunn has need of only one of us.”

  He wondered if she’d understand his inference, that she needed only one of them, and that The Reaper was not the best choice for either Brigadunn or herself.

  She looked at his feet, then at the door, no doubt measuring his proximity to her pallet as well.

  He scooted back two inches.

  She sighed and looked into his eyes. “It is simple enough. Yes, ye’re here—now. But for how long? Just until ye realize that ye cannot make much of a profit from Brigadunn and still be fair with her people? Or will ye send a manager to cheat us all in yer stead? Shall we just do our best, hope we can fatten our children before times grow hard again, until someone else wins us in a game of cards?”

  He reached out and took one of her hands firmly in both of his, then looked back at her with the same intensity.

  “I did not win you in a game of cards.”

  “No. Ye lost a lottery. All the glen kens it.”

  She’d said it as if it were the worst of sins. Something that could not be forgiven.

  “You’ve been misinformed, Scotia. I stole you from Northwick.” And with that, he pulled firmly on her hand until she lifted off the pallet and onto his lap. He crossed his shins and she sat in the wide circle made by his legs. Her legs hung over his right knee. His hands encircled her waist while she clasped her hands before her and tucked her head beneath his chin. He’d intended to kiss her, but he could wait a while longer.

  The risk of her escape prevented him from letting his guard down completely, of course, so he pulled a length of plaid from her pallet, pulled it around both of them, then twisted the ends around one hand and held tight.

  “Tell me about the darkness, sweeting.”

  A few minutes passed and he was coming to accept she did not wish to share her troubles with him when she finally spoke.

  “Ghosts,” she said.

  He could hear the tears in her voice and lifted her chin to find silent drops collecting beneath it, wetting his fingers.

  “Ghosts come to me, in the darkness. Waking or sleeping, it makes no matter. They come.”

  “Ghosts?” He tried not to sound skeptical. “Who are they?”

  “The men I killed at Antwerp.”

  “In battle?”

  “Aye. In battle. A battle in which I had no right to be. If I’d not slipped inside the ranks, those men might have lived. They remind me of it. Just their faces before me. The rattle of death.”

  “But sweeting,” he said carefully. “In Charleville, you were sleeping in the dark, with no fire. Barely a candle in the hallways—”

  “That was before Givet Faux. After all that happened there, something changed. Now the ghost of that woman comes with the others.”

  “The woman? I killed the woman, Scotia. Her blood is on my hands.”

  She smiled at him. “A sweet thing to say, all in all, but Wolfkiller did the job I sent it to do. It was well-seated,” she swallowed awkwardly, “well-seated before ye let fly yer blade. I can still feel the snap of yer sword when it broke against mine. I feel it often. And I’m glad I sent Wolfkiller with Martin. I never care to touch it again.

  “I had hoped, with all my work as. . .at The Reaper’s side, I might have earned some forgiveness. But still the faces come. When it’s dark.”

  Ash freed his hand from the plaid and pulled her tight, hoping for a bit of redemption himself by holding her as she wept, as he’d failed to hold her long ago, when she’d fallen apart with no one to catch the pieces.

  “Forgive me, love. Forgive me for not tying you to a tree, or locking you up in some safe place to keep you from following us into Givet Faux that day. It was unforgiveable, but forgive me anyway?”

  She smiled up at him then, placed a hand along his cheek, and gave him a brief kiss.

  “Ye silly man. Of course I forgive ye. But had ye tied me up, or locked me up, I could not have been so forgivin’. Ye understood back then. Ye knew. And ye were a little afraid of me, I think.”

  Ash nodded. “Yes. You terrified me. I was terrified you’d be hurt. I was just too much a coward to do anything about it.” He smoothed her hair away from her face and pecked at her lips with his own. “But I’m not that coward anymore. And I will do anything necessary to keep you from being hurt. Even if I have to board up all the windows and lock the entire house with only you and me inside.”

  She laughed, albeit nervously.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “Do you know of any old tower keeps nearby? Something I might purchase for a reasonable price?”

  “A tower keep? What are ye needin’?”

  He shrugged, deciding that some silliness was better left unspoken.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  From a haze of blue dawn, the sun rose and woke the birds. Ash held deathly still, to prolong the spell and pray that for once the sun would reconsider.

  There was only the slightest change to the woman’s breathing, but it was enough to tell him she was awake, though she pretended not to be. Was she, too, wishing the night could have lasted a bit longer? Or was she hoping for a chance to escape him?

  His arm pulled her closer. And there they lay, pretending nothing was unusual about nestling close on the larder floor, until Tolly came puffing into the little room, a parchment flapping in his hand.

  Stiffly, they rose until they were sitting side by side. Ash took one of her hands and laced their fingers together before he reached for the paper.

  Tolly placed both his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath. It was either long past time for the man to retire, or he was playing Ash for a fool. But either way, he would not risk running the man into his grave. As soon as The Reaper was removed from power, or removed from the area, and the constable replaced, Ash would bend his attentions to Tolly’s future. Until then, he would supply the man with a runner. Perhaps Finn was just the boy for the job.

  Ash stood and helped Scotia to her feet, then opened the note.

  “To the Right Honorable Earl of Ashmoore,” he read aloud.

  “Dear Sir,

  I am escaping you. Sometimes defiance is the honorable choice.

  Finnian Balliol

  “Damn! I knew he was upset, but—”

  Scotia snatched the message from his hand and read it again. “What do ye mean, he was upset? What upset him?”

  “He asked if I was going to release you. I told him I could not. So he insisted I had to release him, as if he believed it was unfair for me to hold you both.”

  The woman moaned and crumpled the paper in her hand.

  �
��He wasn’t thinking about fairness,” she complained. “He was worried about Shakespeare.”

  “I don’t understand. The line about defiance being the honorable choice? I don’t recall—”

  “Not the writer, the blasted bird. The owl.”

  “His dead owl?”

  “Shakespeare’s not dead,” she said. “But he would be soon enough if ye didn’t let one of us go.”

  His mind stumbled across the clues that had been strewn in his path, clues he should have seen long ago, the ring he’d been carrying in his bloody pocket for two years!

  He grabbed her shoulders. “You’re Blair Balliol. Martin was the unconscious young man with the swollen face!”

  “And my wee brother has gone off to find the Witch’s Vale to feed Shakespeare. Only he doesna ken the secret to getting there safely. He’ll end with walking off a cliff in the mist. There are markers leading the way, but they are of a purpose, misleading. We have to catch him before he gets too far. And before it gets dark!”

  The pounding of the door knocker reached all the way to the kitchens. Tolly stumbled away to answer it.

  “Perhaps someone already found Finn and is returning him.” Ash began pulling her after the old man.

  She resisted. “No! No one can see me. Do ye not understand?”

  He stopped and noted the desperation in her eyes. “Is this about your father?”

  She shrugged. Her mouth moved, but she found no words.

  Then understanding dawned and an invisible fist found his middle. He forced himself to say it. “Or is it about your Reaper?”

  She stared at him for a moment as if his soul were laid bare for her, which it most likely was. Whatever she saw there finally made her look away.

  “Both,” she said quietly.

  He considered locking her back in the larder, ensuring there was a crack or two to allow light inside, but no more. There was no one to tell him that he couldn’t. And it was a fact he could not stand to let her go, no matter how she felt about the villain.

  “My kingdom for a secluded tower,” he mumbled.