Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere)

by Muir, L. L.

As Ash saddled his horse in the stable, Martin’s face appeared on the opposite side of the beast. His eyes were wide, but he said nothing, and for the first time, Ash realized how much the young man looked like his brother. Martin had been anxious since he’d been awakened with the news of Finn and Blair. Now he looked ill.

  “What is it, Martin?”

  Before the other could answer, someone bellowed from the yard.

  “Laird Ashmoore!” It sounded like Allen Balliol. “I demand to see Laird Ashmoore!”

  Martin whimpered.

  Ash immediately understood. “Does he know your sister is alive?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “Do you suppose he would rather hear it from you?”

  Martin shook his head again.

  Ash sighed and strode outside to face the man who had promised to spill Ash’s blood if any harm came to Finn. At the moment, Ash thought himself deserving of any beating Balliol might have in mind.

  The man stood with a sword in one hand and a torch held high in the other. He grimaced against the light and moved it aside to better see his enemy as he walked forward. Ash came to a stop with merely five paces between them.

  “I understand your need to fight me, Allen Balliol, but I ask you to stay your sword until your. . .family. . .is restored to you.”

  The older man tossed the sword away from him and sank to his knees in the mud. And still he was as tall as the Scot standing behind him, which hinted at the height he must have enjoyed since his youth. Allen Balliol had, more than likely, been looking down on people all his life regardless of his family name.

  But not at that moment.

  “Lord Ashmoore,” the man began in all humility. “I’m here to declare my fealty to ye fer the rest of me days if ye’ll but help rescue me wee bairn from the clutches of that bastard. I’ll do anything ye ask of me. Anything at all. But doona let the devil have him.”

  Ash looked behind him and found Martin staring agape at his father.

  “Martin, help your father to his feet,” he said.

  Balliol’s shoulders slumped, but Ash could not allow the man to worry his plea had been ignored. He gestured at the other men gathering in the yard.

  “We were just about to pay the constable a visit, Balliol. Perhaps you’ll join us.” He told a stable lad to saddle another horse.

  Balliol gave a single nod and stood before Martin reached his side. He forced his shoulders back, but he stared at the ground. Keeping his youngest from him appeared to have taken all the wind from his sails. The fact such a proud Scot would come and beg an Englishman for help said much about a father’s love. But Ash was curious to know if the man felt as strongly about his daughter.

  “Martin.” He met the young man’s eyes. “Now, I think.”

  At least the young man didn’t pretend ignorance. He hung his head for a moment, then took a breath and turned to face his wary father.

  “Da.”

  “Son?”

  “I was wrong about Blair. She didna die in France.”

  The torch drooped in the old man’s hand, then recovered.

  “She lives, Da. Yer daughter lives, and she’s been hiding herself in The Vale with the others.”

  Ash thought it was a fine thing Martin did to spare his father from further details.

  “I. . .” Balliol cleared his rough throat. He teetered, but caught himself, pulling away from his son’s extending hands. Then he gulped in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have no daughter,” he finally said.

  The tears streaming down his face, however, belied his words. Allen Balliol loved all his children, it seemed. He simply could not step around his own pride to acknowledge it.

  Yes, Blair had known her father well. But at the moment, she was at the whim of a vicious man, and the love of her father might give her a bit of needed strength. The old man only needed a shove. And Ash was more than happy to oblige. It no longer mattered if Blair wished to keep her identity a secret or not. The time for secrets was over.

  “No daughter?” Ash queried. “Well, then, it will be no concern to you that Martin and Finn’s sister is also being held by the constable.” A murmur quickly rolled through the rag-tag army in his yard. He let the news settle before he verbally shoved Balliol again. “Yes. Martin and Finn have a sister. And if it weren’t for that sister, Martin wouldn’t be with us tonight. He would have died among his kidnappers, along with my dearest friend, the Earl of Northwick. It was Martin’s sister who discovered their lair. It was Martin’s sister that insisted on fighting her way through a fortress of villains, to rescue your son. Surely you owe something to that woman.”

  With wide eyes, Martin faced his father. “I swear to ye, father. I didna ken Blair had been there. I thought I’d only dreamed it, so I said nothing. Only when I was half way to home did they tell me she was dead. I thought perhaps it had been her ghost that had been at my side when I was rescued.”

  Balliol reached up a hand and laid it against his son’s face for a moment, but said nothing.

  “And you,” Ash looked around the faces filling the yard. “Surely you all owe something to the one who has saved your families from starvation. Has The Highland Reaper not done enough for Brigadunn’s people to earn a helping hand, to rescue one of his friends?”

  Judging from the immediate roar of the crowd, The Reaper had already won the day, damn him. But as it happened, it wasn’t the mention of The Reaper that rallied the timeless army, it was the appearance of two more riders.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cornelius Wotherspoon eased back into his chair and sipped his whisky-laced coffee. It was more whisky than coffee, truth be told, but none need know it. Once he was away from Scotland, he’d sip whiskey all day if he liked. A doctor told him once that it was the whisky that made his nose red and tender betimes, but the doctor was a pious fool. Wotherspoon knew full well all he needed was a finer climate and his body would come ‘round.

  Over the edge of his cup, he surveyed the new villains decorating his jail. Of the three cells built into the far wall, two were occupied by his childhood rival’s offspring—the woman on the far left, the lad on the right. Justice was sometimes a sweet boon, for Blair Balliol was not just The Reaper’s Whore. She was the woman he had once wished to kill with his own hands but had been told she was dead.

  And now, it was if she was risen just for him. A sweet boon indeed.

  The center cell he reserved for his most important guest, the Earl of Ashmoore, whose arrival was surely imminent. The bastard had taken a shine to the Balliol brats for some reason, and Wotherspoon was certain the man would not suffer overlong without his pets. In truth, he was surprised the man had not come the previous night, but apparently the earl did not care enough to get wet.

  As The Reaper’s whore, it was anyone’s guess which man would come for her first. If The Reaper showed his face, Wotherspoon knew just what to do. But he had three days until all the chess pieces needed to be in their places. No need to fash.

  In three days, The Reaper must be off the board.

  The front door burst open and Wotherspoon spilled his coffee down his chest. He jumped from his seat and flapped his shirt, sucking air through his teeth as he waited for his skin to cool.

  The woman laughed, but he ignored her.

  “The Reaper! He’s come,” shouted Geordie, his eyes wide and bulging.

  Wotherspoon ground his jaw. “Wheesht! Did I not tell ye to be quiet about it, damn ye? Ye’ll wake the dead, let alone the living. And the fewer witnesses, the better. Where is he?”

  “Just forced his way into me mam’s house, he did. Mam got away, but he’s still inside, picking through her larder.”

  Without a woman to tend him, the bastard was likely peckish, he reasoned. The villain’s next stop would likely be the jail, but it was best not to take any chances.

  “Take four men from out back and bring the bastard to me. Silent as death, do ye ken? Gag him if needs be. And gag yerself as well if
ye canna keep yer wits about ye.”

  Geordie nodded and left. Wotherspoon turned back to find his prisoners standing at the bars, both their mouths agape.

  “Are ye surprised The Reaper got here first? Well, take heart. The English bastard will be along shortly, make no mistake.” He smiled at the lad. “Meanwhile young Balliol here can witness firsthand what comes from crossing Cornelius Wotherspoon.”

  “You’ll not punish The Reaper before he’s had his trial.” The woman had found her tongue. Her breath came fast, but her hands were steady, perhaps due to her tight hold on the bars. Even so, he could smell her fear from across the room. Did she fear for her lover? Or for herself, if her lover were caught and unable to rescue her?

  “The Reaper willna have a trial, Princess. Surely, if he’s not the Earl of Ashmoore, The Reaper is no more than a phantom, a contrived figure to blame fer all yer misdeeds.” He snorted. “A tale to frighten children.”

  He laughed outright at the confusion on her face, then he turned and perched his arse upon his desk, faced the door, and waited. But his wait was not long.

  The door burst open again, only this time it was Pinker. The man was a twin. His brother, Paler, died as a babe. His mother never got ‘round to calling him anything else.

  “The Reaper’s at Hay’s mercantile!” Pinker shouted.

  The mercantile was hell and gone from Geordie’s mum’s house. The old woman must have taken her fine time reportin’ her intruder, so The Reaper must have gotten clean away before Geordie and the others were sent after him. It might be a fair while before they dared return to the jail to report their failure. That left him five men low.

  “Save yer breath to cool yer porridge!” Wotherspoon rolled his eyes. “Fine, then. Take four. . . No, take two well-armed men and fetch the blackheart to me. Dinna make a ruckus. I want him brought along quietly, but dead will do.”

  Pinker nodded but didn’t move fast enough for Wotherspoon’s liking.

  “Move yer feet, damn ye, before the blighter gets away!”

  As he shuffled outside, Pinker turned sideways to allow room for Alistair Maughan’s great belly to come inside. The latter looked as though he’d left half his plaid at home, for there was far more of the man’s body showing than another man could stomach.

  “I’ve seen The Reaper,” Alistair said quickly between little puffs of air. “Stealin’ weapons from Smithy’s forge.” Puff. Puff. Puff. “Saw him with me own eyes.”

  Wotherspoon crossed his arms. “When did ye see him?”

  Alistair frowned. “Just the now. I ran all the way.”

  Wotherspoon doubted that Alistair ran at all, but made a guess as to how long it might have taken the man to walk from the Smithy’s. Unless The Reaper was racing a horse about the town, he couldna be in so many places in a quarter of an hour.

  He smirked. Either Ashmoore or The Reaper was trying to divide his forces. Perhaps they were even working together. But no matter. Their little plan was about to go a bit astray.

  “Alistair, stay here. Let no one inside but our own. If ye see The Reaper again, shoot him—as quietly as ye can,” he said, then walked out into the busy night.

  Including the half-naked Alistair, he was now nine men low. Ten if he counted the English spy. Ashmoore would believe the numbers were now in his favor, but he’d be wrong.

  Wotherspoon restrained his hands from rubbing together as he went to collect a new set of pieces for the chess board.

  ~ ~ ~

  The emotions boiling in Blair’s blood should have given her the strength to bend the jail bars, but they didn’t. And the only thing keeping her from screaming in frustration was her wee brother.

  Finn knelt, facing her through the two sets of bars that separated him from her. His little face fit completely in the gap between two of those bars. Too bad his head would not, or she’d tell him to squeeze out and slip away.

  “All will be right, Finn,” she said for the hundredth time. “Ye’ll see. Lord Ashmoore is so cross with me fer leaving him, he’ll bring down the walls and the bars with it. No doubt in me mind.”

  “Is he cross with me as well?” Finn swallowed hard.

  Poor mite. He had enough to worry over without fearing Ash.

  “Nay. He thought leaving a note, like ye did, was an honorable thing to do. He was proud of ye, but worried for ye at the same time. For we thought ye might end with falling off a cliff in The Vale. I was happy to hear you’d been found, no matter that it was the constable’s man who found ye. Yer safe, now. All we need do is wait.”

  “Then ye doona suppose we’ll hang, sister mine?”

  She’d had to strain to understand his whisper. Then she laughed, for both their sakes.

  “Nay, Finnian. We’ve done naught wrong. The constable thinks he’s a clever sort and is but using us as the cheese for his mouse trap.”

  Finn giggled. “Laird Ashmoore makes for a mighty large mouse.”

  Blair laughed again. “Only Ashmoore is verra, verra clever, Finn. In France, he saved our Martin from a horde of men much more evil than our constable. He’s more than capable of popping us free.”

  Mollified, Finn went back to playing with the tie from his boots and Blair rested her back against the bars so the lad might not read her thoughts.

  Yes. Ashmoore was capable, and she thanked God that someone was. For it seemed The Reaper was capable of little more than being captured by one man or another. Even the folk in The Vale recognized her inadequacies. The two questions that niggled her now was, how long had they been wanting to leave? And, how long had Coll been right about her?

  He was right; she was weary.

  In the time between one breath and the next, a great weight was lifted from her shoulders. And she couldn’t wait until The Highland Reaper was no more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  They had far too many Highland Reapers.

  The town of Brigadunn was alive with people running about. Half of them were dragging black capes behind them, the other half gave chase. Ash wondered, at what point were the chasers going to realize that in following one cloaked figure, they’d passed another two on the street.

  He sat atop his horse, watching the antics from a hillside along with The Reaper’s men. Speechless, they watched as one man got hold of a Reaper Decoy, only to jump back as if he’d been burned. The two exchanged slight bows, then the first man waited a moment, giving the decoy a slight head start, before giving chase once again.

  “They’re all mad,” he said aloud.

  “Nay,” said the man named Coll. “They but do as they were told, to chase down The Reaper. Only none of them wants The Reaper caught.”

  The man named Jarvill nodded. “There’s not a soul in Brigadunn hasna been touched somehow, by. . .a. . .his generosity.”

  From somewhere below came the echo of a pistol shot.

  Ash nudged his horse awake. “All but one, at least,” he said, and took a straight path down the hill.

  ~ ~ ~

  The constable’s headquarters, including the jail, were in an imposing building located on the same road as an equally imposing church. The edifices sat at opposite ends—a visual lecture for the inhabitants of Brigadunn. You can’t be in both places at the same time. If you’re in church, you won’t be in the jail. And vice versa.

  Ash and his two unlikely companions left their horses to walk the last block. A miniature village green lent as silly an aspect to the building as did the constable’s hat to his appearance. Nevertheless, the space was empty. And Ash realized that only an alley still separated him from his Scotia, or rather, a lass named Blair who belonged to The Highland Reaper.

  He spared only a glance at the darkness between the buildings, then hurried past, only to find that his two companions had disappeared.

  He turned back to the alley. Coll and Jarvill were standing against the wall, but as Ash moved closer, he realized the pair were standing quite still with hands over their mouths and pistols aimed at their heads.
Stanley and Everhardt, clothed in shadows, were barely visible between The Reaper’s men and the wall.

  Stan grinned. “You didn’t think we’d be foolish enough to try to grab you, did you?”

  Ash waved a hand and the two men were released. Their hackles were up, but they held their tongues.

  “Come,” Stan ordered, and disappeared.

  Ash had no choice but to follow, and as they got farther and farther from the jail, his frustration grew unbearable. Then he realized his friend might well be leading him to where Blair and Finn were being held, and his frustration cooled.

  Stan ducked inside a small shop and waved them all inside. The door closed, revealing a wrinkled old woman who gave Ash a wink, then disappeared through a little red door.

  Ash attempted patience. “Someone was shot?

  Everhardt nodded. “Someone inside the jail.”

  Stan put a hand up. “It was a man. We heard him moaning.”

  Ash nodded, relieved. He had allies a’ plenty tonight, but the people he could not bear to see harmed were the two men before him and the Balliols. Coll and Jarvill he was not so sure about.

  “I am sorry, Ash,” Stan said. “You have to go home. Immediately.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He looked from Stan’s nodding head to Everhardt’s and back again. “I will go home once I’ve collected—”

  “Not tonight, my friend,” Stan said sadly. “This is all a trap, for you. Wotherspoon has far more men that we suspected. He has been hiding them from view. If not for rather loyal friends of The Highland Reaper, we might never have known. I do not know what you have done to this Wotherspoon, or when you did it, but he has plans for you. And until we know what is behind it, you need to remain on home ground.”

  Ash was already shaking his head.

  Stan shrugged. “Look at it this way. You know precisely where she is. She cannot escape. And since her trial is scheduled in three days, you know Wotherspoon must care for her until then. Besides, the town is full of eyes and ears who will watch over her and the boy. If anything suspicious occurs, inside or outside the jail, I am certain we will be informed.”