Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (18 page)

He gently peeled the boy from his body and sat his bottom on the floor with a nice thump before he lunged for the door. He’d be damned it the ungrateful imp didn’t stretch his legs out to try and trip him!

The moonlight lit part of the front lawn. Ash held onto the doorframe and searched for movement. No sense running out into the night if he ran in the wrong direction. But there, on the far side of the fountain, a shadow moved. As he ran full out, he had to remind himself that this was a woman. He’d have to be gentle, not knock her to the ground with his body.

She heard him coming and was on her feet and running down the sloping lawn before he reached the other side of the fountain. He expected to catch her before she reached the rose hedge that bordered the drive.

He was wrong.

And the hedge didn’t stop her.

He very nearly forgot to keep running when she sailed over the rose bushes. With her cloak billowing behind her, he could almost believe she was a ghost, that her lower half had simply disappeared through the branches as she’d flown through it. If it weren’t for the thumping of her boots across the drive, he might not have shaken off his foolish thoughts and resumed the chase.

She disappeared into the tree line, but he anticipated the angle at which she’d entered and made up some ground. And a good thing too—she’d reached her horse and had one foot in the stirrup when he finally got his hands on her.

He reached one arm around her waist and hauled her backward. She made no noise, but fought like a cat. Her heels struck out at his shins, but holding her as he was, he could anticipate where she intended to strike at him by how her weight shifted.

“Calm yourself, madam. Calm yourself I say.”

He was determined to get a good look at her, but couldn’t do so while holding her in the air, so he lowered her to the ground without easing his hold. He could only turn her so far without risking her escape and it seemed as if no matter how he tried, she was equally determined not to be seen. The icy cloud of her breath was always moving away from him.

“Damn, but you’re fast for a woman. Fast for a man, even.”

Compliments usually got a lady’s attention, but not this one. She remained silent.

“Tell me,” he pulled her back against him and spoke gently through the thick mass of curls that covered her ear. “Why should The Reaper give a whit about the Balliol boy?”

She shivered in his arms and he wondered just how far she would have had to travel in the cold night air before she reached her destination. Not far, most likely, if she was willing to take the boy from the house without so much as a blanket to keep him warm.

“He doesna,” she whispered. “Just go back the way ye came. Go.”

She ceased fighting him, for the moment. It could have been due to the warmth between them, but he doubted it. She was too vigorous to give up so soon. But then that need to see her face would not leave him. It was ridiculous, of course, but he could not help but recall that other Scottish lass with a head covered in generous red curls, with a brogue to her whisper so similar to this one’s. The details of that first woman were fading after more than two years, but he remembered enough to know she was a good deal smaller and shorter than the woman in his arms. He had a silly hope, however, that if he could see this hellion’s face, it might help him remember the other one.

With his left hand, he reached around and got hold of her right wrist before easing his arm from around her. She could spin out of his hold and try to get free, but only if she turned toward him first. And turn she did. As she did so, he snatched up her other wrist and she was caught, facing him. All she would share with him, though, was the top of her head, or rather, her hood.

Well, if she wished to play a waiting game, he would oblige her. It should only take but another moment for her to realize he meant to win.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Blair had never fought so hard in her life. Only the one she fought with was not the Englishman, but herself. She so wished to take a gander at the large man’s face, but to do so would expose her own. Even though he would have no reason to recognize her now, she couldn’t risk him doing so later, knowing she was the woman who’d tried to help his hostage escape. If she could keep her hair covered and her face averted, she could make her way through a crowd without drawing notice. But once someone saw the beauty mark next to her right eye, they never forgot.

Her own little mob, the people she led, were careful never to mention the mark. They knew only that along with Jarvill and Coll, she was one of The Reaper’s close companions, and as such, her identity warranted protection. It was the least they could do for the man who fed and protected them, the man that had given them hope.

But to have the Englishman see her mark and then go about asking folk about it would only lead to her downfall.

If her father heard tell. . .

That could never be allowed to happen. This man must never see her face, and so she could never see his. And rightly so. What purpose would it serve to know the face of the man when he was surely about to flee from Scotland as the last one had?

Standing in her boots was doing nothing to keep her warm, however, so it was past time for leaving. She took a hesitant step forward and the man tensed. Then she took another and pushed herself against him as if in need of his warmth, which was true but not her purpose. And just like a man, he released one of her wrists so that he might wrap an arm about her. Another minute passed and he relaxed.

“Come, now,” he said against her head. “Return to the house with me. We can have a chat over hot tea, and then you can be on your way. What say you?”

His deep voice rumbled through her very bones. It was nearly her undoing. If it weren’t for that man in France—Ash—she wouldn’t have been affected in the least. But Ash had possessed such a dark voice. In fact. . .

She started.

It was not possible that she was wrapped in the arms of the only Englishman that terrified her. To even imagine the men were one and the same would make it less likely for her to get away from this one. And get away, she would.

“Come,” he said again and pulled back from her.

It was just enough room. She brought up her knee with unrepentant force. He yanked on her wrist, pulling her to one side as he turned his body in the opposite direction, but it could not save him. At least, not all of him.

It could have been surprise as much as pain that made him release her. Two steps and a leap put her on the horse’s back. After she was well out of his reach, she dared a glance back and found the man standing, but bent, with his hands on his knees. Standing was a fine thing. An Englishman freezing to death at the hands of The Reaper, while doing much to further the legend’s infamy, would make her impossible for the authorities in England to ignore.

She slowed her horse and could not resist one last taunt.

“Go home. Go home and remove yer hands from all things Scottish, aye?”

His head snapped up and even though she was turning away, she feared his glare was far too familiar.

I only imagined it
, she thought, while her clever mount wove through the trees for which she had no attention. The other one, the man who haunted her dreams and stole her sleep, would have no business in Scotland, surely.

Unless.
Her heart tripped at the thought of it.
Unless he came looking for me.

~ ~ ~

“So, yer alive. I knew it.”

Blair turned away from Shakespeare’s perch and faced the oldest of her two brothers in the darkness. She’d left the door open so the moonlight might help her locate the bird. Now Martin stood in the doorway blocking most of that light.

“Hello, Martin.”

She’d barely finished whispering his name before he slammed into her. His embrace was enough to set her back a good three feet.

“Oh, Blair! How could you do it? How could you let me believe ye were dead?” He gave her a good squeeze to show her how he felt, then loosened his hold a bit without letting her go. She was grateful she didn’t have to look him in the eye while they spoke.

He was right. It was cruel to deal him such a blow when his kidnappers had left him so weak, but she’d had no choice, not if she wanted him to go home and leave her behind.

“I canna explain just th’ now. Ye’ll just have to trust me, that it broke my heart to do it.”

How many times had she dreamed of the chance to tell her brother those words?

“I blamed meself.” His voice was harsh in her ear. “If I hadna gone to France. . .”

“Wheesht! The blame is mine for deceiving ye. Forgive me. Forgive me and trust me.”

“Ah, mavournin’. Da will be—”

She pulled back and looked into her brother’s wet eyes. “I have no da, Marty. And yer da has no daughter. Ye must continue to act as though it’s true. For it is.”

Martin shook his head. “But you doona understand, Blair. Da’s taken a hard blow. The Englishmon has taken wee Finn for a hostage—”

“I know, brother. Wasn’t I just in the blackheart’s house trying to steal our Finn away? But he wouldna come.”

Martin shrugged. “Da says the mon’s cast a spell on him.”

Blair sighed. Allen Balliol was a superstitious fool.

“He’s an eegit,” she said. “Finn but believes he’s given his word, that to escape would be dishonorable. He doesna understand that sometimes fighting back is the only honorable thing.”

With the reminder of how she herself had just been fighting with the Englishman, she realized Martin would know the blackheart’s name. She was nearly too afraid to ask, to have her worst fear realized, but she would not spend a sleepless night worrying. It was best to know for certain.

“Speaking of the devil,” she said, “do ye ken the Englishman’s name?”

Her brother nodded. “Name’s Earnest Merriweather, an earl, no less. Nothin’ pleasant about the man. And dangerous, to be sure. Ye’re lucky to have gotten away before he caught ye.”

She nodded, but bit down on her tongue. Truth be told, she was torn, both disappointed and relieved that Ash had not come to Scotland. Her heart had leapt at the thought he might have sought her out, but even if he had, he might still believe she was his enemy. Also, if the likes of Ashmoore had taken up the manor house and control of the area, the threat of The Highland Reaper could not frighten the man away.

She only hoped this Merriweather fellow wasn’t similar to Ash in more than form alone.

Martin gave her a pleading smile and squeezed her arms. “Are ye certain ye won’t come inside? To see ye would cheer Da to no end.”

“Why?” she asked gently. “His daughter is dead.”

She pulled Martin close again and wrapped her arms about him to get warm and to hide from his searching eyes. It was time to say goodbye, and she worried she could not do it while facing him.

“Since I was the one to tell him the sad news, I can tell ye he mourned ye, Blair. Truly he did. He e’en placed a memorial for ye.”

Now that surprised her. She pulled back to see if Martin was telling the truth. Even in the shadows, she could see him blush. He was hiding something.

“Oh? Where is this memorial, brother? Where might I read my name in stone?”

Martin ducked and shuffled a foot in the straw. “Under the birches, ye know the ones. But ‘tis not stone. ‘Tis a nice wood cross.”

“A nice wood cross. Fer me soul. The soul he no doubt believes is makin’ itself comfortable in Hell.”

If Martin had defended her, if he’d sworn upon his life that Blair had never become a camp whore as their father had predicted, the old man would have never believed him, for to do so would be to admit he’d been wrong—and Allen Balliol was never wrong.

The old anger rose and warmed her a’plenty, so she stepped away from Martin and went for the bird that was four times the size it had been when she’d left home. Finn had done a fine job caring for it.

“What are ye about, sister? The owl’s not well. Finn always played with him every night and every morn, so Shakespeare must sense something is amiss. If Finn isna brought home soon, he’ll return to an empty perch.”

She placed the hood on Shakespeare and collected his jesses. For the first time since she’d entered the mews, the owl squeaked.

“There now, Shakespeare. Yer mum’s home. All will be right.”

Shakespeare squeaked again.

“Aye, my wee birdie. Ye’ll be coming with me.” She nudged the owl’s belly with her gloved fist and he hopped onto it out of habit. “And Martin, our wee brother will keep my secret and so must ye.”

Her brother moved to her side and petted the bird. Tears fell down his face unchecked. Two years ago, he hadn’t been so tall.

“Aye, I’ll keep yer secret,” he said, “until you say otherwise. But where will ye go on this cold dark night, mavournin’?”

She hoped Martin didn’t notice her hesitation before she was forced to break his heart yet again. “Back to The Reaper,” she said. “He protects me.”
He keeps me warm
was what she implied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE