Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (12 page)

But how close Northwick had come to that fate! If not for the woman. . .

He certainly owed her anything she might ask in payment—anything but running after her to certain death.

He’d already steeled himself. If they threatened her, he would not be swayed. She’d been warned. She chose to come in any case. Her death would not be his fault. If he could exchange his life for hers, he would do it, but not unless his friends were safe. And they were not.

A low rumble came from the opening. Everhardt stepped back to join him and Stanley to create a formidable front line. Ash took a moment to roll his shoulders, to flex his fighting arm. He allowed the red haze to descend once more, his thoughts becoming a series of blade strokes. His lungs filled with the scents of blood and death.

Ah. Here. I know this place. There is nothing to fear in this place. . .but me.

The bastards dawdled on the stairs, then came in a rush. Those at the fore brandished their weapons wildly, their eyes bulging with fear. In three moves, he put a pair of them from their misery, but allowed Everhardt and Stanley a man or two on which to dull their blades.

The next line tried to turn and flee but two others were backing down the steps, preventing their escape. But why backward?

A woman’s voice caught his attention, but she did not sound distressed—she was bellowing Scottish war cries. Of course it must be Scotia, but again, he had no time for her distraction, not even time enough to be pleased she was still alive. Somehow.

The last two men finally turned and ran down the final steps and all but skewered themselves on his and Stanley’s blades. He had just pulled his sword free from its human sheath and raised it for the next villain when Scotia stepped into the opening. Her blade was held triumphantly toward the ceiling. It was christened with only a drop or two of blood. He was simply glad to know the blood across her throat was not her own.

“I draped myself along the steps and feigned death. They walked right past me. Then I blocked their retreat, aye?”

Her celebration was brief. Her smile changed to concern and she ran immediately to her brother. She thanked the prisoner who had stationed himself beside the unconscious man.

“The dead woman was the only one to tend after this one,” said the prisoner. “He was never allowed to wake for long—only time to eat a bit. But some days, they’d come for him. They’d blindfold him, take him above stairs, bring him back, and drug him again. We never understood it.”

Ash was simply relieved the brother was still alive. A weeping woman was the last thing he wished to deal with, now that he had Northwick at his side again.

He suddenly realized he had yet to see her weep. Considering everything she’d done and seen this day, it was simply a matter of time. He only hoped that when the hysteria came, her brother would be aware enough to comfort her, just as she was currently attempting to comfort her sleeping brother.

She sheathed her blade, then pushed the boy’s hair away from his face and Ash could almost feel her fingers doing the same to him. He shivered and rubbed his forehead, erasing the phantom caress.

“We need to leave,” Stanley murmured. He was frowning at Scotia.

Ash was still wondering how the big Scot had known her, but they’d have to discuss it later. As soon as they were away from that place, he would have an answer for that and more, no matter how he had to go about getting it. If this woman had been an accomplice, nothing could save her from his swift justice.

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 brother 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.