Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (16 page)

“Kevin Kjar, from Brigadunn,” he gasped. “I’ve a message from Allen Balliol. Was told to speak only with The Highland Reaper.”

“Oh, aye. Ye may speak to The Reaper alone if ye mun, but he’ll give ye no answer save through myself or Coll. Which shall it be, then?”

“So, ‘tis true? Ye can but whisper?” The man had whispered the last. Blair almost burst out laughing, but she was anxious to see what message her father would have for the famous outlaw.

Jarvill clouted the man on the ear and sent him into the dirt. “No one insults the man and lives.” He then pulled a dirk from his belt.

Kjar put his hands over his head. “I meant no insult. I beg pardon!”

Blair kept her arms folded beneath her disguise and her hood pulled far forward. In the dim light of the gloaming, Death himself might be standing among them for all they could tell. But she was fair to certain Death would be a bit taller. The cushions she wore in the heels of her boots helped, but not much.

Finally, she gave one nod and Jarvill sheathed his blade.

“Yer a lucky mon, Kevin Kjar, make no mistake. Now, will ye give yer message or no?”

“I will! I will. And thank ye.” Kjar kept to his knees, and folded his hands before him. “Balliol requires ye to return the beasts ye collected last eve. He says to tell ye that the Anglishmon has taken his son hostage until the lot is returned.”

Blair’s blood turned cold. She was grateful the shadows kept the runner from witnessing the anguish she could not manage to keep from her face. She breathed in, then out again. Breathed in, then out. Then she leaned and whispered in Jarvill’s ear.

“Which son?”

Jarvill repeated her question.

“The youngest, Finnian,” said Kjar.

“Bastard!” Jarvill gave voice to her own reaction. The man was as clever as he was loyal. He knew what she was thinking most of the time, bless him. “Where does he keep the lad?”

“At the manor house, inside, with nary a tie to bind him. Balliol believes the Anglishmon has cast a spell on wee Finn so’s the lad will no’ leave the house.”

Blair turned and walked away so the man might not hear her if she failed to keep her lips together. Her father was such a fool to blame every difficulty on superstitions. How was she ever to help her people when so many were swayed by such nonsense? It wasn’t just the young who needed educations, but at least they were teachable. It would be a start. And she would keep teaching them as long as she was able.

When she’d calmed down, she walked back to the runner. She told Jarvill what to ask.

“What has become of the lad’s owl?”

Asking about the bird would raise no suspicion. Anyone who knew of Finnian Balliol knew he was the lad with the wee tawny owl—called Shakespeare—that regularly perched upon his shoulder. Few would remember the bird used to belong to the sister.

“Finn does not have the owl with him, sir.”

Shakespeare would starve if Finn wasn’t able to feed him. Depending on when he last fed, the owl might not last more than a week. But perhaps Shakespeare might remember
her
well enough. If they couldn’t rescue Finn right away, she’d have to take the risk and collect the bird herself. If her father caught her, it would be disastrous. But leaving Shakespeare to starve was something Blair simply could not do.

“Do ye have any message, then? An answer for Balliol?” Kjar bowed his head as if bracing himself for another blow from Jarvill.

Blair whispered once again in her devoted friend’s ear, then headed back to her tent.

Jarvill laughed. “Tell Balliol not to be holdin’ his breath.” Then he turned to follow. When he came even with her, he spoke quietly. “Please tell me yer not more worrit about the damned foul than yer wee brother.”

To punish her friend for even thinking such a thing, she kept her silence.

“Oh, Saints preserve us, Blair. It’s yer own brother. Surely ye’ll not punish the lad to spite yer father.”

“I have no father, Jarvill.” She ducked into her tent where a single wee candle burned strong. It offered so little light no shadows could be cast against the walls, but at least she could see a mite.

She kept a candle burning at all times, and for a pair of reasons. First, it was The Reaper’s reputation to never sleep. And second, she could not stomach the darkness alone. She never fashed when others were about, or even if she was on her own with a bit of light from the moon or stars. But since those days in France, if her candle sputtered out and left her blind, the ghosts would come. And all of them.

Blair shook her fear away and tossed her cloak across her pallet, then she turned her back to Jarvill so he might help her remove her false shoulders. They stayed put much better when they were laced from behind. After a few tugs, the contraption was loose enough to remove over her head.

“If I have no father,” she continued, “then there is no one to spite. But I think I should go collect Finn as meself, and not The Reaper.”

She reached for the cloak again. Jarvill draped it around her. Without the false shoulders, it dragged the ground.

“Aye?” said Jarvill. “And what if someone recognizes ye?”

“Then I shall make ghostly noises and frighten them away.” She laughed quietly.

Jarvill wasn’t amused. “I fear this Englishmon is no’ the kind of mon who is easily frightened.”

She laid a hand alongside Jarvill’s face and looked into his eyes. She hoped he could see her smile with dim light from the candle shining upon it, for she truly wished to ease his mind.

“Jarvill, mavournin’. There is only one English peer I fear, and the English are a bit thick on the ground in this world. Not much chance of the new laird of Brigadunn Manor being the sole man who makes me tremble. Or would ye care to make a wager?”

Jarvill frowned, his slashing brows were easy to see despite the light.

“I wish ye’d tell me what that mon did to ye,” he said. “I’d hunt him down, English or no, if ye’d but say the word.”

It was high time she was honest with Jarvill. He was like the level-minded brother she never had. He might understand, even if she didn’t understand much of it herself.

“Weel,” she said. “I’ll tell ye, but ye’ll make yerself sick with laughing at me.”

“That I’d never do.”

“Fine, then.” She stepped toward the opening in the tent. “It is not what he did to me, Jarvill. Or what he might do to me.” She shuddered and lowered her voice to but her usual whisper. “But what he
does
to me.”

They stood there for a long moment as their hearts beat and the candlelight swayed. If she waited long enough, the truth would come to him.

“Ye’re wrong, Blair. ‘Tis no matter for laughing o’er. No matter at all.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The growling of the lad’s stomach reached the dining room before he appeared.

Feed him. He’s wee yet.
And hungry, it seemed.

“Come, Finn. Your place is here, beside me.” Ash pointed to the place setting to his right. “Whenever possible, you should sit with your back to the wall and no man can surprise you.”

Eventually, the boy took his seat. Ash placed a napkin over his own lap. Finn copied the movement, then stared down at the empty plate before him with his bottom lip protruding.

“Have no fear, boy. Food is coming. Just ring this bell.” Ash nudged the bell’s miniature tray away from himself.

Finn tilted his head as if sensing a trick. Ash nudged the tray again. The boy grinned and picked up the handle. The crystal bell chimed delicately.

“Ring it a bit louder so the kitchen staff can hear it.”

Perhaps he should have demonstrated, he thought, when the boy put his all into the task and forced Ash to cover his ears. When it appeared as though the child had misunderstood and intended to keep ringing the thing until food appeared on his plate, Ash sacrificed the hearing of one ear to reach over and still the boy’s arm. Once the ringing ceased—all but in his head—he reached over with the other hand and plucked it from Finn’s grasp. He then gave the bell a civilized shake and set it back on its tray.

Finn nodded in understanding, then his eyes flew wide when Fantine and Sarah, Fantine’s fourteen year old niece, came through the door carrying a number of courses. Two footmen entered after them and helped serve. The aromas that circled the room set Ash’s stomach to growling as well and the boy laughed. Once their plates were filled, the footman stepped back. The boy folded his hands before him and looked anxiously at his host.

Grace? Good God, does he expect me to say grace?

Ash’s frown seemed to have no effect, so he had to resort to actual words. He opened his mouth, intending to tell the boy that he did not worry over the state of his soul and thus did not bother with prayers of any kind.

Instead, the words that came forth were, “Would you care to do the honors?”

The boy looked quite relieved, then proceeded to recite what was possibly the briefest rendition of Grace ever offered, and all before Ash even got his hands fixed together properly. Finn’s small fingers began the frantic task of getting as much food into his mouth as possible before he might be told to stop.

Ash recovered from his surprise and found his voice. “Stop. For pity’s sake, stop.”

The boy held up his hands, but chewed and swallowed quickly lest he be told to spit it all out.

“Finn, listen carefully. No one will be taking your food away. You may have all you want. Your belly will never be empty while you are in this house, is that understood? I do not intend to starve you, but I expect proper table manners. If you but watch what I do, you will learn quickly enough.”

Finn’s head bobbed and he lowered his hands, though he looked doubtful.

“Let us begin again.” Ash picked up his knife in one hand and his fork in another and waited for Finn to do the same. But after a cursory search of the space around his plate, the boy could only produce a spoon.

Ash looked at the footman, who stepped forward smartly. Perhaps the footman would make a fine butler.

“Bring Sarah to me,” he said and pretended he hadn’t noticed Finn sneaking a bit of roll into his mouth before putting his hands back in his lap.

Sarah swept into the room and gave a curtsy before twisting her hands in her apron. Though her aunt was French, Sarah had been raised as an English young lady. Now Fantine was her only remaining family.

“Sarah, did you set the table?”

“I did, sir.” She added another curtsy for good measure. Any day now, the lass was going to be able to relax around him. Any day.

“It appears as though you forgot to leave a knife and fork for Finn.”

The girl looked at Finn and gifted the boy with a wrinkled nose before smiling back at Ash. “I did not forget, my lord. I assumed you would not wish to provide the enemy with weapons.”

Ash smiled. It was just as he thought. He’d heard Sarah and Finn bickering each time he’d stepped inside that day, but he’d expected they would have worked out their differences considering the effort they put into pointing them out.

“First of all, Sarah, I’d like to thank you for your consideration. You’re as clever as your aunt, which is precisely why I brought you both with me to Scotland.” He gave her a smile, which she returned with an even brighter one. “Secondly, I would like you to understand that Finn is not the enemy.”

The girl snorted and gave Finn a brief, though pointed look.

“Neither is his father the enemy. Nor the people of Brigadunn. The land is temporarily mine, the manor house as well, but the country belongs to the Scots. I have the right to everything this land can produce. I have the responsibility to ensure that the both the land and the people thrive. If anything, I am the enemy. If I fail in my responsibility, I will be nothing but an enemy, I assure you.”

From what he’d learned, the owner before Landtree had squeezed the place dry and left the people starving and in arms. The only curse on the supposedly cursed property had been English greed. Good God, but he felt as if he was back in the fourteenth century trying to convince the Scottish they should welcome English rule with open arms.

Sarah shrugged. “I do not understand what I might do to help you, my lord.”

Wasted. A fine speech, wasted.

“Go and collect Finn a knife and fork.”

The girl rolled her eyes and walked away. She could use a lesson in manners herself. Sarah’s parents had been English nobility. Perhaps she needed reminding.

“And Sarah?” he called.

She stopped and turned back with her hand on the door. “Yes, my lord?”

“Starting tomorrow, you will be taking your meals with Finn and me. And if you promise not to throw them, you will also be allowed a knife and fork.”

After a silent curtsy, she quit the room. When she returned with Finn’s utensils, she was the very study of a noble young lady. Finn even noticed.

“Will there be anything else, Lord Ashmoore?” Her little voice shook, but he suspected it was a good sign.

“That will be all, Sarah. Thank you.”

She curtsied to them both and sailed regally out the door. Perhaps the girl wouldn’t need nearly as much tutoring as he’d imagined.