Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (19 page)

Clouds of pink and orange created a beautiful garden from which the sun rose and yawned in greeting, which, for some reason, put Ash in a decidedly foul mood. He pulled the curtains shut on the obnoxiously cheerful day and determined to sleep until the weather better reflected his state of mind.

Tolly appeared with breakfast in any case. Ash pulled a pillow onto his head and ignored the man.

“I was asked to inform ye, me laird, that Finn will no longer be needin’ a mews for his owl, since the wee Shakespeare has disappeared.”

Ash removed the pillow. “No doubt a larger owl made a meal of him.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“And the lad?”

“Sir?”

“How is Finn taking the news?”

“Rather well, I think, considering. It hasn’t put him off his breakfast at any rate.”

Ash pulled the pillow back into place and mumbled into it. “Good. I am not up to being a nursemaid today.”

“Very well, me laird,” he heard the man say as he left the room.

When the sky proved cloudless at midday, Ash closed the curtains again and ordered a bath, then had a sulk and a soak until both his body and his mind were well pruned.

Until the sun was down, his only companion was his owl ring. He had removed it from its small drawstring sack, placed the sack on the bed, and propped the little fellow on the velvet so it faced him while he brooded. Though he willed it to open its miniscule beak and impart some wisdom, it remained as silent as the grave, as if it, too, had promised to never speak again of Scotia.

But Ash itched to speak of her. And he itched in general from bathing far too long.

He rolled up his right sleeve and stared at the scar on his forearm. The wound seemed so fresh since his encounter with yet another Scotswoman, it would not have surprised him to find blood oozing from the thin white line where his broken blade had imbedded itself. The scar was over two years old, but tonight it felt angry.

He rubbed a hand over it, then rolled down his sleeve and tried to put it out of his mind. He made his way to the window and peered out at the dark woods to the north. Immediately, the shadows before him were forgotten in favor of a memory—memory of the woman who’d given him that bothersome scar.

He tried, and failed, to conjure Scotia’s face. She had fled from him in France. He’d left his friends to fend for themselves and began his hunt for a fearless redhead with a beauty mark near her right eye. Either none had remembered her, or a nation of Franks chose to take sides against him. He suspected the latter.

For weeks he’d stomped around the Continent until a letter from Harcourt caught up to him. Northwick needed Ash by his side if he was going to fully recover from his ordeal. And Ash had needed his friend much more than he’d needed his prey. So he’d gone home.

But after two years, Northwick was himself again, and in love, of all things. And rather than sit by while the legend of the Four Kings withered and died, Ash had left town. However, after the encounter in the woods last night, and the new disquiet in his soul, Ash’s mind had been dancing around a preposterous question.

Had his destination of Scotland been coincidence or not?

He thought back to the lottery, that night when his name was drawn, but Northwick had hidden the tile and claimed it was his own lot that had been pulled from the small barrel. That deception was no longer significant, so he thought back a few moments earlier, to when Landtree had donated his cursed Scottish property to the loser.

Ash remembered his gut clenching, his heart jumping when the name of her country dredged up such strong emotion. Now he wondered if his longing for her somehow lifted his name to the top of the barrel. Did he will himself to Scotland by way of the lottery?

Ash’s name being drawn had set so many pieces in motion. Had a different lot been chosen, North would have never met Livvy. The grinning, love-struck pair would never have driven Ash from London. Ash would never have demanded the Scottish property in order to have a destination. And he would have never encountered that woman last night—a woman who’d dragged a heart-breaking memory from the mud of his soul and made him. . .
want
again.

But was it the woman he wanted, or absolution?

Of course he had regrets. He would readily apologize for believing she was allied with the men who had kidnapped Northwick. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for not tying her securely to a tree and keeping her from ever viewing the carnage that was Givet Faux. If he’d managed it, the big Scotsman would have never planted that doubt in Ash’s mind.

Scotia would have never been forced to kill that woman in defense of herself and her brother. But most important of all, she would never have heard Ash accuse her of duplicity nor have been convinced he wanted her dead.

And she would never have fled.

Ash’s friends would prefer he blame all his faults on Battle Fever, would have him believe that the red haze was too thick to allow any of them to think clearly. And yet, none of them had questioned her.

Of course Northwick hadn’t been in on the fighting, but after the Scot had taken the woman out of the keep, his too-thin friend had been carried away with rage to match Ash’s own. North had attacked the still-bleeding form of the Frenchman with all the strength he could find, until he, too, was splattered with as much blood as the rest of them.

And the following morning, North had granted Scotia’s boon without question. He’d let her go.

Ash felt fresh anger fill his lungs and a truth startled him.

God help him, he was angry with North!

Perhaps Ash had never allowed himself to be angry with the man earlier because until recently, North had been in a questionable state of mind. Perhaps now that his friend was recovered and, in truth, happier than he’d ever been, Ash’s anger could cause the man no harm.

“Damn you, Northwick!” Ash shouted. “Why the bloody hell did you let her go?”

The words died away with no one to answer them, but Ash felt better in any case.

Better, but still wanting.

A wide-eyed footman appeared at the door. Ash waved the young man away.

Heaven help him, how could one strange Scotswoman stir up so much? Worse yet, he’d placed himself in the heart of an entire country full of them! And the only one he wanted would never step foot on Scottish soil again.

He’d packed his bags and half a household. . .and delivered himself to the doorsteps of his own Hell.

Lucky for him, however, the road to Hell led out again.

But before he left, he’d put this Reaper fellow out of business. He’d do as he’d planned, get the property and its people back to prosperity and away from the devastation the previous owners brought about. Of course, Northwick hadn’t been among the vultures; he’d only owned the property for a few weeks before Ash had demanded the deed from him.

Soon, there would be no more need of a Robin Hood figure to sustain the crofters of Brigadunn. And if all went well, The Reaper would see justice of some sort. Ash hated to punish a man for helping his fellow Scots survive against greedy and inept landlords, but The Reaper had known what would happen if he were caught. He’d assumed that risk.

Laws were what raised men above the beasts. If there were no law, the world would be a madhouse, as France had been. At Givet Faux, Ash had taken it upon himself to be judge and executioner. And one day, he too would answer a higher law.

The similarity between himself and this Highland Reaper caught him by surprise.

Ash considered, for the hundredth time that day, the woman The Reaper had sent to steal Finn from him. They even had a similar taste in women!

Tolly appeared at the doorway and gave a bow.

“You bellowed something, yer lordship?” the old man asked innocently.

Ash could hardly take the man to task. After all, he had bellowed.

After a moment’s thought, he said, “Bring me the eldest son of Allen Balliol.”

Finn’s young gasp came from the hallway.

“Come to me, Finn,” he called.

The lad marched through the door with his quivering chin held high.

“Sit down. I’m told Shakespeare. . .is no longer with us. My sympathies.”

Finn looked at the velvet covered chair, then glanced down at his clothes.

“You won’t damage the chair, lad. Sit.”

He’d have to see about getting the boy some decent attire so he didn’t feel so out of sorts in Ash’s household. Since Balliol hadn’t tip-toed around the stately furnishings, the only thing that might give the boy pause would be the people who now inhabited the house, and all dressed a damn sight better than the supposedly royal Balliol’s. But perhaps the rags were the result of a lack of females in the lad’s household.

Poor Finn.

When Ash had returned from his near-maiming, he’d barked at the lad to get to bed, then taken his foul mood to his rooms. What had completely slipped his mind was the fact that Finn had attempted to stop him from pursuing the woman. The poor boy probably hadn’t slept all night for fear of what his punishment might be. Then Ash had made the lad wait all day before speaking to him.

“Finn Balliol,” he said as he walked to the mantle and took the seat opposite the lad. “You are to be commended for keeping your word last night.”

“Pardon?” The lad’s grip on the chair’s arms relaxed not a whit.

“That woman was clearly determined to rescue you from my dastardly clutches and yet you fought her off. I merely thought you should know your actions did not go unnoticed.”

Finn was speechless. Ash bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Actually,
none
of your actions went unnoticed.”

While Ash carefully laced his fingers and laid them across his lap, Finn swallowed, then swallowed again.

“I wonder, who is this woman that you would risk all to help her get away?”

The boy took a deep breath and folded his arms. Then he looked Ash in the eye, but said nothing.

“I wonder who are you, to this Hecuba, that she would risk all to come to your rescue?”

Finn’s eyes began to swim just before he looked off into the distance.

So, he knew the woman.

“Will you give me her name?”

The boy shook his head only once and salty tears began to pour.

“You will not be punished for trying to help her, Finn. There is no dishonor in coming to a lady’s aid.”

The boy nodded absently, far too distracted to properly appreciate Ash’s generosity.

“What is it, son?”

Finn shook his head. “May I be excused then, yer lairdship?”

“
Sir
will do,” Ash reminded.

“May I be excused, sir?”

“Your brother will be here forthwith. Do you wish to see him?”

The boy’s eyes flew wide and he shook his head most fervently.

“Obviously, you do not. Well, your brother will feel differently.”

The tears flowed afresh and, though irritated, Ash could not resist giving the lad some relief.

“Well, I shall let him have a peek at you, but you’re not to speak to each other, is that clear?”

Finn nodded, his small head quickly bobbing up and down, the flow of his tears ceased immediately.

“Can you read? Write?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then you will hie yourself off to my library and I shall find a book for you about this Hecuba woman.” Ash stood and urged the boy out of the room.

“Aye, but she was no woman, sir.” Finn seemed to forget his troubles before the tears had a chance to dry on his cheeks. “She was a queen, and woe betide those who killed her boy.”

Ash took up his coat. “And who taught you Greek history, Finn? That sister of yours?”

“Aye, sir. She told me the tale just before. . .just before she went away.”

Perhaps the sister’s death was still weighing heavy on the boy’s heart. Hopefully that was all that had brought him to tears and not some current worry. But on the way to the library, Ash couldn’t help but ask why Finn didn’t want to speak to his brother.

“I. . . I dinna want to be tempted, aye?”

They paused at the library door and Ash turned the boy to face him. “Tempted to do what, may I ask?”

The lad’s boys flew wide, but he recovered quickly.

“Tempted to run away,” he said, then smiled as if he was pleased with his own quick thinking.

Ash opened the library door and ushered his hostage inside, and for the life of him, he could not imagine what the boy was keeping from them all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Mary Dowds is gone,” Coll announced as he entered the tent. “That’s three this week and the blighter hasna done much more than feed a few crofters and promise better times to come.”

Blair gave a nod, but hid her reaction, knowing Coll was testing her. He’d stood beside her since she’d first donned the guise of The Highland Reaper, but he was forever waiting for her to break. It would only be natural, he’d said, if she suddenly tired of the fight and decided to go home. What he’d really meant was, “Surely a woman canna hold out long.”

So each morning, when she emerged from her wee room in their shared cottage, Coll would raise a brow in surprise before bidding her a good morn.