Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (20 page)

As their following grew, as more and more Scots came to depend on her protection, she’d expected that surprise to fade, but it hadn’t. And since their numbers were lessening every day, she could feel Coll watching her, waiting for some signal to jump to his feet and hold the door for her as she fled.

But he would never understand. Even if he left, and there was none in The Vale but her, she’d not go home. She’d leave her beloved country before she’d beg her father to take her back.

Mary had been one of the first to put herself and her children under The Reaper’s protection. It wasn’t as if Blair felt Mary owed her some sort of loyalty, for she knew well how Mary missed her husband, but Blair would miss the woman’s five children terribly. They were a clever bunch that seemed to understand the difference between superstition and truth, but who knew how long they would remember what they’d learned? Blair would simply hope the older ones would keep passing their educations along.

“That’s ten children in but seven days,” Coll pointed out.

She realized Coll might not be prodding as she’d thought. He’d become as attached to the bairns as she was, since Coll looked upon all their young wards as his own. Unfortunately, he looked upon their mothers with the same eye. What the man sorely needed was a clever wife who could keep his attention.

“Aye,” she said. “Ten more mouths for the Anglishmon to feed. Thirteen, including their mothers. He’ll be changing his tune in a month’s time, I’ll wager.”

Coll sat on the cot and began unlacing one of his boots.

“I’ll not take that wager, thought I believe ye may be wrong, Blair. And what then? If ye lose them all, what do ye then?” He pulled off the boot and gave it a shake. A pebble popped out and rolled under the cot. “Will ye go away, as ye’ve said ye must? What if the bastard turns greedy in a year and takes it all away again? How many will die before another Reaper rises up to save them? A hundred this time?”

Coll stomp his foot back into his boot. His angry fingers worked the laces back into place.

“Collier McGill!” She could hide her frustration no longer. “Bite yer tongue and swallow yer teeth.” She put her fists to her hips. “They’re my people and I’ll not be leaving them to the English wolf wearing the skin of a sheep. Do you truly believe I’d be so easily swayed? Ye’re forever thinking I’ll slink away in the night and I’m through with yer lack of faith in me just because I’m a woman.”

He stood and brought his nose close to hers, his pose a mirror of her own. “Ye think I suppose ye’ll bolt because yer a woman? Hah! It has naught to do with what ye have, or haven’t, beneath yer skirts, Blair Balliol.”

“Then what is it? How could you think I’d abandoned ye all?”

Coll took a deep breath but his frown remained. “Ye’re always sayin’ we’re a family, and that all in The Vale is yer clan. But we ken what ye’ve done to yer real clan, aye? Ye allow the family of yer blood to mourn and miss ye. What will keep ye from doing the same to the family of yer heart?”

She shook her head while she waited for his words to make sense.

“Ye’re wrong,” she whispered. “It was my father who chose to mourn me as soon as I left home. My brothers. . .well, my brothers know the truth now.”

Coll scoffed. “An accident you never intended.”

“No matter.”

“Yer wrong, Blair. It matters. It matters that ye keep the truth from yer father. He’s a good man. Ye canna deny that at least.”

“A good man? Aye, sure. A good man; a poor father.”

“Hah! Then ye both have forgiveness to beg. A tit fer a tat.”

Blair felt tears rise behind her eyes and was grateful for the dim light.

“What would ye have me do?” she asked. For fear of others overhearing, she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. It was all the restraint she had left. “Show meself? Do I tell him all, that I’m The Highland Reaper? Or do I let him believe as the others do, that I share The Reaper’s bed? Do I beg him to call me daughter only to have him believe he was right—that I’d end as a whore? Better for him to believe I’m dead and gone.”

Eventually, Coll’s shoulders dropped and he nodded. He lowered himself onto the cot once more. With the matter finally settled between them, at least for the moment, it seemed they had little else to discuss. The tent was suddenly too small for two, so she looked about for her cloak, intending to take a stroll.

He spoke again. “Since my first ride with The Highland Reaper, I’ve known the days of glory were numbered, that there would be an end to it, one way or another. But I always supposed it would end with The Reaper leaving, not the valefolk.”

Blair smiled, glad for the chance to erase the awkwardness between them. “Are ye afraid for the people, or afraid of so many women returnin’ to their husband’s beds?”

Coll cut her a look that said she’d hit close to the mark, even though his lips curved up in a smirk.

“Or is there a particular lass ye prefer would never go home again?”

He came to his feet and stretched. “And what of ye, Blair Balliol? Have ye gone soft on the man who holds young Finn hostage? What happened that night that ye’ve yet to tell us? Why are ye suddenly warm on the idea of his success? What might he have said that makes ye allow the bastard to remain on Scottish soil, eh?”

She shook her head. “T’isn’t so. I swear it. But it’s been two years for Mary and some of the others as well. Ye canna blame them for wanting to go home. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to hold them in the vale against their wishes.” She raised her chin. “But letting them go has nothing whatever to do with the Englishman. He’ll go, and soon. Dinna doubt it.”

The risk of allowing another greedy landlord sink his talons into the land and her people was too great. Better to shoo the man away, and fast, as they had the previous lord, Landtree.

Coll sighed, then reached for her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and set his chin on her head. “Auch, lassie. I fear for me own happiness is all, for I have been happy in the vale with all those bairns needin’ a man to look up to. Forgive me for bein’ sae selfish. I just dinna like it when things change, aye?”

She gave an unladylike snort. “And yet ye change beds often enough.”

Coll laughed and pushed her away. “Auch, nay.” He winked. “Never often enough.”

He left the tent and Blair collapsed on the cot, her knees a bit too shaky for a stroll. If she was to run off this large Englishman, it would take more than a simple harassing to convince him to go. She would have to frighten him to the bone, frighten him enough to sacrifice his pride and flee. And to do it, she would need to go to Brigadunn yet again. Close work was required. But getting close would mean coming far too near Allen Balliol, and the thought brought a shiver up her spine.

Allen Balliol had said she was dead. Allen Balliol believed she was dead in truth. And if there was one thing Allen Balliol would not permit, it was for someone to make a liar of him.

Blair wrapped her arms around herself and thought of Mary Dowds. . .and wished there was some place on this earth she could run home to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Oh, there ye are, me laird.” Tolly pointed out the obvious and entered Ash’s study the next morning with a salver in one hand and an envelope in the other. At the last moment, he slapped the latter onto the former and held them out—almost within reach.

Ash sat forward and glared at the man, but it was no use. The Scotsman was far too cheerful and oblivious to be running the household staff of the most dangerous gentleman of the ton. He’d never last. One of these days, Ashmoore would find a dungeon in which to toss the old duff and let him contemplate the errors of his ways. It might take years, and thus Ash would no longer be on hand to accept his plethora of apologies.

He took the letter and Tolly walked away without so much as a bow. Then he turned back.

“Oh, and didn’t I forget something else, then?”

“Pray tell,” Ash drawled.

“That Martin Balliol’s here, awaiting yer pleasure.” The man turned to leave again.

“Oh, Tolly. Would you not care to know what I’d like done with the young man?”

“Aye, but of course, me laird. Of course. Forgive an old fool.”

Ash was mollified by the fact Tolly recognized his mistake. He’d never correct it, of course, but at least he recognized it.

“Send Martin to the kitchens where Sarah can make him a meal. I’ll call for him in a while, after I’ve finished my business here.”

Tolly looked around the room as if searching for some hint of what that business was, then he shrugged his shoulders and left. Ash only hoped the man remembered his instructions by the time he found Martin.

Ash opened the letter from Northwick. The man must have written it only days after Ash had left London for it to have arrived so quickly. Why couldn’t his friend just go off and enjoy his honeymoon like every other bridegroom and leave Ash in peace? The last thing he wanted to dwell on—indeed the primary reason he’d left London in the first place—was the acrid smell of love in the air. He’d done his part to bring North and Livvy together, for a more suited pair he’d never seen, but that didn’t mean he wanted to sit ‘round and watch them giving each other moon-eyes.

And he wasn’t about to go shopping the marriage mart for some miss who might be a good match for the devil’s spawn. Good lord what kind of a woman would that be? And just because his friend was happily wed to a suitable woman, did not mean Ash wanted the same fate. Although he had to admit he’d have been tempted by Livvy himself if North would not have fallen for the woman first, and if he were in any way worthy of a woman like her. But thank heavens he was not. Livvy had been suitable, yes, but not typical, and it was the latter trait he admired the most.

But Ash was more interested in being suitable for a certain Scotswoman. . .

He quickly shook the notion from his head. He’d never be suited to a stodgy, suitable life, let alone a suitable woman. Besides, the only woman he found himself drawn to was Scotia, and she might as well be a phantom considering his chances of ever finding her again. And every other female in Britain would pale when compared to a willful Scottish lass with an ancient Viking blade strapped to her thigh. . .

Her image wavered in his mind’s eye. The cloak, her plaid skirts tied into pantaloons. That hair. Wolfkiller held tight in a firm hand. The beauty mark near her eye. . .

He leaned forward as if he might see those eyes more clearly if he did so. Darkness surrounded her. A horse suddenly beneath her. She was just too far away to see details. Then her voice came to him.

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

Ash shook the combined images away. It was simply a symptom of his own jumbled thoughts. He wanted Scotia, not The Reaper’s woman. But since it was unlikely to see either of them again, it would be better to remove his
mind
from all things Scottish, at least.

He turned his attention to his friend’s letter. He was not quite finished with being angry at the man, but by the time he finished reading the thank you note from North, followed by a beautifully written letter of gratitude from Livvy, he was mollified. The missive contained little else but for a warning that Stanley was a bit restless and might one day soon show up on his doorstep.

Ash decided that to answer the letter would be to encourage North, and possibly Stanley, so he forbore.

As it happened, Finn was a capable reader and eventually became so engrossed in his books that he hadn’t noticed Ash leave the entire library to him. It was for the best, as the boy was not hovering about while Ash fidgeted in his seat, waiting for his devious plans to unfold in the kitchens.

~ ~ ~

Tolly reappeared.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lairdship, but now Constable Wotherspoon is here to see ye.”

A blessed distraction.

Ash nodded. “I’ll see him here.”

Ash wasn’t surprised the constable had come to call. In fact, he was a bit more surprised the man hadn’t called upon him sooner. As a courtesy, Ash had sent a message to the man the day he’d arrived, informing him Brigadunn had changed hands and as the current owner, he intended to stay in the area until the property was in order. As he was a Peer of the Realm, Ash expected the man to come quickly to offer any assistance Ash might need, as an answering courtesy, but there was every chance the Scottish and English customs of courtesy might not run down the same roads.

Ash rose to his feet when the man entered the room, prepared to return the man’s bow. Since the constable only tipped his head to the side, Ash gestured to a chair and resumed his seat.

“Constable Wotherspoon.”

“Laird Ashmoore.” The man ignored the chair and, as if all manners could now be ignored, he placed his hat back atop his head.

Ash tried not to stare at the green thing sitting high on his guest’s wide head. Tufts of hair stood out above both ears as if they were intended to keep the hat from slipping down to its rightful position. When it was time to leave, Ash planned to watch closely. Would the fellow have to walk awkwardly to keep his hat from tipping off onto the floor?