Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (24 page)

He laughed. It steadied his head.

“I
came
to bring you peace, woman.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Ye can either go home to England or go home to yer maker. But ye will make yer choice now, or it will be made for ye.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. She wanted a good look at his face, but she dared not allow him to see her mark. There was no telling just how much he would remember in the morning.

“Shall I have the lad taste my food?” he queried.

Blair refused to react, but instead bent her head toward Coll who pretended to whisper in her ear.

She nodded and turned back to the prisoner. “One less Balliol whining over the crown of Scotland, says The Reaper.”

The man’s head turned as if noticing Coll for the first time—the black cloaked figure he’d likely been itching to catch. He looked back and forth between them, then shook his head.

She shivered.

“She’s cold, man. Give her your coat.” The man’s head wobbled. “Coward.”

Jarvill took his plaid from his shoulders and brought it to her. She rolled her eyes, but took it just the same. Then she realized she could use the material to hide her face so she could get a better look at the man they’d nearly killed.

“Bring the light,” she whispered to her friend. “I would see his face.”

Jarvill hesitated, but did as she bid.

With the wool draped over her head like a hood, she turned toward the Englishman, glad she’d be able to stop imagining a resemblance to the man who haunted her dreams even when she wasn’t asleep.

Blair dared not get too close waited for Jarvill to bring the light. The prisoner waited silently, but the tilt of his head told her he was aware of every movement. His shoulders stiffened and he pulled at his restraints when her friend walked up behind him. She was relieved to see him alert, even though it meant he would be harder to handle.

She nodded at Jarvill, who lifted the lantern at the same time he took a handful of the man’s hair and pulled back.

Dark, hauntingly handsome features rose into the warm light. He winced from the brightness, then blinked while his eyes adjusted. She winced as well—not from the glaring light, but from the pain in her chest as she realized this was no apparition brought on by her imagination.

“Ash.” Her lips formed the name, but no sound escaped her.

He squinted at her, then closed the eye closest to the lantern and looked again. The strain must have been too much, for both his eyes rolled back in his head, then closed and remained closed. Jarvill released his hair and looked for her reaction. She was quick to compose herself and Jarvill relaxed. . .at least until Ash spoke again, his eyes still shut.

“Release me, Scotia, my love. And I’ll give you back your ring.”

Blair sighed. Her heart melted at the endearment. After all this time, he still thought of her as Scotland. With little thought for witnesses, she moved forward, reached out a hand and held it against his cheek. It was flesh and bone beneath her hand, not some ghost conjured to soothe her. With her other hand she pushed the plaid back from her face, willing him to see her as clearly as she saw him, willing him to be pleased.

And he was pleased.

“Ah, Scotia. You seem so real to me,” he said. “Kiss me quickly, before you disappear.”

“What the devil?!”

Coll’s curse came from just behind her, but she could not resist tasting those lips while she could. Some insanity ruled her—likely that same defect which had turned her into such a fool in France. She’d resolved never to let it happen again, and yet nothing could stop her from taking what she wanted, if only for a moment.

Hopefully, Ash would remember her as only a dream come to warn him away, as she’d intended.

His taste brought back a whirlwind of memories, not all of them unpleasant. He had enough wits about him to kiss her back. She could have wept when he did so, the pressure of his lips against hers was pure absolution and she returned it with all her heart.

Coll put a hand on her shoulder but she gently shook him off as she ended the kiss. She could not help hovering close to Ash’s face, drinking in the sight of him. She’d nearly forgotten those eyes. Dear lord, how could she have forgotten those eyes?

Jarvill took a step back, shaking his head as he went.

“Scotia,” Ash whispered. “Forgive me.”

She paused staring at his lips while she tried to understand what he was apologizing for. France? Suspecting her? Letting her go? Kissing her? She wished he’d specify his regret, but she’d be damned if she’d ask.

She could feel the weight of unseen armor being lowered onto her shoulders; a barrier between her and the man for whom far too many tears had been shed already. She’d had years to learn how to protect her heart. She might have kissed him, tasted him, but he could not hurt her again.

“Leave Scotland, sir, and all yer sins will be forgiven ye,” she said with a smile.

“Scotia.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, only this time, he pressed much harder. It was her turn to feel drugged. That invisible armor shuddered beneath his assault. She could almost believe she was back in the woods with him where he’d pressed her up against a tree. It was a frustration to be sure, not being able to pull off his ropes and wrap herself around him, but she settled for a feel of his hair between her fingers. Her own mane created a curtain around them and she drank her fill of him, breathed his scent into her lungs, then reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, pulled away.

He breathed out with an exaggerated sigh. “How can I leave when you taste like that?”

The barn door burst open and two footmen entered with pistols raised.

Jarvill tossed the lantern at their feet and turned to her. “Go!”

While the armed men were distracted by the spreading fire, Coll ran to the opposite end of the barn and held open the small door, the arm beneath his black cape beckoning to her. Blair turned to follow, but her skirts were caught. When she failed to pull them free, she looked behind to see what held her, only to find Ash’s hand fisted around a wad of the dark fabric, a rope dangling from his wrist.

She turned back to her friends. “I’m caught!” she cried. “Leave me!”

Jarvill stepped back inside.

“No! I order ye to go, do ye hear? Both of ye, go!”

A pistol fired and a ball struck the wood just above the open door. She was grateful neither of the men had been hit, but even more grateful it got them moving.

Ash’s men stomped out the last of the flames and with them, any light. She put all her strength into wrenching her skirts free, but Ash held fast. A moment later, another man’s hands wrap themselves firmly around her arm.

“Tie her up,” Ash growled. “She’s slippery.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A heavy rain announced the first day of spring. Ash stood at the parlor window and watched the torrents cut tiny rivers into the drive as if the heavens were attempting to wash away all his sins with one good bath. But since such absolution was impossible, there was no point to getting wet.

Besides, he couldn’t quite bring himself to stray very far from the prisoner now locked in his larder. Neither could he bring himself to take her into the village to have her placed behind a descent set of bars. The rain you see. Deucedly inconvenient. And no signs of letting up.

Pity, that
. He smiled.

But even if he was angry over being poisoned, he’d rather forgive Scotia and let her free before he’d involve the constable. It was likely real justice was rarely served by the bastard, and Ash would never willingly place a possible innocent in the man’s keeping.

Scottish law deemed landowners to be their own authority and as long as Scotia remained on his land, he could meet out his own justice. And damn him, but the possibilities had not only chased away his headache, but had him all but whistling the afternoon away. There was every possibility his staff assumed the poison had addled his brain considering how he’d danced around the manor all day, trying his best to keep away from the kitchens and the prisoner residing in the larder. But he needed a sound plan in mind before he dared speak with her again. She was capable of making the very earth move beneath his feet if he were to stare too long at her lips, let alone get a taste of them. He needed a plan that would succeed whether or not he found himself in a puddle on the floor. A plan that could not fail.

A plan to remove this Reaper fellow from her life.

He forced his smile away in order to concentrate, but the only thing that came to mind was the damnable larder door!

Not another room in the house was suitable for housing such a clever creature. There were too many windows in the manor by half. What he needed was a medieval tower with only arrow slits to allow in a bit of light and air. In fact, keeping her prisoner in a tower sounded like such a perfect solution to his problems he considered asking Tolly if there were any such properties nearby. But then again, his first Scottish property wasn’t working out so well. Taking on another would be foolhardy.

But a tower. . .

It would be punishment enough, he thought. Instead of seeing her jailed, she would simply be locked in a tower for the rest of her days. And he could be her warden, see her every day, and never need to forgive her.

He shifted his weight and sensed something hard beneath his boot. A small crystal shard, from the broken decanter, no doubt, had imbedded itself into the bottom of his boot. He carefully removed it and tossed it into the fire. If there were the slightest trace of the drug upon it, it was dangerous.

If he hadn’t ultimately been able to empty his stomach, her concoction would have been the death of him. Of course she’d argued that it wasn’t her fault that he drank enough for four men. And that had been the end of their argument. Or rather the beginning of the end. He didn’t know why it always happened that every conversation concluded with his lips on hers. Perhaps he was simply putting her in her place, reminding her he would always have the upper hand.

Or was she reminding him of the contrary?

Damn it if he didn’t catch himself headed for the kitchen for the fiftieth time that morning. He stopped at the edge of the carpet—as if it were some gang plank—and considered. What was his excuse this time?

He snorted and continued through the house. He was lord here. He needed no excuses to come and go where he pleased.

Thank heavens the drug had worn off before daybreak so Everhardt was able to slip away before being seen. He’d locked Scotia in the larder and waited to make certain Ash could see straight as well as think straight before he’d returned to his place in the village. Clever old Tolly had sent for him, though Ash had never once confided in the old man that he’d stationed one of his men in town. He’d have to interrogate the fellow later in the day and see if he could get a straight answer from him. Tolly was an odd old Scot who’d softened considerably after Ash had taken in the Balliol lad. Perhaps it was Finn who had inspired the softening.

Ash entered the kitchen and found it deserted, then he found the door to the larder standing wide.

No!
His heart burst in his chest. He could not contain a roar of frustration that echoed in the high ceiling and mocked his pain.

How could he have lost her yet again? First, in France before he’d been able to think clearly, then that night she’d come to rescue Finn. Of course at that time, he hadn’t realized who she was. His heart had tried to tell him, but he hadn’t listened.

All day, he’d been so terribly pleased to finally have her under his thumb. The devil take him for leaving her side for even a moment! By God, as soon as he got his hands on her again, he was going to buy every bloody tower in Scotland until he found one suitable to contain her.

The voices of women, speaking French, neared the outer entrance and he turned toward the sound. The door swung open and Sarah stepped inside, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. When she finally noticed Ash, she stopped quickly and curtsied. Considering the worried look on the young lady’s face, Ash schooled his features before he frightened her to death. If his face revealed everything he was feeling, she surely would have turned and run back outside.

As Sarah bobbed, however, a regal mane of red curls was revealed behind her. Scotia stepped around the girl so the Frenchwoman could also enter. Only then did Ash notice the rope securing Sarah to his prisoner.

He dared not look at the latter, lest she read too much in his expression. He was afraid she read him far too easily as it was.

“Fantine, I would imagine Sarah to be far too light an anchor for such a prisoner. Is there a reason you could not tether the woman to yourself?”

The Frenchwoman blushed for possibly the first time since they’d known each other.

Sarah giggled. “The pair of them weren’t able to fit in the loo together, my lord. And you did say she was to be tied securely when the need arose.”

Ash cleared his throat for a variety of reasons.

“Did it occur to you to give her a longer lead and a bit of privacy?”