Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (26 page)

“But ransoming North wouldn’t have saved your brother.”

She hung her head and nodded. “Yes. It was a risk, and I’m sorry for it. But I dared do naught else.”

“Was that your reason for fleeing? Because you didn’t wish to tell me I’d been tricked?”

She shook her head. “By then, it didn’t matter if ye knew. My brother was going to live. That was all that mattered at the time.”

Ash dropped his head. “So you believed I was capable of killing you. I understand.”

She laughed. “I was hardly in my right mind. Anything could have reduced me to tears. I wish I could excuse myself because ye frightened me, but the truth was, I frightened myself. I was afflicted with a strange obsession with ye. Perhaps that obsession kept me from worrying about my brother. Perhaps. . .” She shrugged. “I was not myself. I canna understand the whole of it, aye?”

She looked up to find him staring at her in wonder.

“Then you weren’t afraid of me?”

She shrugged again and stared at her own fingers. “I tried to explain it to someone, recently. I was more afraid of the affect ye had on me.”

She waited, then looked up to find him smiling. She should have kept the last to herself.

“I had considered another possibility, that I had, perhaps, frightened you away. . .with my. . .attentions.”

She caught her breath, then laughed lightly. “I suppose I was testing that possibility last eve, when I kissed ye in the barn, don’t ye suppose?”

“You kissed me in the barn? Last night? I thought I’d imagined it.” And by the look on his face, he was imagining it again.

“Does this mean ye believe me?”

He studied her for a moment. “What is your name, woman? I cannot go on calling you Scotland, for pity’s sake.”

“I dinna ken why. I rather like it,” she whispered.

“I wish you had not fled that day,” he whispered back.

She gave her head a vigorous shake. Her hair bounced around her and a strand caught in her lips. But before she could free it, his fingers were there, dragging along her mouth, pulling the hair aside. It took her a moment to remember what she’d been about to say.

“I had no choice but to flee. I needed my brother to return home without me. I can never go home in truth. And he would never have left me in France, if he’d believed I was alive.”

Fantine bustled into the kitchen and paid the pair of them no mind at all.

Ash frowned at the Frenchwoman, but still, she ignored him. Blair had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at a man who thought everyone should live and breathe according to his moods.

“Fantine,” he barked.

The woman disappeared into the larder and came out with half a bag of flour, a cloud of white billowing at her heels.

“Monsieur,” she said as she dropped her load on the table at Blair’s back.

“Fantine,” he said again.

“Monsieur?” Still, the woman didn’t look at him.

“You may not have noticed, but we are attempting to converse here.” He gestured to himself and then to Blair, nodding pointedly. “Whatever you’re about can surely wait until tomorrow.”

The cook gave nary a pause in her fussing about. “Non,” she said as she slammed a pan on the table.

“I beg your pardon?” He frowned as if he really hadn’t understood the word.

“Non, monsieur
. You like your bread when you break your fast, not zose silly Scottish scones. I start zee dough when zee sun is gone. I made zee fire bright. Zee heat raises zee dough. No good for conversations. You and
mademoiselle
will converse elsewhere.”

Ash folded his arms and glowered. “You are trying to keep me from putting her back in the larder,” he said, accusingly.

“
Non, monsieur. Mais vous
. . .But you will do as you will
, n’est ce pas?
”

Suddenly Blair understood and she was touched. Small prickles began behind her nose and tears filled her eyes. “She’s making the fire for me,” she confessed. “As she did last eve.”

Ash turned his attention away from the Frenchwoman. “You suffered? There were not enough blankets for you?”

Fantine stopped fussing and put her flour-covered hands on her hips. “
Mademoiselle
is afraid of zee dark,
monsieur.”

He snorted. “She most certainly is not.”

“She most certainly is,” Blair said quietly. She wasn’t proud of the fact. In truth, it was a mite embarrassing to be The Highland Reaper and to always need either company or a candle.

His brow furrowed.

She smiled at his obvious concern. “It is true, my lord. Ever since Givet Faux. I realize it sounds silly—”

He jumped to his feet. “Fantine! Mademoiselle will not be left in the dark.” He scooped Blair up into his arms and while frowning into her eyes, continued speaking to the other woman. “Clean up your things. When you’ve finished, send two footmen to my room with a dozen candles.”

Blair’s heart stopped abruptly, like it had walked into a solid wall, or the solid wall of chest against which she was pressed.

“Your room,
monsieur?
” Fantine didn’t move.

“My room,” he said.

Blair began to struggle. He squeezed her firmly until she stopped.

“I’d rather be locked in the dark,” she spit, “than have half of Scotland believe I spent the night in yer room, ye daft bastard.”

“Language,” he said, then tisked. After a long moment, he sighed and put her on her feet. “Just what do you propose I do with you?” He raised a finger. “Other than let you go.”

“You could put me back in the larder, but give me a candle.”

He shook his head. “You could burn my house down around my ears.”

“You could lock me in a bedroom,” she suggested.

“With a window? With a candle? Then you would burn my house down around my ears,
and
escape.”

Their noses were nearly touching. Their breathing fell into the same rhythm, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it while her mind searched for any alternative to the dark little room. No matter how strong she supposed her invisible armor might be in the light of day, it was nowhere to be found in the darkness.

“Ye could put Fantine in with me, without a candle. If I’m not alone, the darkness is nay so bad.” She bit her bottom lip in anticipation. There was little he could argue over.

His left brow rose, and with it, the corner of his mouth. She was certain it meant trouble.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

An hour later, Ash was seated on the floor having a late picnic across the threshold to the larder. His enchantress sat just inside the small, dimly lit room while he sat just outside it. Two full candelabras burned on the table behind him. A single fat candle sat on a plate on the floor, next to a wedge of pale cheese. With both his presence and the candles, she shouldn’t be at all frightened—not even for her reputation.

She pointed at the plate. “They’re of a color. The cheese needs but a wick and we could burn it as well.”

“Yes,” he said. “So different, yet so similar.”

She tilted her head to one side and a mass of curls hung nearly to the floor. He resisted the urge to run his hand through it, as he would a waterfall. The point of his efforts was to chase away her nightmares, not become one.

“I’ve the impression ye’re not speaking of the cheese and the candle,” she said.

He smiled. “I was thinking about The Reaper.”

She grinned. “Would he be the cheese or the candle?”

He pretended to give it serious consideration before answering. “The cheese.”

“Hah! Because he feeds people?”

He shook his head and tried to maintain a sober expression. “No. Because
I’m
more. . .illuminating.” Then he laughed.

Her smile was replaced by a look of surprise. “Ye? Ye were speaking of yerself and The Reaper? So different, and yet so similar?”

“To be honest, it is not the first I’ve entertained the idea.” He brushed crumbs from his hands, then gestured toward the remaining food and raised a brow.

She shook her head. “I’ve had my fill, and thank ye.”

For lack of something better to do with his hands, he cleared away the picnic. When he returned, he set the fat candle on the floor beside him, then folded the tablecloth and set it aside as well. It would make a fine pillow later, not that he’d be sleeping. If his Scotia needed to sleep with the door open, he would remain in the doorway, alert and ready for anyone who thought to either come or go.

There was every expectation The Reaper would attempt her rescue, but he had enough men stationed around the manor to warn him well before the blackheart stepped foot inside. And if she intended to sneak past him in the night, he intended to catch her, literally, in the act.

The chance of getting his arms around her made him almost wish she would try.

With the barrier of the picnic removed from between them, she scooted back another foot and onto the pallet made up for her the night before.

“So,” she said, fidgeting nervously with her finger. “Tell me what ye believe to have in common with my Reaper.”

Inwardly, he winced. Outwardly, he’d not give her the satisfaction of seeing how the little word—
my
—had pained him. He turned sideways and scooted into the middle of the doorway so he could lean his back against the wide frame. If she would be comfortable, so would he.

“First,” he said, “I will tell you what we do
not
have in common.”

She grinned.

He addressed the candle. “He breaks the law. As far as Scottish tradition is concerned, I am the law here.”

“Therefore he breaks ye?”

He tossed her a frown. “You know precisely what I mean.”

“Fine. Is there more, then?”

“Of course,” he said, though he was making it up as he went. What else did he even know about the blighter? Surely there was more of a difference between them than just their height.

“Go on.” She sounded to be on the very verge of laughter.

“I’m rather tall,” he mumbled.

She scoffed. “But surely ye’ve heard. My Reaper is not a short man.”

“No, but certainly shorter.”

She laughed. “I concede. He is shorter, but so are all but a hundred other men, surely.”

Ash nodded. “And he’s. . .well, quiet.”

She giggled.

He wanted to turn and crawl up to his room. How the devil had he come to such a silly undertaking?

“I think you’d best move on to your similar qualities. You can revise the first list afterward.”

He nodded, though he hardly wished to go on. He’d either end with praising his enemy or vaunting himself. Neither action would help his cause, but perhaps he could drag the blackheart down into the mud beside him.

“We’ve the both of us killed many men,” he said seriously.

“Have ye?” Her brow creased. “Are ye certain The Reaper has ever killed anyone?”

“The man has fought in battle. Of course he’s killed before.”

She looked off into the shadows and nodded. He was pleased if she was seeing his enemy in a less than romantic light and decided to press on.

“We have frightful tempers,” he said.

Her head snapped around. She was smiling again, damn her.

“Nay. Actually, he doesna. So that’s another trait to add to the first list. Ye’ve a temper and he has none.”

“Fine.” Ash took a breath, realizing he was about to lose the temper he never remembered having been a problem before meeting her. “You must admit that we both care about the people of Brigadunn. We both are attempting to help the people and the land recover from past atrocities. I am simply doing so legally.”

“Oh, aye. And if The Reaper had gold spilling from his pockets, no doubt he could do the same.”

“But do you not see?” He turned to face her, feet and all, and absently noticed he was well inside the larder when he did so. “Brigadunn has need of only one of us.”

He wondered if she’d understand his inference, that she needed only one of them, and that The Reaper was not the best choice for either Brigadunn or herself.

She looked at his feet, then at the door, no doubt measuring his proximity to her pallet as well.

He scooted back two inches.

She sighed and looked into his eyes. “It is simple enough. Yes, ye’re here—now. But for how long? Just until ye realize that ye cannot make much of a profit from Brigadunn and still be fair with her people? Or will ye send a manager to cheat us all in yer stead? Shall we just do our best, hope we can fatten our children before times grow hard again, until someone else wins us in a game of cards?”

He reached out and took one of her hands firmly in both of his, then looked back at her with the same intensity.

“I did not win you in a game of cards.”

“No. Ye lost a lottery. All the glen kens it.”

She’d said it as if it were the worst of sins. Something that could not be forgiven.

“You’ve been misinformed, Scotia. I
stole
you from Northwick.” And with that, he pulled firmly on her hand until she lifted off the pallet and onto his lap. He crossed his shins and she sat in the wide circle made by his legs. Her legs hung over his right knee. His hands encircled her waist while she clasped her hands before her and tucked her head beneath his chin. He’d intended to kiss her, but he could wait a while longer.