Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (31 page)

Sarah was inconsolable.

She’d all but thrown herself across Ash’s desk when she heard he’d returned. It was the middle of the night. His boots were full of rain. But he would not be surprised to find even more water on his desk from the flood of tears and. . .other fluids. . .escaping the girl’s face—that was, if she ever removed herself.

Fantine arrived in her nightclothes and pushed her way through the bodies crowding the doorway to his study.

“Thank you, mademoiselle, for coming straight away,” he told her. “Sarah, here, seems unable to accept my forgiveness. Perhaps you can convince her—in another room, of course.”

“Of course, monsieur.” The Frenchwoman took a firm hold of the girl’s shoulders and hefted her to her feet, something none of them would have dared to do for the simple fear of getting themselves wet.

As the wailing faded down the hall, Ash peered closely at those waiting for an audience. All appeared equally as repentant as Sarah, and all just as guilty.

He addressed the mob at large while leveling them with his darkest look.

“Since you cannot possibly fit in this room all at once, I shall simply express my disappointment in the lot of you. You allowed a single woman to destroy what trust we had built here at Brigadunn and in so doing, you share responsibility for her fate. As soon as the sun is up. . .” He let the anticipation simmer a bit. No doubt they all feared a sacking. “As soon as the sun is up, we shall start again. But this time, my trust will be hard won. Do I make myself clear?”

Ten heads nodded in the doorway. Countless others nodded in the hall. He was tired, disgusted, and in no mood to have their various sins recounted, since Stanley had found Martin and him on the road and already told him the gist.

“I suggest you get some sleep,” Ash added. “In a few hours, we shall have a woman and a child to find. Now, go.”

All bodies cleared out but one.

Stanley sat in the African chair, his head bowed, his hands braced on the arms as if he expect the lash to strike his back at any moment.

“Come, now, Stanley. You cannot believe I included you in all this. You never lent her your mob cap and apron. Nor did you help her into that cart. You are the victim here.”

Stan shook his head. “Truth be told, it surely feels as if I did.”

“Yes. She has a way of turning us all inside out. Brandy?” Ash poured two glasses, then took a sniff of the bottle before replacing the stopper.

Stan raised a brow.

“I’m afraid it has become a habit, old sock. Have you forgotten this innocent lass who slipped your net is the same woman who poisoned me recently?”

“Ah. I supposed I had.” Finally, the man smiled, if only a little.

“Of all the women in the world, you cannot consider yourself unworthy simply because Scotia escaped you. It is hardly a small club.”

Stan took his drink and raised it. “To catching her.”

Ash shook his head. “To being free of her.”

His heart lurched to a stop.

He’d said the words in jest, but was it possible he truly felt that way? Or was he simply trying to prepare himself for the inevitable, when he realized his Scotia truly belonged to another.

It took a second brandy to get his heart started again.

~ ~ ~

Thunder crashed, and Ash woke on the couch to find Tolly hovering with a glowing candelabra. He didn’t remember lying down. And since the brandy was still with him, he couldn’t have slept long.

“The constable has her,” Tolly announced as soon as Ash was upright. “And he has our lad, yer lairship.” He stepped back and gestured toward the door. “Yer man is here.”

Everhardt stepped through the door and frowned at Stanley, who was draped sideways across the African chair as if he’d been sacrificed upon it.

“Stanley, wake up,” Ash growled. His friend had imbibed no more than himself, so the man should rouse easily enough.

The viscount had to roll off the arms of the contraption in order to dismount it, then he took another chair before his eyes were completely open. “Carry on,” he mumbled.

Everhardt shook his head in disapproval.

Ash frowned. “We are not drunk, Everhardt, so you can stow that glare.”

The man looked neither convinced nor repentant for his quick judgment, but considering his wet clothes, he’d likely been up all night, so Ash excused him and pointed to an empty chair. “Sit. Tolly will fetch you some food while we talk.”

Everhardt shrugged off his damp jacket and did as he was bid. “It’s true, my lord. I’ve been sent to tell you, secretly, that the constable has your. . .woman. They have the lad as well.” He lowered his voice. “Someone from the manor must have let slip about her beauty mark; the constable knew she was Finn’s sister before we caught up with her. The boy was used to gain her cooperation, of course.”

Ash voiced his next concern. “She recognized you?”

“Yes, but she said nothing. He’s locked her in a cell. No one is to touch her.”

Ash nodded, relieved. If they believed her to be a whore, they might have treated her like one.

“Wotherspoon has directed me to ingratiate myself to you, convince you my services can be purchased, that I can spy for you.”

Ash raised a hand in a bid for a moment of silence, admitting he may in fact have had too tall a brandy. His mind was caught in a storm not unlike the one currently trying to destroy the manor.

Finn was
not
freezing to death on the edge of a cliff—a possibility that nearly drove him insane. Scotia had
not
returned to the arms of The Reaper. At least not yet. But both were in the constable’s keeping. The very dangerous, easily angered, highly insulted buffoon had her. But surely, if the man were using her as bait, she was safe enough.

If she were behind bars, she was safe from herself at least. And what was more, Ash could collect both Balliols from the same location. But first, he needed to know what Cornelius Wotherspoon had in store—or rather, what he wished Ash to believe.

He lowered his hand, ready for more.

“Why you?” he asked. “Why not one of the others, someone he has known longer.”

Everhardt shrugged. “Because I am also English, I suppose.”

Ash’s head began to shake before he’d even finished his thought. “No. Something is amiss. You are not to return to him. I hate to give the man much credit, but I think he knows I sent you to him for the same purpose. He is taunting me. I will not put you within his reach again.”

Everhardt nodded. “I will tell you, some bloke was lamenting the farthest he had ever been from Scotland was Charleville and the River Meuse. I let slip that I had been there as well. We talked about the Place Ducal for a piece, then I realized the constable was giving me a wicked eye. His manner toward me changed. Then, after the woman was brought to him, he acted as if we were chums. When he suggested I spy here, he acted as if the idea had suddenly struck him, but I believe he’d been considering it for a while, sir.”

Ash’s stomach felt as if it were suddenly filling with cold ashes, and those ashes were working their way up his throat.

“Charleville?” Stanley sat forward. “What does the constable know of Charleville? And so close to Givet Faux?”

Ash nodded. “The constable is sending me a message, but I’ll be damned if I know what that message is.” He turned to Everhardt. “After you are rested and fed, of course, how long would it take for you to get to Charleville and back again?”

“Too long, I’m afraid, my lord. Miss Balliol and her brother are to be tried in four days. Or rather, three days, once the sun is up.”

~ ~ ~

Tolly sent footmen about the glen to invite any who dared, to join the Earl of Ashmoore and take up arms against the constable. No mention was made of Blair Balliol’s capture, in deference to the secret she kept from her father, but Ash hoped many a Scot would come to the aid of young Finn.

The rains remained heavy throughout the day and by mid-afternoon, it looked as if the sun had already set. Just before five o’clock, shadows appeared in the distance and slowly became a solid army of crofters as they neared the manor. Wet from the mist, bearing plaids of one color or another, and armed with a host of blades, they looked more like a thirteenth century army come to run an Englishman out of their country, not to fight beside one. He only wished Finn and Scotia were there to see it.

He shook away the thought. Scotia would never be returning. And he had to stop thinking of her as Scotia. Scotia was a ghost, from his past. That was all.

As Ash saddled his horse in the stable, Martin’s face appeared on the opposite side of the beast. His eyes were wide, but he said nothing, and for the first time, Ash realized how much the young man looked like his brother. Martin had been anxious since he’d been awakened with the news of Finn and Blair. Now he looked ill.

“What is it, Martin?”

Before the other could answer, someone bellowed from the yard.

“Laird Ashmoore!”
It sounded like Allen Balliol.
“I demand to see Laird Ashmoore!”

Martin whimpered.

Ash immediately understood. “Does he know your sister is alive?”

Martin shook his head.

“Do you suppose he would rather hear it from you?”

Martin shook his head again.

Ash sighed and strode outside to face the man who had promised to spill Ash’s blood if any harm came to Finn. At the moment, Ash thought himself deserving of any beating Balliol might have in mind.

The man stood with a sword in one hand and a torch held high in the other. He grimaced against the light and moved it aside to better see his enemy as he walked forward. Ash came to a stop with merely five paces between them.

“I understand your need to fight me, Allen Balliol, but I ask you to stay your sword until your. . .family. . .is restored to you.”

The older man tossed the sword away from him and sank to his knees in the mud. And still he was as tall as the Scot standing behind him, which hinted at the height he must have enjoyed since his youth. Allen Balliol had, more than likely, been looking down on people all his life regardless of his family name.

But not at that moment.

“Lord Ashmoore,” the man began in all humility. “I’m here to declare my fealty to ye fer the rest of me days if ye’ll but help rescue me wee bairn from the clutches of that bastard. I’ll do anything ye ask of me. Anything at all. But doona let the devil have him.”

Ash looked behind him and found Martin staring agape at his father.

“Martin, help your father to his feet,” he said.

Balliol’s shoulders slumped, but Ash could not allow the man to worry his plea had been ignored. He gestured at the other men gathering in the yard.

“We were just about to pay the constable a visit, Balliol. Perhaps you’ll join us.” He told a stable lad to saddle another horse.

Balliol gave a single nod and stood before Martin reached his side. He forced his shoulders back, but he stared at the ground. Keeping his youngest from him appeared to have taken all the wind from his sails. The fact such a proud Scot would come and beg an Englishman for help said much about a father’s love. But Ash was curious to know if the man felt as strongly about his daughter.

“Martin.” He met the young man’s eyes. “Now, I think.”

At least the young man didn’t pretend ignorance. He hung his head for a moment, then took a breath and turned to face his wary father.

“Da.”

“Son?”

“I was wrong about Blair. She didna die in France.”

The torch drooped in the old man’s hand, then recovered.

“She lives, Da. Yer daughter lives, and she’s been hiding herself in The Vale with the others.”

Ash thought it was a fine thing Martin did to spare his father from further details.

“I. . .” Balliol cleared his rough throat. He teetered, but caught himself, pulling away from his son’s extending hands. Then he gulped in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I have no daughter,” he finally said.

The tears streaming down his face, however, belied his words. Allen Balliol loved all his children, it seemed. He simply could not step around his own pride to acknowledge it.

Yes, Blair had known her father well. But at the moment, she was at the whim of a vicious man, and the love of her father might give her a bit of needed strength. The old man only needed a shove. And Ash was more than happy to oblige. It no longer mattered if Blair wished to keep her identity a secret or not. The time for secrets was over.

“No daughter?” Ash queried. “Well, then, it will be no concern to you that Martin and Finn’s sister is also being held by the constable.” A murmur quickly rolled through the rag-tag army in his yard. He let the news settle before he verbally shoved Balliol again. “Yes. Martin and Finn have a sister. And if it weren’t for that sister, Martin wouldn’t be with us tonight. He would have died among his kidnappers, along with my dearest friend, the Earl of Northwick. It was
Martin’s sister
who discovered their lair. It was
Martin’s sister
that insisted on fighting her way through a fortress of villains, to rescue your son. Surely you owe something to
that
woman.”

With wide eyes, Martin faced his father. “I swear to ye, father. I didna ken Blair had been there. I thought I’d only dreamed it, so I said nothing. Only when I was half way to home did they tell me she was dead. I thought perhaps it had been her ghost that had been at my side when I was rescued.”

Balliol reached up a hand and laid it against his son’s face for a moment, but said nothing.

“And you,” Ash looked around the faces filling the yard. “Surely you all owe something to the one who has saved your families from starvation. Has The Highland Reaper not done enough for Brigadunn’s people to earn a helping hand, to rescue one of his friends?”

Judging from the immediate roar of the crowd, The Reaper had already won the day, damn him. But as it happened, it wasn’t the mention of The Reaper that rallied the timeless army, it was the appearance of two more riders.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN