Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (37 page)

Blair wondered at Stanley’s skill with her bird and glanced at Ash. But Ash was not looking at The Reaper. She followed his gaze to four other cloaked figures in the crowd standing close enough to intervene if necessary—Martin, Coll, and Jarvill. The last was a white-blond man whose hair was simply too unique to be hidden in a hood.

Stanley!

Then who is playing Reaper?

The mounted figure raised a fist to Shakespeare and the bird hopped onto it. “Hoo-hoot,” it sang.

“Ke-wick,” answered a female owl in the distance.

The Reaper dipped his fist and then flung the bird into the air. The fool had removed the owl’s jesses. They might not ever see it again!

The mysterious figure now pointed at Ash.

“Who are ye, to claim my name?” he demanded.

A chill ran up her spine at the timber in the man’s voice. Heaven help her, she knew it!

“He is not The Reaper,” the man bellowed. Turning his finger toward Blair, “And she isna my whore.”

“Shoot him!” Wotherspoon screamed. But none obeyed. The sheriff’s men stood still as if they’d not heard the order. Exasperated, the constable lifted his own pistol toward The Reaper. But if he wasted his shot on the stranger, he would have no leverage if his men were no longer with him.

Blair glanced at the sheriff’s man at Ash’s back. He still held to Ash’s lead, but his pistol was pointed down and away.

“Show yerself,” the constable demanded.

The Reaper’s horse shifted its weight, but the man made no move.

Wotherspoon’s weapon, once again, swung in Blair’s direction.

“Show yerself, I say.”

The man took a deep breath, then lifted a hand to his hood and pulled it back.

A hundred people gasped.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The man in the saddle, Allen Balliol, had attention for no one but Blair.

“As I said, Wotherspoon, she is not my whore.” Her father swallowed. “She is me daughter. And she has never gone a’ reivin’ with me. God as my witness, she hasna. For this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on the lass in a live long while. A pair of years, at least.”

Daughter!
He’d called her
daughter!

Her body jerked forward, but she froze at the grip of a cold and sweaty hand on her forearm.

“Touching, to be sure,” Wotherspoon spit. “But the court has already pronounced sentence, and the sentence will be carried out. It makes no matter yer father’s found a costume. He cannot prove he is The Reaper.”

“Auch, but I can, Cornelius.” Her father grinned. “I can decipher the Riddle of The Witch’s Vale. Only The Reaper kens it.”

The constable snarled. “Ye’re daft Balliol. Plenty ken the riddle.”

“But few ken the meaning. Do ye understand it, Cornelius? Laird Ashmoore couldna decipher it when he went in search of Finn. Surely ye’re more clever than the Englishman. Haven’t ye been sayin’ so to all and sundry since the man’s shadow crossed onto Scottish soil?”

Wotherspoon only glared.

“What does it mean?” Ash’s voice boomed across the top of the crowd. “Tell us, Balliol.”

Her father grinned. He knew it! What clever stock she’d come from. But if he proved he was The Reaper, her father would hang! She would simply have to call on her people and beg them to see the truth, that if anyone was to hang, it should be the true Reaper.

Her father winked at her, then looked at Ashmoore.

“Turn left,” he said, enunciating carefully. “That is what the riddle demands.”

“I doona believe it in the least,” Wotherspoon snarled. “Prove it.”

Her father nodded. “Fine, then.” He cleared his throat. “
Tic toc, a map before. A quarter less, or three quarter’s more.

“Tic toc—a clock. A map before—a map before yer very eyes, but only if ye’re looking close-like. There are wee rocks laid in the shape of an arrow. There is yer map, but it is also the hand of a clock. A quarter less—take back 15 minutes. Or three quarter’s more—add forty-five. Either way, instead of the clock hand pointing the way, pointing at twelve, or straight ahead, it points at the nine. It points to the left. If ye see an arrow, turn left and ye’ll be on the right path.”

Ashmoore laughed.

Her father grinned. “Tell me again I’m nay The Highland Reaper.”

Wotherspoon’s eyes bulged above a nasty grin. “Oh, aye, Allen Balliol. Ye’ve convinced me. So come down here so I can hang ye along with yer long dead daughter.”

Her father straightened. “I doona suppose I will. Seems as though only one will hang today, Cornelius. The spy you keep at Brigadunn manor has had a change of loyalty, ye see. And as penance for his sins, this footman has explained the way ye and yer son have been thieving from the glen, leading the people to believe it was their Anglish landlords bleedin’ the land dry, until The Reaper came and took everything ye meant to pocket. Then yer deeds turned to kidnapping soldiers and stealing from their families. It seems ye’ve been a curse to more than just our part of Scotland. But we’re happy to remedy that.

“Cornelius Wotherspoon, you are hereby charged with kidnapping, larceny, murder, and misusing yer office. Since laird Ashmoore’s freedom is in question and the District Sheriff has been murdered, I, Allen Balliol of the House of Balliol, hereby pronounce ye guilty and sentence ye to hang by the neck until dead.” Her father grinned and looked around at the crowd. “That is, if the people of this town wish me to act as their temporary constable.”

The crowd cheered.

“Any opposed?”

Someone laughed.

Blair dared a glance at Ash. He was speaking over his shoulder to the man behind him, but he was frowning at her.

A chill ran up her spine. He rolled his shoulders and brought his hands together in front of him and she jumped. He was free. And she was not. And the look in his eye promised he’d take advantage of the disparity.

She turned abruptly to the crowd and raised her hands in front of her in a plea for help. A man stepped forward and produced a blade, then he glanced over her shoulder and stepped back. She looked behind her and found Ash bearing down on her, a dark cloud across his face. A lock of hair hanging in his eyes.

She thought it wise to run now, free her hands later. Only she had to bend forward to do so because the rope tied to her ankle had little slack.

The crowd parted for her, but she stumbled on her sagging skirts. Arms reached out and caught her, then pushed her backward onto her feet and into Ash’s reach.

“I was once told,” he said, “that if a woman kept her skirts four inches short, she could run without tripping.”

She remembered when she’d said those words to him—that first night he’d caught her in the woods—and she shivered.

“You couldn’t have told me sooner?” His whisper sent a wave of chills up the side of her neck. The crowd became a distant buzz, easily ignored.

“What?” she said innocently. He could have been referring to a dozen omissions.

“
Turn left?
How long would it have taken you to shout two words as we were leaving to look for Finn?
Turn left
. Not long at all.”

“Oh. That. Well, I couldna just hand the enemy a clear map to The Witch’s Vale, now could I?”

He tucked his chin into the cleft between her shoulder and neck and she curled into him. “I was never the enemy,” he said.

“A recent development, surely.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her roughly back against him. “And how long were you going to torture me?”

“Torture?”

“Yes. Torture. You think it was pleasant, believing you were The Reaper’s woman?”

Her body sighed into him. She covered his arms with her own. She had no intention of letting him release her. “It tortured you?”

“You know it did.”

Her smile grew. “Only a recent development.”

“No, Scotia. I have loved you for years now. A thousand at least.”

He pulled her hand up into the air, then slid the warm owl ring onto her finger.

“It will fall off,” she warned.

“Not if you hold it like this.” He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. “Never let go.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“What if I’d like to have a word with my father?”

“Not even then.”

She laughed. His body was a warm blanket at her back. She could have worn him for hours like that, until their legs became weary.

The crowd grew silent. Blair turned, with Ash, to see what held their attention. Cornelius Wotherspoon was being dragged to the gallows. A rag had been tied around his head. A large knot poked out between his teeth. Whatever he meant to say was unintelligible.

“If yer prayin’ to yer maker, Cornelius, I’m certain he understands every word. No need for us to listen.” Allen Balliol nodded, still atop his horse, and two of the sheriff’s men hauled the condemned up the steps and beneath a noose.

Martin climbed the steps and moved to stand before the prisoner.

“As I’ll be acting as henchman today, constable, I ask yer forgiveness.”

Wotherspoon snarled at him.

Martin straightened away from him as if he’d been insulted.

“I asked forgiveness, ye bastard. Just because ye didna give it doesna mean I won’t enjoy it. But rest assured, it’s a far easier death than those suffered at Givet Faux, by yer son’s hand. Ye’ll not rot in an oubliette, more’s the pity.”

Ash suddenly took Blair by the shoulders and turned her into him. He pulled her head against his chest and covered her exposed ear with his hand. Then he hummed a silly tune, as if the sight of a hanging was something that would upset her, as if she’d never been at Bergen op Zoom or Givet Faux. As if she were some delicate woman who might have nightmares. . .

She could barely hear the roar of the crowd. A moment later, someone grabbed her elbow and pulled her away from her sanctuary. She looked up to find her father frowning down at her.

“Forgive me, daughter,” he said. A general command, but enough. “Forgive me.”

“Oh, da,” she wailed and fell against him, suddenly feeling every bit of ten years old, pouring her heart out on her da’s shoulder over hurts she couldn’t put a name to.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A hundred tears later, Blair was ushered into Stanley’s lovely carriage and took a seat next to Finn, who had already fallen asleep. She tried to feel bad about soiling the viscount’s cushions with their filthy clothing, but she was simply too weary. Besides, she was suddenly empty of emotion, having spent them all on her father’s shoulder.

She glanced up at Ash, sitting across from her, and reconsidered. A riot of emotions began to swirl in her stomach, but thankfully, her eyes were dry for the moment.

Rain pattered on the roof. She wondered where her people would find shelter, then realized they all had homes nearby. Even her.

Ash frowned out the window. And continued to do so. Something was wrong.

Her heart sank to her stomach. Had he reconsidered so quickly? Had her tears disgusted him?

“Here, here, Miss Balliol. Do not fret, I beg you.” Stanley put a hand on her knee.

Ash leaned forward and plucked the same hand off her knee and flung it back at its owner.

Stanley laughed. “You see? He is paying attention.”

Ash huffed out a breath, then returned his attention to the window.

She thought it wise to do the same. They traveled in silence toward the east. The moon nudged its way between storm clouds and she thought she could at least do the same.

“What is it?” she asked firmly. “Why are ye angry with me?”

Slowly, he turned to meet her gaze. A deep breath. Then another. Then he slowly raised his hand. Between two fingers he held the owl ring.

When had she lost it?

She laughed lightly, for surely he could not be angry with her over the ring. “I told you it would fall off.”

“And I showed you how to keep it from doing so.”

She could not tell if he was still frowning. The moon had turned coward and run, taking its light along with it.

“Will ye show me again?” she breathed.

“If I do, Blair, there will be no going back,” he said ominously.

“No going back? What do ye mean? No returning to The Vale? To being The Reaper?”