Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (8 page)

She would confess then, and gladly.

Probably.

She laid her coins on the table then sat back in the shadows with nothing else to do but twist the ring on her finger and wait for an idea to present itself.

The ring was a gift from Martin. He’d come across it somehow—gambling she suspected—and presented it to her on a night she was feeling particularly homesick, the night before his brigade attacked Bergen op Zoom. The face of the ring was molded into the shape of an owl, like her own pet owl, Shakespeare.

It was far too big for her, of course. A man’s ring, truth be told. But she’d tied a bit of cloth around it to keep it hugging her finger. There was likely room for a bit more cloth. . .

There was likely a bit more room—

A
man’s
ring.

The man whose finger she imagined it on was seated across the way with his head lolling against the wall.

If she slid the ring on a small finger, she could also fit the little note. The ring would secure it! He’d be sure to get it whenever he roused himself.

Blair ignored the people now seated at the table nearby and lifted the curtain aside. If they were curious, they said nothing. Again, she walked around Harcourt’s chair and stepped close to the dark form of Ash. His head hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed. If she weren’t in a hurry, she would have liked to stay and study the man’s face until he awakened. Pity she could do no such thing. It was an interesting face tipped back and relaxed instead of glowering and stern.

She sighed and gave her head a shake. His left hand rested on the table. Long fingers. Well groomed. No rings.

Ever so gently, she placed the note along his smallest finger, then looked back at his face. He hadn’t moved.

They must have been devastated indeed to get so drunk they could not defend themselves. If they were expecting Everhardt to stand watch, they should have informed the man, for as loyal as he seemed to be, he would never have left them alone as they were.

She breathed on the ring to remove any chill, then lifted his finger and slipped the ring over both it and the note. She added pressure to get the ring to slide further than the knuckle.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

She slowly lowered the finger back to the table and glanced up at his face once more.

“Dinna lose it, ye drunk bastard,” she whispered, then she peered closer, for if she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were slightly open.

His fingers suddenly wrapped around her own! She froze, half bent over him. To rise, she would need to pull her fingers free, but he was holding them too tightly.

“Scotia,” he said. “I am dreaming you.”

She tried to keep from smiling in relief.

“Yes. Ye are,” she said soothingly. “But if ye doona close yer eyes, ye’ll wake, and I’ll be gone.”

His eyelids lowered again. His hold on her fingers slackened. She was almost disappointed.

“Kiss me, Scotia,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes. The bloody man was awake. The last thing she wished to do was to reward him for teasing.

She waited for him to realize she wasn’t a fool.

And she waited.

And he never opened his eyes.

Perhaps he was asleep. There was a slight rattle to his breathing. Was he snoring? Or pretending to?

Ash’s hand remained lax on the table. The note and ring were secure. And his lips were so near. If he was awake, she was already in trouble. If he was asleep, she could get away with. . .

Before she allowed herself to consider further, she kissed him!

With his head tilted back, she simply lowered her mouth to his, careful not to touch him with her hands lest she wake him. The texture of him was at once soft and hard. His lips gave no resistance at all, but the prickly flesh around his mouth seemed so much more solid than hers. Of course she’d been kissed before by a bounder or two, but never long enough to examine the difference between the roughness of a man’s chin against the softness of her own chin. Although his lips seemed as tender as hers, she had the immediate impression that men were separate creatures, built from unique material altogether.

Blair half expected his hands to come up and grab her.

She half
wanted
just that.

She pulled away, but then kissed him again, allowing him one more chance to kiss her back, she supposed. It was a silly thought, considering how desperately she wished to get away before he woke.

When still his lips did not move, she straightened and narrowed her eyes.

He bloody well had better be asleep, she grumbled silently. And with her face aflame, she fled.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ash woke in the night with a horrible pain in his neck, surpassed only by the pain in his skull. He rolled his head one way then the other to be certain it was indeed his neck that hurt, not that the ache in his brain wasn’t simply spreading throughout his body.

Definitely his neck. He’d fallen asleep against the wall.

Bloody hell.

The sound of dishes rattling brought him up straight in his seat. Stanley and Harcourt sat to either side of him blinking at each other.

They’d drunk themselves under the table, or near enough, it appeared.

He cleared his throat, to say something or other, but he forgot. Dear Lord, he was still drunk? Then he remembered why they’d taken to Brandy in lieu of food.

Napoleon has escaped. We are out of time. I have failed Northwick.

“Brandy!” he said loudly and giant church bells clanged in his head.

“Ash,” Stanley spit. “Do shut up, for pity’s sake.”

Harcourt laid his forehead on the table and stuck his fingers in his ears. The curtain was pulled aside and an old gentleman handed cups all around.

“What is this?” whispered Stan. “Hair of the dog?”

The old man smiled. “Brandy to see you to your beds, messieurs.”

“Excellent,” Ash said. “My compliments to the chef.”

~ ~ ~

Hours later, with the pre-dawn cast of blue around his curtains, Ash woke again. In his bed. Fully clothed. He very carefully removed his loud clothing and louder blankets from the bed, then went back to sleep. . .when removing his loud skin proved too difficult.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, I say,” said Stanley. “Sunlight is far too hard on my eyes just now, Ashmoore. No need to add to my pain.”

Ash opened one eye. Stanley stood at the foot of Ash’s bed where, coincidentally, his own head hung. He lifted the offending orb and followed Stanley’s gaze to find himself splayed out, nude. “I’m going to need some Brandy. Just tip it into my mouth.” Ash resumed his posture, hanging his head back where he’d found it, but also opening his mouth in anticipation.

“What you need, old sock, is more clothing,” said Harcourt from the doorway. “That bit on your finger is not covering anything what needs covering.”

Ash lifted his right hand, then his left and found, to his dismay, a ring he’d never seen before, and a bit of parchment formed to his finger.

“So there is the little devil,” he growled. “Failed all night to lay my hands on that noisemaker.”

He pulled the ring off, then dropped the paper to look closer at the ring itself. “It is an owl,” he mumbled. “The cursed thing may well have been hooting all night.”

Harcourt laughed, then winced.

Ash rolled, very carefully, to his side. “I was not jesting about the brandy.”

His friends ignored him.

“Did you win it in a wager?” asked Stan.

“Hardly,” he replied. “I was not wearing this ring yesterday. I have a vague memory of someone placing it on my finger while we were drinking our suppers.”

He was grateful no one brought up the subject behind their drinking.
They were about to leave Northwick to his fate, abandon the search, and all because a little Frenchman had tried to escape Elba Island. May God have mercy on their souls

“Brandy,” he demanded. “Or you are not my friends.”

Stanley made a cursory search of his pockets. “Plum out. It was grand knowing you old man.”

“Goodbye, then,” sang Harcourt as he slouched to the floor.

No brandy then. Jolly.

Inspiration came to him then. “Where is Everhardt?”

“Here, my lord,” came a quiet voice from the parlor room.

“Six bottles of the best Brandy you can find, man. Now,” Ash said carefully.

Stanley moved off to sit in the sole chair beside the dressing screen. “Did you mean to say six? Not an easy number to be divided by four—er, three, I meant to say. . .”

They were used to splitting any number of things four ways, between the Four Kings. And the simple necessity of changing his calculations was more than Ash could stand. Damn him if he would ever play cards again, either, for each time the King of Hearts was played, he’d likely dissolve into a weeping woman. Either that, or he’d draw steel and begin taking on all comers.

Of course he’d prefer the latter, but the mere chance of the first reaction was enough to send him back into oblivion, where it was safe.

He sat up quickly, and after the room settled into a slow roll, he made his way to the piss pot. Unfortunately, as the previous night’s drink left his body, something niggled at the back of his mind. Something he needed to remember, or needed desperately to forget.

Someone tossed his small clothes over the screen. He offered no thanks, for although he might agree to don his breeches, he meant to go nowhere. Possibly, ever.

“I’ll need six bottles for myself, Stanley,” he finally said. “The pair of you should have ordered some as well.”

And still something niggled.

He stumbled to the corner where he’d apparently tossed his saber, ignored the pressure of his head, and retrieved it. He slid it from the scabbard and winced at the sound it made.

“Here, now,” said Harcourt, attempting to slide back up the doorway and failing. “What will you need that for?”

“To kill Everhardt, if he returns too slowly.”

No use shaving, Ash decided an hour later, and reached for his shirt, stretching high to retrieve the blasted thing from a dormant chandelier hanging over his bed, the tip of which hung like a heavy arrow over the center of his bed—a heavy piece with far too small a chain. One day, he was certain, the chain would fail and some unlucky chap would forfeit his life. Or perhaps a couple might be summarily separated in the dead of night.

Unbidden came the image of Scotia lying next to him beneath the foreboding pendant—yet another image a tall whiskey would chase away.

Where was Everhardt? And where had Stanley hidden his sword?

Perhaps when his man returned, Everhardt might remember whatever it was he was forgetting. While there were plenty of things he was forgetting on purpose, he sensed this mysterious item was not something to relegate to that list.

He pulled the sleeve over his left arm, but something caught and pulled at his finger.

That ring.

He slipped the shirt off again and took a good look at the carved image. The fabric could easily have caught on one of the owl’s little ears.

Why the bloody hell would someone have put it on him? And why the devil wasn’t Scotia around to watch for silly details like that? He would have been able to send for her, ask her what she might have witnessed. She was supposed to have joined them for dinner. He determined to take her to task for not accepting his invitation.

Or had she?

Feeling a bit unsteady, he placed his backside on the bed, then winced and shut his eyes to the glare coming through a window that hadn’t been there the day before. Was he in the correct room?

In the orange darkness behind his eyelids, he saw the upholstery of the auberge, the same-colored curtain drawn around him. He imagined Scotia coming to him from the shadows, leaning over him, lowering her lips to his.

Scotia.
His phantom.

Was it possible the woman was nothing more? Had he conjured her to push him along as he searched for Northwick? To make certain he never gave up? And now that he had no choice but to give up, would she never appear again? With her little piece of paper—

He jumped to his feet. “Help me find that paper!”

Ignoring the pain in his head outright, he bent beside the bed and fell to his knees. The item he’d forgotten, the message from Scotia, whether she was real or not, would be important, at least to him. Eventually, his friends joined in the search. They tossed the bed clothes aside. They looked everywhere. Even in the chandelier.

Where the bloody hell? He’d held it in his hands. He’d heard it rustle against the sheets. The note was no phantom, even if the woman was.

But that wasn’t right. She was real. He’d touched her.

“I suppose,” Stanley said, “we can simply summon the chit and ask her what it said.”

Ash stilled. “The chit?”

“Our shadow, of course,” said Stan. “If someone left you a ring and a note, I’m certain it was her. She was seated just across the way, if memory serves, which is doubtful, I admit. If she didn’t leave them, she’ll know who did. If she did leave them, she can give us the message again.”