Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (22 page)

“Not at all, Sarah dear. You’ve done an excellent job. I know all I need to know.” And that included the certainty that allowing Martin and young Sarah to spend more time together would be a mistake. The girl was already blushing when she said his name, and her tight dress had likely given the young man the wrong impression of her age.

Good God! What had he done? He’d barely made an offer to act as her guardian and already he was acting the protective father.

It had been an impetuous idea. And although he would not take back the offer, even if he could, he completely expected to rue it.

He slipped his hand into his waist pocket and fingered the little ring, as he had done so often after returning from France. He only did so when he was troubled. For the first year or more, it had given him comfort. Now, it stirred up the mixed images of two women, both wrapped in cloaks. But the strongest image was of the she-devil on horseback, taunting him from a distance, her hair a mass of dark curls in the blue of the moonlight.

Was it The Reaper’s cloak she wore?

Was she his wife? Or his leman?

And how could Ash so easily allow the second woman to sully the memory of the first?

He tried to picture Scotia again. That face leaning over him, swaying before his drunken vision, watching her play with his fingers, sliding the ring on one of them. Urging him to close his eyes, annoyed when he was unable to kiss her back. Oh, yes. He’d remembered, eventually.

“Dinna lose it, ye drunk bastard.”

He mumbled the same, now, to himself, but referring to her memory.

“Dinna lose it, ye drunk bastard.”

“I beg yer pardon, sir?” Tolly stood before him.

Ash shook off the maudlin thoughts and sat again, took out a parchment and dipped his pen. It seemed it might be a wise idea to encourage the level-headed Stanley after all. It seemed the mere recollection of Scotia might keep him from seeing things clearly. Stanley by his side sounded just the ticket.

“I wish to send an urgent letter to the son of the Duke of Rochester, in London. I need you to locate a rider. Someone you can trust to keep his mission to himself.” He fixed his butler with a meaningful stare. “Do you understand my meaning, Tolly?”

“Aye, sir. I do. It means if The Reaper gets wind of the letter, it’ll be my arse out in the cold with my head sittin’ next to it.”

Ash laughed. “You’re not nearly as simple as you like to pretend.”

The man winked. “Not by half, yer lairdship. Not by half.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Blair paced in her room, grateful to be back in The Witch’s Vale, in a warm safe place with enough room above her head to stand straight. Pacing helped her think. The smell of supper was a bit distracting, however, so she gave up the struggle with her thoughts and went out to sup with the others.

Jarvill and Coll hadn’t waited for her before digging into the first hot meal they’d had since taking the Englishman’s herds. Now that the animals had been sold off and no longer required guarding, they’d been able to strike their camp and come home.

The vale had been home for two years, but that night, even with her beloved owl perched in the shed on the side of the cottage, it no longer felt like a safe haven. Of course she should have never gone after Shakespeare, but the thing might have suffered injury had she sent Jarvill for him, as she’d sent him to collect some of her own things from time to time. She wondered if her family had ever noticed anything missing.

A week gone by, when she’d laid eyes on the familiar buildings and burst into tears, she should have turned away. Standing in the mews had been both exquisite and painful. Seeing Martin and holding him to her was torture as well, but a hundred fold. Of course she wished she could have gone about her business without them believing her dead, but even if she dared face her father’s renouncement, she had other reasons. The most important of which was that many more needy souls would trust a mysterious Scotsman to lead them than the bossy miss who lived down the glen.

And so many had needed The Reaper. They’d been grateful for a leader who could tell them everything would be right again, that their children needn’t starve before their eyes, that there was hope. And if she could convince the English to stop coming, they could all go home like Mary Dowds.

All but her, of course.

Her belly begged her to eat, so she ate, all the while staring at the fourth plate, the portion allotted for The Reaper. Jarvill and Coll would arm wrestle for it after they’d finished their own. There was food a’ plenty in the vale, even in winter, so another helping was unfair to no one. And Bonnie and Esme, the ladies who cooked and cleaned for The Reaper and his band of three, would expect four dirty plates waiting for them in the morning.

Blair couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before Bonnie or Esme, or both, were seduced into returning to Brigadunn.

Brigadunn. The manor house was named for the ancient brown bridge that once connected one side of the river to the other. But the water had changed course long ago and the bridge merely spanned a trail of boulders with grass and wildflowers growing between them. A pretty sight in springtime. A sight she hadn’t seen in daylight since before the war in France, a sight she would never see again without risking her father’s notice, even after the current English bully was gone. But by heavens, the rest of them would see it again, and soon.

“We canna dally about,” she told her friends. “We’ve got to frighten this one away, and now. There was a stubborn look in his eyes that I didna care for. And he’s the size of an ox on hind legs. It will take the three of us to subdue him.”

She took a bite of mutton, but had a hard time swallowing. The thought of facing that man again twisted her stomach, but it was best to have done with it. Truth be told, her mind had played tricks on her since that night when the current owner of Brigadunn had held her close to him. For some reason, her mind wanted the man to be Ash. She needed to keep reminding herself the new Englishman wasn’t tall enough to be Ash. But another glimpse of him—just a glimpse, mind—was a wish she tried to keep tucked away in the corner of her heart.

Coll looked up from his meal. “When do we go?” he enunciated around his stew. Then he bent his head back for a bite, as if speaking
without
food in his mouth was poor manners.

Jarvill stood and moved his plate off the table to make room for the wrestle.

“Tomorrow night,” she said without meeting either man’s eyes, then forced herself to eat again, keeping an arm wrapped about her bowl to protect it from wayward wrestling arms.

“But we’ve only just come home,” Jarvill complained. “Can yer brother not stomach fine food for another few days?”

“‘Tis
my
stomach I’m worrit about, Jarvill. This man does things to it.”

“Like the man in France, ye mean?” He pushed The Reaper’s portion over to Coll. There would be no wrestling tonight.

Blair removed her protective arm and sat a little straighter. “‘Tis similar, but not the same. This one could never be as dangerous as the other.”

Jarvill snorted. “Dangerous with a blade? Or with yer heart?”

Coll frowned as he had not been privy to her earlier discussion with Jarvill, about the effect Ash had once had upon her, but she shook her head, telling Coll not to expect an explanation. Then she turned to her right and told Jarvill the truth.

“Both,” she said. “It would kill me, I think, to see that first man again. I’d shiver and shake until I was but a puddle in me boots. This is why I must stay away from England, and England must stay away from me. Handsome or no.”

“Perhaps,” said Coll, as he dug into his second helping, “we should see if the parade of English. . .” He filled his mouth. “If the parade might stop if one of them died of an accident. And there’s always poison, o’course.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It had been a week since his unfortunate encounter with The Reaper’s assassin—for how could Ash think of her as anything else? With one bold, unladylike action, she’d nearly assassinated the entire Ashmoore line of successors. After his nether region had recovered, he’d been able to acknowledge that it was a fine tactic on her part, but now that she’d revealed her skills, by Jove, he would not be caught off guard the next time they met!

And they would meet again. He would make damned good and certain of it. It had become even more important to him than catching The Reaper. He’d simply convinced himself that catching the woman was essential to catching the villain. She’d make a fine bit of bait, after all.

He sat astride his horse trying to keep his mind on the number of animals entering the pens and away from disturbing memories that made him wince and fidget in the saddle, but he’d failed so many times already, he was forced to rely on Martin’s count to be correct.

A hundred head stolen.

A hundred head replaced.

But as he watched a black and white spotted calf catch up to its solid black brother, Ash realized he was replacing his stolen cattle with
his stolen cattle!

He took a deep breath to cool the heat rising in his neck. No sense in tipping his hand until he knew if Martin was aware of the trick.

Ash waved an arm.

Martin loped over to him. “Yer lairdship?”

Nothing nervous about the young man. In fact, Martin Balliol looked quite pleased with himself. His big smile hid nothing. This bit of responsibility had even improved his posture.

Ash hated to dash his fine mood, but this was one young Scot to whom he refused to play nursemaid.

“Martin,” he said casually, “do you suppose you could send a message to The Highland Reaper?”

A dark scowl dropped immediately into place on the lad’s brow before he looked away. After a deep breath, Martin looked back.

“Leave it to me, sir. What message would ye care to send?”

Ash couldn’t be more pleased to find that at least one Scot in the glen might be on his side in this silly war.

“Inform the criminal that although my missing cattle seem to have been returned to me, young Finn will remain my hostage until the purchase price has been returned. And for heaven’s sake, send the spotted calf back to the drover. It will do neither of us any good if others realize we possess animals that supposedly are in the hands of The Damnable Reaper.”

Martin’s scowl grew fierce as he looked over the cattle now milling about in the massive corral. Ash raised an arm and pointed at the spotted calf. Martin gave a smart nod in understanding. He looked so disgusted Ash thought an encouraging word was in order.

“Do not look upon this as any sort of failure, Mr. Balliol. I told you to duplicate the original order of animals, and damn me if you could have come any closer.”

Martin sighed and nodded. His grimace eased into a begrudging smile.

“Will there be anything else, yer lairdship?”

Ash was tempted to send a warning to The Reaper’s woman, but he’d be damned if he was going to admit what had happened the last time he’d seen her.

“No. Nothing more.” He turned his horse, but Martin reached for the bridle to stop him from moving away.

“I should thank ye, sir,” he said, looking Ash in the eye. “Finn looks none the worse for wear. . .
from what I’ve seen
.”

Understanding dawned, but Ash could not betray Finn’s trust. It wasn’t for Ash to tell Martin that it was his younger brother’s idea not to speak with him.

Ash merely nodded.

“The drover sent a bottle of brandy for ye, laird. I’ve sent it up to the manor.”

Ash nodded again, then nudged his horse forward. Martin stepped back.

A little responsibility, away from his father, had gone a long way, it seemed.

~ ~ ~

Later, after Finn and the rest had gone to bed and left the house to settle, Ash sat in his study and stared at the African chair. It had arrived that afternoon with a letter from Northwick insisting that he might feel more at home with a stick of familiar furniture about. Of course it was a lark. The chair—a bit of wood and leather—had always been the least comfortable chair in his friend’s library. When the Four Kings would gather there, the seat went to the last man standing—the punishment for a game of musical chairs. It was a fact, if Ash was the last to sit, he’d more often than not prefer to stand before submitting himself to the uncomfortable contraption.