Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (30 page)

A wagon came into view as it entered the drive from the far side of the house. Along the sides of the box sat half a dozen chattering maids. A young man in livery drove the single, swaybacked plow horse Stan had allowed to remain at the manor in order to take the day staff home. With so few residents to care for, he’d been informed, the night staff would suffice until morning.

His eyes came back to the exercise in futility at the window. The woman leaned on the windowsill, resting her arms, but she didn’t rest for long. After a brief stretch, she took careful aim and threw, leaning far out the window to allow more slack.

Stanley found himself rooting for the candelabra to catch, straining along with her, holding his breath as she carefully pulled back. Biting his lip as he willed the damnable silver to hold on!

And then it did.

He nearly jumped out of the saddle with excitement, but caught himself before he made much noise. The woman looked utterly stunned. In fact, she stood there so long he wondered if perhaps she’d forgotten what she’d planned to do next.

Perhaps she might swing over to the adjacent window, climb inside, and walk through the house as if she’d been given leave to do so. She might sneak out the back door to the stable, steal a bit of man’s clothing, pile her hair in a cap and take a horse for a late bit of exercise—only there would be no horse for the taking. And his outriders would be there to stop her.

Northwick’s woman, Livvy, had done something similar. She’d forced her maid to order her a carriage, then tied that maid to a chair so she couldn’t tattle before Livvy slipped away from the house.

Of course Miss Balliol wouldn’t have any sway with the staff. She wasn’t the lady of the manner. The closest thing she had to a lady’s maid was Sarah. . .

Sarah who had become romantically involved with Miss Balliol’s brother. . .

Sarah who was very close to the size of the woman standing at the window, wondering what to do next.

Stanley closed his eyes for a heartbeat, just long enough to wish Ashmoore had smarter friends. Behind those closed eyes, he saw the horror on Ash’s face when he discovered Stanley had indeed failed him.

~ ~ ~

Stanley caught up to the wagon just as it was building up speed for a small hill. The passengers were deathly sober. The only sound came from the squeak of the wheels, the creak of the wood, and the hooves of the old nag.

He pulled up level with the nag and reached for the leads. The young man in livery looked terribly disappointed, but Stan couldn’t tell if it was due to being discovered so soon, or because he was going to have a devil of a time getting the wagon to crest the hill.

Stan turned a silent but fierce frown on the boy, then shared it with the maids. The five maids. Five quite unrepentant maids who were likely, at that moment, reveling in the fact their countrywoman had just bested an Englishman.

He couldn’t help wiping the smirks from their faces.

“You do realize,” he said, “that the constable and his men are lying in wait for her. You may as well have delivered her to the man in chains.

He should have been more pleased that his words had horrified each and every one of them, but he was too horrified himself to enjoy the moment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ash and Martin dismounted beneath an outcropping of stone and made their way, for a while at least, on foot. The path was narrow and precarious and Ash would have had a difficult time trusting any beast to carry him when one side of the trail dropped sharply away to a promontory forty feet below.

Neither he nor Martin would say it aloud, but they were lost, and hopelessly so. The devil of it was, they shouldn’t be lost at all.

They’d paused at the foot of the mountain and looked directly at the elusive Witch’s Vale. They’d watched the mist roll across the face of the cliffs. They’d seen exactly the route they should take to get there, and they’d followed that route.

And they’d ended up on another mountain entirely, staring across a chasm at those damnable, mist-covered cliffs.

If he didn’t know better, he would deduce the moniker of
Witch’s Vale
was derived from the fact that actual witches had put some spell on the place to keep men like him away. But he
did
know better. He was nearly certain he knew better.

In the event young Finn had travelled the same route, they bellowed his name from time to time, for Martin was confident Finn did not know the secret to finding the hide-out of the infamous Reaper. What lad of ten could have kept such a secret from his older brother who had, in essence, been his closest friend since he’d returned from France?

Ash hadn’t disavowed Martin of his belief, though he might have; Finn had successfully kept his sister’s secret, even after she’d been locked in the larder of the same household. The lad had never given up her name and had managed to avoid his brother. A brave and clever lad if ever there was one.

Brave and clever.

Finn would have found a way to the Vale. They needed only be as clever as he.

Their path suddenly ended. Whatever ground had once continued for the next twenty feet had toppled away.

“We must start again,” Ash said. “And before night falls in an hour.”

They were halfway down the mountain, hoping they didn’t end up on the wrong side of it, when Ash noticed a strange shadow in a stretch of rocks. It so intrigued him, he dismounted for a closer look. He bent over the spot, and the shadow disappeared.

He straightened immediately, then glanced at Martin to see if the young man was paying any attention.

“What is that?” Martin asked, pointing to the spot where the shadow had been. But it had disappeared. Martin pointed at nothing.

A chill slowly snaked its way up Ash’s spine. He could not suppress a shiver as it raked him over.

“What is it you see?”

Martin frowned at him. “What do you mean?” He got off his horse and joined Ash in the rocks, then pointed again. “That’s odd. It’s gone.”

They both remounted and looked at the spot again. Right where they expected it to be, there was a distinct arrow made of small rocks, sitting like a chameleon atop a sea of small rocks. It was the shadow that gave it away. Once they dismounted and leaned over the spot, there was no longer a shadow to see.

Fiendish and inspired—and it pointed away from the vale. In fact, it pointed a clear pathway over the cliff! Was it a lie? Was The Reaper’s hideout not in the Vale at all?

She’d mentioned markers. This had to be one of them. And they were not to be trusted. If they’d been surrounded by mist themselves, they might have followed that deadly path!

One thing was certain. If they didn’t make a decision soon, they’d have to spend the night where they stood, in the rocks. Either that, or they’d end up back at Brigadunn without Finn, and he refused to fail her.

“Martin,” he said, “let me hear that riddle again.”

~ ~ ~

Blair was not one to whine about the rain, nor for lack of a horse. But with Finn in danger, she couldn’t help grumbling over Stanley’s clever move.

“Remove all the horses? Was he mad?”

It was a good thing Tolly had thought to have the carthorse spared, or even the day help would have been pent up at Brigadunn manor for the night.

“Blasted man. Not trusting. . .”

She wrinkled her nose. Just because he was wise not to trust her didn’t mean she had to respect him for it.

“See if I ever address him as
Yer Grace
again.”

She struck out for the top of a high hill, certain she could find a clearer path to Mary Dowd’s croft. There, she would find dry clothes and send word for Jarvill and Coll to come fetch her. No doubt Cameron Dowds would welcome a few coins for his trouble and Blair could have a chance to speak with Mary, to make certain the woman harbored no guilt over leaving the Vale. Of course, Blair’s feelings had been hurt when Mary had not bid her farewell, but she understood. The Reaper was a protector, sure. But he remained a shadowy figure, even among his own. Few in the Vale had reason to deal directly with him, and it was likely Mary would never have come to the Reaper’s own cottage to seek out Blair, even had she wished to.

Blair could only guess what Mary and the rest supposed about her sharing a bed with their leader. But when she imagined sinning with a man, it was not Jarvill or Coll who came to mind, or even the phantom of a mysterious man in a cape—it was Ash.

She summoned a memory of that morning, when she’d awakened next to him in the larder. She on her pallet, he just behind her on the bare wood floor. His fingers had twitched, then relaxed. His breathing sped, but he made no move to rise. After a moment, his hand pressed against her, pulling her closer to his chest, no longer pretending to sleep.

She’d said nothing, her silence an agreement of sorts, to allow the moment to go on.

If only Tolly hadn’t come.

If only Finn hadn’t run off.

Might Ash have turned her? Kissed her? What sweet things might he have said?

Without her attention on the wet and rock-strewn path before her, she stumbled and cried out, but caught herself before her ankle could twist. Nearly at the top of the rise now, she paused to look behind her. No one emerged from the trees below. There was no sound of horse or cart in the distance.

She turned and finished her climb. Cresting the hill, she stopped short. Not ten feet away, a half-circle of men awaited her. In the center stood the constable, his horrible hat dripping water only inches from his nose.

She lunged to her right, then shot to her left and back down the hill. After three steps, a man was there to block her way.

It was Everhardt! Ash’s man—the one who had fought with her at Givet Faux!

He gave her a subtle shake of his head. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “They would have caught you in any case. And he knows about the beauty mark, knows who you are.” Others ran to join them. “I’ve got her,” he announced over her shoulder. “Do not give me away.” he whispered near her ear.

Stunned, she offered no resistance when he took her by the elbow and led her back over the crest. He gave her arm an extra squeeze. “I told her you have her young brother. She won’t give us any trouble.”

She stifled her gasp.

Finn? The constable had Finn?

After the initial panic eased, she was relieved the lad wasn’t half way to The Witch’s Vale and the dangers along the way. She had quick feet and with a little luck, she could likely get away from the lot of them, but there was something about Everhardt that made her pause. Had he been trying to warn her? Had he known it would be better for Finn if she came along? Or had it been the other way around—would Finn be harmed if she was to get away?

Whatever the truth might be, she decided to simply trust the man in light of her past experience with him. Everhardt wouldn’t lead her into danger, even though he seemed to be working for the enemy at the moment. Knowing Ash, even as little as she did, he’d planted the man among Wotherspoon’s ranks before he’d ever arrived at Brigadunn.

“The Reaper’s Whore.” The constable spat at her feet. “I gave ye fair warnin’. Ye should have stayed with yer lover at the manor.”

Even before Cornelius Wotherspoon had become constable of her town, Blair had avoided the man. Her father had grown up with him and warned her and her brothers to never trust the man. Therefore, they didn’t. Of course Father had attributed the man’s dislike to a jealousy over their royal name, but he blamed many a misunderstanding on the same. Blair believed they’d been at odds since they were boys. Perhaps a lucky punch, a bloody nose, or an embarrassment of some sort.

But now the man had turned his nastiness on her Englishman and she could not help but rise to his defense.

“Come now, constable,” she said cheerfully. “Ye make it sound as if Ashmoore is The Highland Reaper.”

“Do I?” The constable grinned.

Of course that was exactly what he wished his men to believe. So she thought it best to lead the mob away from such thoughts before Ashmoore ended up in a noose for being his own enemy.

“If my lover, The Reaper, resides at the manor,” she paused and grinned herself, “what makes ye suppose it isn’t Tolly?”

Any retort Wotherspoon might make was drown out by the raucous laughter of his men. Everyone knew Tolly.

She sought to add wood to the fire. “Perhaps that is why the man is so tired all the time—stealing sheep at night, but ever so slowly.”

Their now-merry band tromped through a birch forest for a few minutes before they came upon the horses. Everhardt helped her mount since her hands were tied together, then he climbed up behind her. For a moment, they were ignored while the others gained their own animals.

“I’ll keep yer secret,” she whispered, “if ye’ll keep mine.”

“And what secret is that, milady?”

“Doona tell Ash and Stanley I walked right up to the constable and as good as announced myself. I’d hate to have them say it.”

“To say what?”

“I told ye so.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX