Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (33 page)

BONES FOR BREAD

The Scarlet Plumiere Series, Book 2

Scotland, 1816

“I regret to report, Lord Ashmoore, that the stock was taken last eve.” Allen Balfour stood with hat in hand, though to Ash he did not appear the least bit regretful. Balfour had been making himself at home in the manor when Ash had arrived a week ago to take control of the Scottish property. Being demoted to the position of shepherd had perhaps soured the man’s disposition. But no matter.

“I am sorry to hear that, Balfour. Pray allow the Frenchwoman to see to your wounds.”

The man laughed, as did his two sons, one perhaps twenty years, the other half as old.

“I received no wounds, me lord. They tied me up, but dared not harm
me
.” Balfour’s chest lifted, as did his nose.

“Then allow the woman to treat the damage done by the ropes.” Ash gestured toward the kitchens where the Frenchwoman proved she was just as talented a cook as she was a healer.

Balfour frowned and waved his wrists in front of him. “No damage.”

Ash folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. The older son took a step back, but his father stood his ground. The young one merely watched.

“So. You did not try to free yourself? To raise a cry?” Ash took a threatening step forward, which usually sent men running. The fact that Balfour remained unaffected, after losing a hundred head, meant the Scot would need to be cowed another way. Ash would have to make an example of him in order for the rest of his stay in Scotland to be relatively peaceful.

Balfour rolled his eyes. “I dared not struggle, me lord.”

“I thought you said
they
would not dare harm
you
,” said Ash.

The older son glanced nervously behind him, at the open doorway. The boy laughed. His father clouted him on the ear, though gently. And just like that, Balfour exposed his weakness.

“It be The Highlander’s men that took ‘em,” he said. “None can be expected to fight against The Highlander. You will learn that soon enough.”

Actually, I will not be the one learning today
.

Ash looked at the boy. “What is your name?”

“This is me own lad, Fin.” Balfour took half a step to the side, clearly ready to protect his son.

Ash looked at the nervous one. “And you?”

Balfour answered again. “My oldest, Martin. Fought against Napoleon. Came home a hero.”

Martin blanched. Ash would bet the young man had either told his father tales, or the father lied on his behalf. As expected, the question served to get the man’s attention off the one called Fin.

“Come here, Fin.”

The boy stepped forward eagerly, oblivious to his father’s grasping fingers.

Ash took the lad’s shoulder and led him to his side so they both faced Balfour. “Fin,” he said, “you are my hostage until my animals are returned. Do you understand?”

The boy’s eyes widened, then he looked at his father, whose face was turning purple. He looked back at Ash and nodded.

“I will ask for your word of honor that you do not try to escape.”

The boy’s eyes went wider still. He frowned at his father for a moment, then down at his overlarge boots. When he finally lifted his chin, he nodded once, then avoided looking at his father altogether.

Balfour screamed in frustration and headed for his son, but a heartbeat later, Ash had a short blade to the man’s neck.

“You cannae have me lad! Take the other one, if ye mun!” Balfour was in anguish. The lad meant a great deal to him; he would learn quicker than expected.

“You cannot have my stock, sir. Return them and the boy will be yours again. Return them not and the boy remains with me, to raise as I see fit.”

“You bloody bastard!”

Fin came forward and wrapped his arms around his father as if he were afraid the man would press himself into the dagger. “Dinna worry, da. Just go ask The Highlander to give them back. And dinna forget the pony!”

Ash growled. “They have my horses?”

“Only the pony,” said Fin. “They left you the other one so you could leave Scotland faster than if you walked.”

Balfour squeezed a handful of his son’s hair, then stepped back. The look he gave Ash promised vengeance. “Spill but a drop of his blood, I will kill you for it.” With that, he headed for the door, but at the entrance, he paused without turning. “Feed him. He’s wee yet.” Then he was gone.

Oh, but Ash nearly felt sorry for this Highlander fellow.

***

The Highlander hurried from her tent to interview the runner. The man was seated on a log trying to catch his wind, but jumped to his feet when she approached.

“What is all this about that daft Englishman taking my wee brother for ransom?!”

GOING BACK FOR ROMEO

—A Muir Witch Project

~PROLOGUE~

Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland  1494

Odd.

The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister's tomb, but he refused to reach for it.

"Nay.  I'm not ready to be finished."  Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God's hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing. 

Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat.  Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave.  The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch.  No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.

He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.

"If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I'd be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here.  I'm sure my sister wouldna mind the wait."

A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan.  Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair.  Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.

None breathed, none dared rub their hands.  How could he possibly continue?  How could he not?

“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell.  Himself can collect them when he arrives.” 

Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears.  The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm. 

“Isobelle!” Morna screamed.  Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband.  “’Tis all my fault.  Forgive me.”

Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.

“Morna, love.  Dinna greet.  The faery will come to make it all right again.  Watch for the faery...and keep away from your husband!”

“Silence!” the robed bastard roared. 

Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole.  After all, what could the man do to her now? 

Monty would not ruin her00 trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.

‘Twas time
.

He looked at the stone.

‘Twas meant.

“I love you, sister mine.”  His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.

“And I you, Monty.  Blow us a kiss.”

When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.

“I’m stayin’ right here, pet.  Ye’re no’ alone.”

“Get on, then.”  The whimper in her voice was slight.  “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”

With a final wink she disappeared.

Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing.  After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands.  Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow.  She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.

If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently?  What kind of bastard would not?

There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”

Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead.  Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle.  She sounded as if she were deep in the ground. 

His heart shuddered with cold.  Dear God, what had he been thinking?  His plan was madness; she would never last.  Not enough time.  He had to get her out!

He reached for the odd stone...and was struck soundly from behind.

CHAPTER ONE

Castle Ross, Present Day

This wasn’t the first time Jillian MacKay had felt a holy-crap-moment coming on. She wouldn’t worry about it now, except for two things.  First, her premonitions of holy-crap-moments were never wrong.  And second, she was only minutes away from testing The Curse of the Ross Clan. 

Jilly was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross, the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her.  No sirens sounded.  No trumpets announced that a simple girl from Wyoming was about to do anything noteworthy, even though, for the first time in her life, she thought she may actually
be
about to do something noteworthy.

She took a deep breath.  Then another.  Then tentatively stepped into the dimly lit Hall, turned to her left, and froze.

Holy, holy crap.

Silence stirred from its dreamy corner and rose to fill the Hall, pushing into every nook and cranny.  There was no echo of her steps on the wood floor, no muffled voices of the tour group nearing the massive outer door—as if this moment was so pure, so important, that sound could not be allowed to sully it.

And all she’d done was look at his face.

With this book in particular, I would like to thank my husband.

BLOOD FOR INK was not an easy book to write. In fact, it has taken me the longest of all my projects. And through it all, my personal Thor stood by me, pushed me, and gave me more support than I even asked for.

Thanks to him, I now have an office away from home where I can go and play with my imaginary friends. Without it, you would still be waiting for this first book in The Scarlet Plumiere series.

So enjoy. Know that a lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into the making, along with a great deal of sacrifice from my private superhero. I will now go reacquaint myself with my family and pretend to be a non-writer...for a little while, until one of my future characters escapes the dungeon in which I try to contain them all.

Sometimes, in their struggle to get my attention, it gets a little ugly—good thing my husband is not afraid to fight them all. Currently, he is King of the Hill.