Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) (5 page)

Everhardt entered the road and smoothly brought his horse alongside Ash’s. He lifted a hand in a habitual salute, but when Ash gave a quick shake of his head, the man lifted his hat and scratched his head before pulling the hat back in place and dropping his arm.

“Not the right place for saluting, I’m afraid,” Ash said.

Everhardt nodded. “Right you are, my lord.”

Ash waited for Stanley and Harcourt to fall back within earshot before he asked, “Did you find someone?”

“Yes, sir.” Everhardt spoke low, but clearly. “He claims to live inside the place. Says the keep is in the control of a Frenchman who claims his family owns the property, and there is a Scot that acts as an enforcer of sorts. It’s an auberge of sorts, housing for soldiers down on their luck and unable to go home just yet, he says. A bunch of deserters from all sides, it sounds like.” He paused. “Perhaps it’s housing one or two men who are not allowed to leave, my lord.”

Ash nodded, acknowledging the man’s effort to lift his hopes.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Everhardt nodded again. “He said the gates are not locked. No guards. Just the one Scot. A body can walk right up to the door and knock.”

“I suppose we’ll have to do just that.” Ash looked first at Stan, then at Harcourt, who grinned before he turned back to face the road.

Stan frowned. “Did the man say why they call it the Palais des Morts?”

Everhardt smiled. “He did, Your Grace. Said it’s called the Palace of the Dead from days of The Plague.”

Stan continued to frown, but now it was aimed at the road behind them. It took no imagination to know what he was looking at.

“Still with us,” he said. “Are you certain we can’t dissuade her? It hardly sounds like the kind of place to allow a woman.”

Ash shrugged. “I cannot stop her, Stanley. Feel free to try.”

His chest clenched suddenly at the thought of his overly handsome friend slowing his mount to have conversation with his Scotia. Of course she belonged to no one, least of all him, but he’d rather enjoyed being the mediator between her and his friends. No need for them all to get chummy.

But contrary to his unspoken wishes, Stan did slow his horse. Ash, Harcourt, and Everhardt continued on. Though Ash usually sought to keep North’s possible condition from his mind, to keep from going mad, he now summoned the memory of his friend’s face, to remind him why they must continue on their quest and disregard the safety of a woman who refused to keep herself safe. Besides that, who was he to begrudge Stanley’s attempts to persuade the chit to turn back?

The Palais des Morts, as the locals called it, could only be another five kilometers north. They’d come at least that far already. It wouldn’t be long now.

The more pleasant name for the keep was the Givet Faux—a smaller replica of the citadel called Charlemont, at the true city of Givet, and ten kilometers even farther up the River Meuse. It was supposedly built as a jest, but soon it became clear that it was meant to lure innocent travelers and merchants who were yet unaware of the true site of Charlemont. Goods and supplies meant for the large citadel and the city of Givet were sometimes waylaid at Givet Faux, the false Givet, if travelers were strangers to the area. And with Givet Faux lying in the direct path between the great city of Reims, France and the Belgian border, there were plenty of victims who fell prey to the pranksters. After a while, however, word spread far enough and wide enough that most travelers kept to the lee side of the Meuse when passing by the notorious keep.

With such avoidance, the settlement hadn’t been able to sustain itself and had corrupted into a den for the corrupt. A perfect home for kidnappers, no question. But what den of vipers would be guarded by a single Scot? This was the question that kept his hopes from rising too high.

Of course he wasn’t in the habit of worrying over the size of his opponents, but if a single man protected an entire castle, small or not, he might be a challenge even for the notorious Earl of Ashmoore, the deadliest gentleman of the ton.

He smiled at the memory of the night Northwick christened him with the title. He’d knocked unconscious five pugilists in a row before stopping for a drink. And after that drink, he’d taken on ten others. Later, their carriage had been attacked by five well-armed men and he’d insisted on taking on the lot of them himself. His friends had refused, and faced the band by his side, but it was the knife from Ash’s boot and his already bloodied fists that had taken all five men to the ground. None would have died from their wounds but the largest man who refused to cease his attack until he had ceased breathing.

“Sometimes an animal must be put down,”
Stan had said.

Harcourt had attributed Ash’s ability to Battle Fever that must have still been raging in his blood from the previous bouts.

Northwick hadn’t cared the why of it. He’d merely been grateful to be standing beside the deadliest gentleman of the ton and not opposite him. And the sobriquet had stuck.

Perhaps he should merely have it announced at Givet Faux that he was on his way. Perhaps they would flee and leave Northwick sitting on the front steps with a written apology pinned to his coat.

What a sight that would be!

Dear God, please let North be alive,
he plead for the thousandth time.
Let us not be too late!

He’d nearly forgotten about Stanley and was about to urge his horse to a gallop when he heard his friend rejoining them from behind. Stan’s face was flushed. In fact, he appeared upset.

Ash glanced over his shoulder to find the dark form of Scotia still trailing them, but a bit further back than she had been.

“What did you say to her?” he demanded, then hoped he hadn’t sounded as defensive to his friend’s ears as he had to his own.

“Stubborn. . . Ridiculous. . .” Stan shook his head and took a breath.

“What did she say?” Harcourt asked, slowing to come alongside their handsome friend.

Stan rolled his eyes. “How the bloody hell should I know? When I stopped my horse, she stopped hers, refusing to come nearer. When I started toward her—slowly, mind you—she turned her horse and retreated, watching me over her shoulder as she went. When I stopped, she stopped. It is as if there was a long stick between us that would not allow us to get even a step closer than we were.” He frowned at Ash. “You never said she was disfigured. Is there perhaps something wrong with her face that she would be embarrassed to have me see her?”

Ash shook his head, then laughed. He glanced back again and found her following at exactly the pace of their little band, then he laughed again.

“Do not take it too much to heart, Stanley,” Harcourt soothed. “It must be that to some women, you are simply too handsome to bear.”

The jibe served to cheer his fair-haired, too-blessed friend. Harcourt was pleased, as usual, with his own wit. And Ash was pleased his Scotia, whom he determined to stop thinking of as
his
, had yet to be exposed, face to face, to the perfection that was Stanley, Viscount Forsgreen, the future Duke of Rochester. He also realized how long it had been since the three of them had known a reason to laugh.

God willing, there would soon be another.

CHAPTER FOUR

The morning’s ride was tearing Blair apart, but not for the reasons it should.

Of course she was filled with equal parts hope and dread—hope she was about to find her brother, and dread she was not. But what distracted her was another pairing—a wish and a fear.

She wished the large one wanted a word with her half so urgently as the blond one did, but apparently her dark visitor had nothing to say to her that morning. Her fear, of course, had everything to do with how angry he must be that she’d gone against his wishes—er, dictates, truth be told. The poor man was simply in the learning stages—learning she did as she damn well pleased.

No doubt he’d imagined her knitting by the fire in all patience until he got around to remembering her, got around to telling her whether or not he’d found her brother.

All patience, my arse.

Of course she’d been treated thusly all her life. No man wants to admit that a woman might defend herself just as well as he could, and in her case, better—except for the previous night’s encounter in her room, when it would have been a shame to harm such a pretty man who wanted nothing more than a conversation. After examining the memory all morning, she could come to no other conclusion for the mercy she showed him. Any other man might have suffered a hot candle to his eye for daring to lay hands to her person or her blade. By all rights, it should have been
he
who searched frantically for the key, to escape
her
.

In the end, he’d turned out to be no different than most men when he’d insisted she allow him to make arrangements for her. Most men wanted to prove she was witless while at the same time proving themselves to be gallant heroes. Most men she’d known were fools.

The question was, how foolish would these Englishmen turn out to be? When she insisted on accompanying them inside this Givet Faux, would they make a fuss, or not? She could hardly wait to find out.

Her mount stumbled, then danced to one side. Had it sensed her anticipation?

It came to a halt, complaining as it did so.

She quickly unhooked her right knee and slid to the ground on the left, next to a raised hoof. She hoped she’d acted quickly enough, before the animal was badly hurt. Thankfully, the beast stood still while she bent beside it.

Embedded in the pad of its foot, and held tight by the well-worn shoe, was a large rock with jagged edges that had cut into the pad and drawn blood. She removed the stone. The foot was bruised, the beast in pain and shouldn’t be ridden.

She patted the leg, then released it. She straightened, then glanced down the road where the three gentlemen, and a fourth—the man they called Everhardt—had stopped at the top of a small rise. They had turned their mounts to face her, most likely when her horse had complained.

Her difficulty was obvious. The fact she did not remount should have been explanation enough. She could not ride her horse. Which meant she must needs ride behind one of them. They would, after all, arrive in the same place, just as they had every day in the past weeks. Surely they realized. . .

Ash nudged his horse forward and in doing, nudged her heart into beating rather faster than usual at the thought of sitting so close to him, with her arms around his middle. But after a few steps, he reined his beast to a halt.

She could nearly hear his thoughts as he thought them.

If I do not rescue you now, I get what I wanted in the first place.

She tried to convey her own message with the lift of her chin.

Ye canna stop me, so I suggest you take me with ye
.

He lowered his own chin, staring at her like a bull preparing to charge, and answered her with a slight, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

She stomped her foot before she could refrain. Cold water splashed beneath her skirts onto her thick woolen socks, reminding her that acts of temper rarely worked to her advantage.

She glared back at the man, but shrugged to mask her roiling emotions. She then turned and plucked up a tuft of grass, combined it with a ball of soft mud, and bent next to the horse once again. With one hand, she lifted the foot into view; with the other she pushed the soft mass against the wound. When she was hopeful it would stay in place, she stood and urged the beast forward. By the time she tossed a defiant glare at the men on the hill, they were gone.

Leading a wounded animal along, it took a good half hour before she caught sight of Givet Faux. The curtain wall of the modest-sized citadel had crumbled away enough to reveal four horses in the bailey. Everhardt stood beside them. The other three Englishmen were nowhere to be seen.

Blair could hardly beat on the door and demand to be admitted, though she wished to do just that. Equally unwise would be to interrupt whatever plan the men had hatched between them. The only option to her now was to wait and see if the men emerged with their friend or her brother. The fact they’d left their man outside led her to hope for less violence than she’d envisioned. But neither could she imagine how courtesy might win the day. Of course she prayed they were successful. And if they were, she might even forgive them excluding her.

Martin was all. If Martin were saved, she could forgive anything.

She imagined them emerging with her brother and the image gave her permission of a sort, to hope, to believe that Martin was actually inside. She was usually so careful not to get her hopes up, but this place was just too right, too accurate a depiction of the evil fortress housed by men evil enough to take her brother.

Somewhere from the recesses of her heart, she heard a small warning, like the warbling of a bird, a warning not to expect too much.

She shook the warning away as she led her poor mount into the trees that ran up the near side of the keep. Of course she would not stand before the steps with her arms flung wide, but she would be close enough to get to her brother quickly, especially if they all came out fighting.