Free Bones for Bread (The Scarlet Plumiere) by L.L. Muir

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.”
    Ash’s brandy-soaked mind had forgotten—his friends had seen her too. They’d discussed her on a daily basis for more than a month. Of course she was no phantom.
    “But why leave a note?” asked Harcourt. “Unless she was going away and would be gone by the time we sobered. . .”
    Ash’s stomach dropped. He might never see her again? Why should it affect him so? The woman could mean nothing to him, after all. They would both return home with their hearts broken for the men they’d been unable to find. They would never belong to the same circles. It would be strange indeed if he ever found himself in Scotland. Considering her accent, she was far north of Hadrian’s wall. When the devil would he ever have occasion to visit the Highlands?
    But even if they happened upon one another again, he could not have her. No woman deserved to be shackled to the Devil’s own. She was far beyond his reach as his own redemption. There were simply some things that could never be.
    So it made no matter if she was gone. Surely. But even so, he found himself praying. Just let me see her one time more.
    “Here it is,” sang Harcourt. His friend had tossed the bedclothes back onto the bed. “It must have been caught in the blanket.”
    Ash forced his breathing to calm.
    “Well, man,” Stan said. “What does it say?”
    “She meant it for you, I am certain.” Harcourt handed over the precious scrap.
    Ash took it from his friend’s fingers and opened it. He read the message silently. His heart stopped. He couldn’t breathe. Dear Lord! How close they’d come to failing North!
    His body convulsed as he gorged himself on hope. He gulped air between waves of elation. She’d done it. They’d hoped she would somehow lead them to Northwick, and she’d done it!
    She must have seen something after they’d left Givet Faux. . .
    “Ash, please!” Stanley tugged on his elbow.
    Everhardt knocked on the parlor door then opened it before bending down to lift a sturdy box of dark bottles and bring them inside.
    “We won’t need those,” Ash managed to say, then passed the note to Stanley.
    The latter read it quickly, then choked out, “Coffee. We need coffee.” Stan then handed the note to Harcourt and sat on the floor. Ash thought it wise to do the same.
    “Everhardt. Leave the brandy,” said Harcourt as he lowered himself to the bed. “We’ll need both before the day is done.”
    Ash had orders for Everhardt as well.
    “Find her,” he said, “before she does something foolish. Sit on her if you must until we can find our clothes and our heads.”
    Everhardt shook his head. “I regret to tell you, my lord, she is already gone.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Blair suppressed a shiver when the late afternoon breeze rushed around her ankles and up her skirt. Though there was fresh snow on the pine boughs as she’d picket her way back through the trees that morning, the sun had made quick work of it. The white was gone.
    Beneath her layers of wool, she’d managed to be overwarm, but not for long. The sun had passed the tips of the forest in which she hid