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

straight ahead to the crumbling wall and took to the steps, that portion of the wall still intact. Once at the top, he put his hands to his hips and surveyed the valley of the River Meuse, as if the keep were his own castle and he was taking some measure of his surrounding kingdom. When he looked her way, her breath caught. It was if he were looking into her soul, as if, through all those trees and shadows, he knew just where she was standing.
    He gave the slightest shake of his head, just as he’d done on the road. He knew her question, and the answer had been no.
    But perhaps this time he was telling her not to show herself. That was reasonable. Perhaps he predicted she would run to Martin’s side. . .
    She shook her own head then, to stop the ridiculous thoughts from multiplying inside it.
    He knew her question. Was Martin inside?
    And the answer was no .
    He didn’t want to tell her face to face because they’d have to agree there was nowhere else to look. And maybe if they never said it aloud, it wouldn’t be true.
    Tears distorted his image, but she would not look away.
    He continued his survey of the hillside, then dropped his arms and descended the damaged steps. Once he was mounted, the four men left Givet Faux without so much as a backward glance. As soon as they disappeared over the rise in the road, Blair numbly turned back to the keep. The smaller man slapped the larger one on the back, then the pair went inside.
    The rain returned, speaking to her in hushed whispers, intent on conveying so much, yet saying nothing. She could think of nothing better to do than listen. The small channel of water at her feet began to grow again and she felt it trickle against the side of her boot, but she couldn’t care enough to move.
    It may have been minutes, it may have been hours, but finally the numbness wore off and she forced herself to look away from the doors from which her brother would not emerge. Martin was not inside. The reunion she’d envisioned would not happen today. It was the same disappointment as yesterday. Nothing had changed.
    And yet, everything had changed.
    “This is our last hope,” came Ash’s deep whisper from the night before.
    “This was your last hope,” the rain mocked as it diluted the salt-water washing down her face.
    If the rain was right, if Martin was lost to her, she was a boat drifting at sea. No sail. No oar. Tied to nothing. Holding to nothing. . .
    Blair looked once more at the crumbling wall, saw again the black-clad figure of Ash, watched the slight move of his head from side to side. Only this time, she imagined him mouthing the words, “No hope.”
    She tried not to think too unkindly of him. She’d run out of hope herself before she’d stumbled upon the men in Reims. Who was she to judge?
    For the past few weeks, it was if she had been living off their faith and determination. They carried both around like giant pockets full of coins. She’d reached in, day after day, to take what she needed. But today, there was no clink of coin upon coin. No use of her asking for more.
    Gone.
    A wave of pain washed up inside her body and when it hit her chest, she crumbled to her knees and silently wailed her brother’s name.
    Martin!
    Martin!
    Why did he not wail back, to tell her where he was?
    Martin!
    She shook her head, pounded her fists on the wet mud, refused to believe he was dead. In her head she screamed her refusal to God and demanded He bring Martin back to her.
    A wave of dizziness washed over her. Delirium. The journey, the quest, had worn her to the bone. She needed sleep. If only she could sleep, tomorrow she could find her head and a direction to search. If she was but a drifting boat, with no Martin for an anchor, she had nothing else to do with her time but search. When she’d allowed herself such thoughts, she’d imagined that if all hope was lost, the searching would cease. But what else was there to do?
    She swallowed and forced down the self-pity that rose