Laird of Ballanclaire (19 page)

“You’ll have to forgive me, mistress. It’s not often a woman claims to be Lord Ballanclaire’s wife. His mistress? Yes. His current fancy? Yes. His fiancée? Yes, even that. I’ve heard it all. But his wife? Oh, please. That is too enjoyable.”

“I only know him as Kameron,” Constant said quietly and watched his eyebrows rise.

“So you’ve already informed us. Kameron, eh?”

She nodded.

“Well, I’ll have to advise you, Lord Ballanclaire is not a man who’d up and marry the local milkmaid. He has women clamoring about him for the chance of a smile. He would not select a local wench of indeterminate origins and common appearance. Trust me. I know the man. I know the family. Impossible. And yet, you sit there expecting me to believe he wed with you?”

She nodded again.

“Good Lord. I believe you’re serious.”

“I have proof,” she answered.

His eyes went wide and he paled visibly.

“Adjutant Simpson?”

The commander’s voice was a bit higher as he spoke the name. Constant lifted her brows slightly.

“Sir?”

“Leave us. Now. Both of you.”

As the door clicked shut, Constant didn’t take her eyes off the commander. He looked nervous now. Moisture coated his face, reflecting light from his fire. He pulled on his collar more than once. It was amazing what his discomfiture did to her confidence. Her hands weren’t chilled or weak, and her legs felt as sturdy as always.

“You say you have proof?”

“I have a wedding license. He signed it. I signed it. It was witnessed.”

“Oh, dearest God! I’ll lose my commission. How could he do such a thing?”

“He was about to be hanged. I don’t think he thought much beyond surviving that, sir.”

“You threatened him?”

It was Constant’s turn to laugh. She put a hand to her mouth to stanch it. “Do I look capable of threatening anyone, sir?”

“Good Lord! Do you know what you’re saying? The Duke of Ballanclaire’s only son and heir can’t be wed to a wench from the backwoods of the colonies! I’ll be in disgrace! I’ll lose my commission! I’ll never overcome this. Not only do I lose my most influential patron’s heir and get him back within an inch of his life, but I’ve disgraced the entire lineage of Clan Ballanclaire in the process! Oh my God! He can’t be tied to a common milkmaid! He can’t. I’ll be a laughingstock!”

Constant watched his outburst without one bit of emotion showing. She kept the shock inside. She didn’t know much about titles and such, but these revelations sounded even more impressive than before. She didn’t know how to answer or what to say. The silence following his words stretched an uncomfortable length. She waited.

“Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

“I’m not a milkmaid,” she said calmly.

He swore worse than Kameron ever had, and then he raked hands through what had been regimentally perfect, groomed hair. Constant watched as every strand of it looked to be standing on end. He stopped finally, took several deep breaths, and glared at her. Constant tensed.

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” he asked.

“Just about everyone in your garrison,” she replied. She didn’t know if it was true, but she knew evil intent when she saw it. She wondered how Kameron managed to conquer fear. He’d been so stoic and calm even with a noose about his neck. She really wished she knew how he managed it. She’d copy it.

“What do you want?” He smoothed his hair back into a semblance of order as he asked it. Constant looked at him.

“Well? How much? What denomination? What bank? Speak up.”

“How much do I want for what?” she asked.

“For that license. Do you have it on—”

“No.”

Her interruption stopped his rise from his chair. He sank back down with a heavy sigh. “This is blackmail, you know,” he said.

“I haven’t asked for a thing. Nor would I take it. That’s hardly blackmail.”

“Then why are you here, camping at my door?”

“I came with my . . . husband.” She faltered on the title. It sounded as strange to her ears as it probably did to his. “I want to see him. I want him to know I’m here.”

“Impossible. Your kind nearly killed him.”

Her kind?
She repeated it to herself in a state of semi-shock.

“And you expect me to give you another chance?”

“But, I would never hurt him. I—I love him,” she replied finally.

“Well, join the legions of women with that affliction. I hardly care. I’m not allowing you to see him. I’m not letting anyone to see him. Not until he’s recuperated. I have a career at stake.”

“You’re a selfish man,” she answered finally.

“Every commissioned officer is. Especially one whose career is supported by the Duke of Ballanclaire’s patronage. If he withdraws it, I’m finished. You don’t know how it works, do you? Why do I even ask? Of course you don’t. You’re nothing but a common wench. A pretty one, but nothing extraordinary. Tell me something, would you?”

“That depends on what it is,” she answered.

“Why you?”

“Why me . . . what?”

“Why did he pick you? Women have tried entrapping Lord Ballanclaire since he left the nursery. And yet here you sit. It’s insupportable. I don’t know what he sees in you. I certainly can’t see anything remarkable.”

She’d known Kameron’s words had been fantasy. The rug-selling story. Her turquoise eyes. Her lashes. Her eyes filled with tears again. Despite everything.

“Oh, bother. You are an emotional sort, aren’t you? That’s another surprise. Ballan can’t abide scenes. That’s why he gave off his attendance on the Marchioness of Barclay. She wept and cried and tried to hold him, and he walked out on her, anyway. It was that incident that got him assigned out here to my regiment. Damn him, anyway.”

“I don’t think I wish to hear much more,” she said.

“Why not? Don’t you want to know of this man you’ve coerced into marriage? Obviously it was a lightning-swift courtship, probably held at the end of a musket. Perhaps that was it. You’ve a bountiful shape. Perhaps that was what intrigued, and then entrapped, Lord Ballanclaire. Well? Was it?”

She didn’t so much as breathe. The space about her heart pained too much. “I don’t think . . . you’ve listened to a thing I’ve said, sir.”

“Of course I have. I just have too many problems with all of it. Starting with you. What am I to do about you?”

“If you’ll see to my safe passage from your fort, I’d like to leave.”

“Oh no. I can’t allow that. I lost Lord Ballanclaire for nigh a sennight. If I lose the woman claiming to be his little colonial wife, I might as well commit suicide for the effect it will have on my career.”

“You’re not losing me. I’m leaving of my own accord. Kameron won’t even need to know. I said we’d married. I didn’t say we wanted to. I did it to save him. Just as I told you.”

He rolled the reply through his lips. She guessed what it was. Disbelief and suspicion. And perhaps a touch of distaste. Constant stood and pulled the marriage license out of her bodice. She unfolded the document, pressed it flat against her thigh to iron out the wrinkles, and then held it out to him. She watched as he read it. Then she turned and walked over to his fire.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Burning the proof.”

Constant dropped it atop the log. Both of them watched it curl and turn brown, then catch fire. A few moments later, it was gone.

“Why did you just do that?”

He had a stunned expression on his face. She told herself she didn’t care, and then worked at making it true.

“I already told you why. I love him. It’s true. It will always be true. I didn’t coerce anything. I didn’t force anything. I saved him. And now, I’ll leave. Could you arrange a safe escort from your fort now? Please?”

And maybe, if she was extremely lucky, she’d make it that far before the uncontrollable sobs overtook her again. Maybe.

October was absolutely beautiful this year. Constant looked out the window of her chamber on the bounty of red, gold, and dark green leaves still covering most of the tree limbs. It had been a long, extended summer. It had been hot. Very hot. The cool temperatures of fall were a blessing after such heat.

And she hated every moment of it.

October carried with it memories, and memories carried agony. Constant held Abigail to her breast and tried to hold in her tears. The baby wriggled in her arms, but she always did. Her twin, Benjamin, was the opposite. He liked being held and coddled and crooned to. Constant looked to where Benjamin was sleeping, and smiled.

Memories were even harder to endure when looking at her babies every day. Benjamin and Abigail were not only twins, but they both looked exactly like their father, from the tufts of white-blond hair atop their heads to their golden-brown eyes.

Constant closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe slowly and carefully through a shudder that heralded an onslaught of weeping, and then she managed to stifle it. She felt as though she’d spent an entire lifetime of tears already. Her children didn’t need to see more of them. She put Abigail’s wriggling form next to her brother and watched as the tot tried to roll over to get nearer her sibling.

Constant smiled again, and then she dropped her head into her hands and gave in to the sobs.

As Widow Ballan, such displays of emotion weren’t considered strange. In fact, she was usually smothered with hugs from her employer whenever emotion overwhelmed her and she didn’t get to her chamber quickly enough. At times like that, all Constant could do was hold on to the other woman and sob.

She breathed deeply, ending the storm of tears for the moment, and wiped quickly at her face. She couldn’t give in to grief. Not yet. Maybe later. As her breath calmed and her shudders subsided, Constant said a prayer of thanks and opened her eyes.

She looked down at her children, brushed a finger across first Benjamin’s wisps of white-blond hair, and then his sister’s. They had been her salvation. She knew that much.

It hadn’t taken long after she’d left the fort to find employment as a cook, for Madame Hutchinson’s boardinghouse needed one desperately. There had almost been a riot at the steps when she’d chanced down this street, one of the boarders threatening a fire to match the one left in his innards by the resident cook.

Constant had simply gone up to the kind-faced, plump woman who’d been wringing her hands, and asked if she could prepare an evening supper to help out. And she’d found her avocation.

That had taken care of room and board. Nothing could be done about her severe heartache, though, not until she realized she was carrying Kameron’s baby. That was what kept her from finding solace beneath the ocean waves she could see and smell from the boardinghouse steps.

There came a knock on her door. “Widow Ballan?”

Constant turned from the contemplation of her babies. Abigail had found the spot she usually occupied, spooned against her sleeping brother. It wouldn’t be long before Abigail joined him in slumber. That was helpful, since their mother was their only source of food, and she wasn’t going to be available to them for at least two hours.

Two hours?
What had possessed her to think she could be away from them for any amount of time, let alone two hours?

“I’ve come to watch the babes. Master Dimple waits below.”

Constant checked her image in the mirror. What Kameron had considered turquoise was a stormy blue color today and her weeping had given her eyelashes a spiked look. Constant brushed at them. She smoothed down the skirts of her Sunday best dress. It wasn’t Sunday, but she owned only three dresses. The other two were serviceable and plain and not at all what one should wear when a man came courting.

Her heart quailed as she reached for the doorknob. She almost turned back. A man was courting her.
Her?
As if she had value? Constant caught the agony before it became a sob, picked up her shawl, and opened the door. She smiled at Martha, one of Madame Hutchinson’s maids.

She could cry later, when there wasn’t anyone to witness it except her babies.

“You look lovely, Widow Ballan.” Martha bobbed in greeting. “That Master Dimple is a lucky fellow, I would say.”

“Thank you. They’ve been fed and changed. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“Those two are never trouble, mistress. They’re a joy. Why, one has only to look at such beautiful babes to know what angels look like.”

Of course Kameron’s offspring would be beautiful enough to make everyone, from the fruit vendors to Madame Hutchinson’s society guests, gape with surprise. It was obvious, too, that they’d inherited such beauty from their sire. It certainly hadn’t come from the wren-like looks of their mother. Any fool could see that much, although Adam Dimple’s reaction when they’d met last week gave Constant pause. That’s why she’d actually agreed to accompany him on a stroll this afternoon. He’d looked at her with such a thunderstruck expression that more than one diner in Madame Hutchinson’s boardinghouse had remarked on it.

Then there was her cooking. That talent had left him speechless, according to Madame Hutchinson.

Constant tried to smooth the front of her gown. It didn’t help much. Her figure had always been ample. Now that she was feeding twins, it was impossible to hide the size of her bosom. She crossed the shawl in front of her bodice and slouched forward a bit. Kameron had once told her to find a farmer to wed. He’d advised her to look for a big, strong, strapping fellow.

Well, Adam was big. He was strapping. He was a farmer.

Constant stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down. Adam Dimple had a large physique, although he wasn’t as tall as she suspected Kameron was. Adam was muscled, too. He wasn’t as handsome as Kameron, but it would be an impossibility of nature to contrive for more than one male with such attributes to enter her sphere. Adam had nice, gray eyes, and owned a bit of prime acreage. He was also pleasant to look at. Madame Hutchinson had literally cooed at him when she introduced them.

Constant started down the steps. Adam Dimple was also attired in his Sunday best, if the shine to the threads at his shoulders was any indication. That suit had seen a lot of wear. It was serviceable, fit him well, and had a few good years left, by her estimation. The man knew quality when he saw it and didn’t mind paying the price. Both were excellent traits in a husband.

Her skirts swished out with every step, curving and shadowing the hues from light green to a deep forest color. Constant had fallen in love with the beautiful fabric the moment she saw it at the mercantile shop. She hadn’t minded paying the price.

She reached the bottom of the steps and moved toward her caller.

“Good day to you, Master Dimple.”

She held out her hand to him and put a welcoming smile in place as he swiveled toward her. She’d forgotten about the errant lock of light brown hair that fell across his forehead occasionally. She watched as he brushed it back atop his head. Then his eyes widened and she watched him take several deep breaths. She wondered what was wrong with him.

“You look . . . uh . . . words fail me, Widow Ballan.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Constant replied, reaching his side and smiling up at him.

She watched his gray eyes drop to her mouth, then to her bodice, and then back to her eyes. He licked his lips.

“You’re very . . . uh . . . I’ve never seen you—beautiful,” he stammered.

Constant smiled. Beautiful? Her? The man had been out in the sun too long. “Why, thank you, Master Dimple. You are looking very fine yourself.”

“Please. Can I get you to call me Adam?”

“Why, Master Dimple, we barely know—”

“Forgive me. I was rushing you.”

He looked away. Constant caught her smile. He reminded her a bit of her brother, Henry, whenever he was caught in some mischief.

“I’ll be proud to call you Adam,” she said, “and you must call me Constance.”

“Your name is Constance? That’s uh . . . beautiful, too.”

Constant put her hand on his upper arm for a moment and then lifted it away. The touch didn’t feel right. She looked at her own fingers with surprise. Touching the fabric on another man’s suit didn’t feel right? That wasn’t a fortuitous sign.

She looked back up at him. Adam cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we’d best begin. Which way do you wish to proceed?”

He walked across Madame Hutchinson’s lower parlor in six steps, reaching the door to hold it open for her. The outdoors beckoned to her. Toyed. Teased. She hadn’t stepped beyond the boardinghouse property for almost a year. It was safer that way. With sentiment running as heavily as it did against the British, and with the two newspaper articles that Thomas Esterbrook had published about a colonial miss and her illicit turncoat lover, it had simply been safer to stay inside and keep busy with the twins and her cooking.

Adam Dimple held out his arm. Constant swallowed before reaching out to place her hand in the crook of his arm. It still didn’t feel right. She wondered if that would ever change.

The air was breezy and crisp. Well below them Constant could see a myriad of ships clogging the harbor. The wooden sidewalk beneath them echoed with Adam’s steps. Constant was pleased to note that her footsteps made little sound, which she attributed to losing weight after the birth of her twins.

There were loud voices coming from the end of the street. Adam swiveled them around and started back up the other side.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A bit of unpleasantness. There’s always a bit of it whenever the locals get a pint too many in them. Pay them no mind.”

“But those were . . . English soldiers,” Constant continued.

“Of course. Nothing riles up our boys more than the sight of a redcoat. That’s all there is to it. A few tavern boys exchanging words with a small regiment. Ever since the massacre two years back, we’re more careful. Our boys aren’t stupid. The redcoats carry bayonets and muskets and have full authority to use them. And when they do, we already know they suffer no consequences.”

“What if someone gets hurt again?”

“I asked you to pay it no mind. Come. The view from the hill is extraordinary this time of year. You can see all of Boston Harbor. You’re lucky to live in such a prime piece of real estate.”

“I don’t have much of a view from the kitchens, Adam,” Constant replied.

“Well, we should do something about that. A woman with your beauty should have large windows.”

Constant blushed. She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right.

“We probably shouldn’t walk far. I’ve got bread rising, and you know how I feel about my bread.”

“I know. I heard talk of it before I met you. It’s said a man truly can live on Widow Ballan’s bread alone. I heard it. I just didn’t believe it until I tasted it.”

Constant’s blush deepened. They were approaching the boardinghouse again. Mistress Hutchinson had had it painted over the summer, in a pale, sunny yellow color. It made it look even more expansive and pleasant.

“One more street?” Adam asked.

“Very well.”

Constant had barely got the words out when three coaches turned onto the street, and a fourth one blocked that end. Although they were a nondescript black, there was no disguising the richness of them, or the outlandish looks of the outriders. Her heart started beating quicker.

“Well, it appears someone on Twelfth Street is going to have visitors. I hope they don’t intend to rent rooms with Madame Hutchinson. That would be most unpleasant, wouldn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?” Constant asked.

“Because she doesn’t abide anything British anymore, just as it should be. No good patriot woman should.”

“Could we speak of something else?” Constant asked quietly.

He straightened beside her. “Oh. Forgive me. Do you have royalist leanings, Miss Constance?”

“It’s not that. I find all this talk of sedition and fighting unsettling. I’ve got young babies to care for and a supper to put on. I don’t have any leanings further than . . .”

Her voice dribbled to a stop. There wasn’t anything she could do about it. Two of the coaches had stopped in front of the yellow boardinghouse on Twelfth Street, and Adam and Constant watched as the last one drove past them to turn at this end of the street, blocking it as well.

“This is starting to look positively dastardly, Constance. Come. Madame Hutchinson may need our assist.”

A man stepped from the coach, sending a shock through her entire system. Constant turned her face quickly.

It is Kameron. Please, God . . . no.
But even as she prayed, she knew it wouldn’t change anything. It couldn’t be anyone else. His height and his white-blond hair were unmistakable.

“Those fellows don’t look English. Still, it doesn’t look good. I hope Madame Hutchinson isn’t in some sort of trouble.”

Constant was trembling. She couldn’t take one step, let alone reach the house. She tightened every muscle under her control. She checked her breathing. She did anything she could to avert the shudders that were overtaking her.

“Come along, Constance. We’d best reach Mistress Hutchinson. This doesn’t look like a social call. Hurry.”

Constant was amazed her feet actually obeyed and started moving with him. Adam wasn’t strolling sedately anymore. He held her hand against his side and strode purposefully toward the boardinghouse. Constant skipped along beside him to keep up with his long strides.

Madame Hutchinson met them in the front foyer. She had her arms crossed and a stern look on her face. It wasn’t directed at Adam. Constant swallowed.

“
Widow
Ballan? There are some gentlemen here to see you. I have placed them in my private parlor. You may attend them there. And when you have concluded your business, I will be speaking with you.”