Laird of Ballanclaire (20 page)

Constant dipped her head. “Yes, madame,” she answered.

Constant had been in Madame Hutchinson’s private parlor on several occasions, but the hall she had to traverse to get there had never looked longer. Nor had it ever looked so crowded. She felt like the eagerly awaited object of an executioner’s ax, walking past the twelve, very large, strangely dressed men lined up on one side of the hall. They were all attired in tightly fitted black jackets that sported large, embossed, golden buttons, while gold piping trimmed the sleeves and epaulets. A sash of red, white, and black plaid material was worn crosswise over each of their jackets, clasped with a large brooch at the shoulder. And beneath that, they wore what looked like short skirts. Not knee breeches. Not trousers. Skirts. They’d been fashioned from material in the same red, white, and black plaid pattern, and every man had a round, fringed, purselike object draped about his hips so it hung to his groin area.

Not one of them looked remotely feminine, however. They were massive, masculine, and rather uncivilized-looking. Every man had a long sword strapped to one side, and a plethora of wicked-looking knives tucked under his belt. Constant didn’t need to be told what these men were. She knew what she was looking at. Highlanders. From that part of Britain called Scotland.

Kam had told her a Highlander wasn’t remotely English-looking, but he hadn’t described how outlandish and impressive they appeared. Each man exuded strength and purpose. Altogether—without one sound uttered among them—the impression was one of solidity. Barely leashed might. Power. It was vaguely threatening. Intimidating. They wore large, feathered hats that further increased the impression of height and power. They all appeared nearly as tall as Kameron.

One of the men reached forward and knocked on Madame Hutchinson’s parlor door.

The door was opened inward by a man who appeared to be a servant fellow. He was dressed like the gentlemen in the hall, but he was smaller. Thinner. He was hatless and didn’t carry a sword. He bowed and gestured her in.

There were more men inside, making the ladies’ parlor look frilly, feminine, and worse than overcrowded. Constant forced her eyes to move slowly about the room, observing and noting each person. Six more men, nearly identical in size and attire as those in the hall, were backed against opposite walls, facing each other.

She got the significance. The large fellows were guards. All these men. They were there for protection and security. For Kameron.

Her eyes shifted to two older, bewigged gentlemen sitting in the center of the room in Madame Hutchinson’s finest chairs. One was immense. The other was quite thin. They both wore Highland attire in the same pattern and color as everyone else, but on these two men, it looked less masculine, and a lot less intimidating. A large portmanteau sat on the floor between them. It was open. Another servant fellow stood beside the window, looking at her with absolutely no expression. A man was silhouetted in the window.

That man was Kameron.

The instant Constant saw him the others might as well have been invisible. Kam had his back to her while he looked out the window at the harbor. He was wearing the same outfit as his guards, only on him the jacket seemed fashioned to highlight his trim waist and broad shoulders.

Kam didn’t have a sword strapped to his left side. He didn’t look to have any knives tucked in his belt, either. But he wore the skirt. Only his was entirely too revealing. Or something. It draped over his buttocks, showcasing the powerful muscles.

She couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. The skirt led her eye downward. She’d been right about his scars. He had several wide bands of darker-toned flesh striping both lower legs. If his leg had been broken it had set well, though. It looked fully healed. Healthy. And just as long and muscled as the other one. He wasn’t wearing the feathered hat. His hair was pulled back in a queue, the color contrasting sharply with his attire.

Constant moved her gaze upward to where he topped the window casement by a good half foot. She’d been mistaken earlier. There wasn’t a man anywhere in the boardinghouse to match him. He was just as immense and stirring and eye-catching as she’d guessed he’d be once he stood erect.

“Is she here?” he asked the window.

“Yes, my lord.”

The door shut behind her. Constant didn’t notice. She hadn’t even blinked since setting eyes on Kam. She watched him sigh, his shoulders and back rising, then falling. And then, he turned.

Golden-brown eyes devoured her. Constant’s eyes widened as the sensations she remembered hit every portion of her body. Then she was moving toward him without conscious volition. Kameron took two steps toward her, too, before they were both halted by the bewigged, portly man in the chair.

“Lord Ballanclaire!” the man said sharply.

Kameron stopped, Constant a second after him. She watched as he scrunched his eyes shut and swiveled back the way he’d come. Two steps took him back to the window.

“I canna’ say any of it,” Kameron said.

“No need. Torquil? Make yourself useful. Bring a chair for the lady, so we can converse civilly.”

Constant watched as the fellow who’d opened the door moved a chair out for her. She was grateful she only had to take three faltering steps before she could fall into it. She couldn’t move her eyes from Kameron’s back.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the barrister Iain Blair. Beside me is the barrister Clayton MacVale. We are the Duke of Ballanclaire’s representatives. We handle all the duke’s affairs. We are here today on a rather delicate matter, between yourself and the duke’s heir, Lord Kameron Geoffrey Gannett William Alistair Bennion Ballan of Clan Ballanclaire. Miss?”

Constant realized the large man had been speaking. She hadn’t heard much, however. She dropped her gaze to her lap and listened as there was a stir of reaction in the room.

“Well, I believe we can all attest we’ve reached the proper party, even without Lord Ballanclaire’s testimony to the fact. Are we agreed, Sir MacVale?”

The other gentleman spoke up. “Most assuredly, although it makes our chore this afternoon a bit more difficult.”

“Yes. Well . . .” The fat man cleared his throat. “There is nae better way than to be blunt about our business. We’ve been sent on behalf of the crowned head of the United Kingdom, India, and the American Colonies, King George the Third; at the request of the Duke and Laird of Clan Ballanclaire; and with the interest of the royal family of the country of Spain, to plead for an annulment of your marriage to Kameron Ballan.”

Constant lifted her head and her eyebrows and looked at them with the most innocent expression she could manage. Her heart was the only thing she couldn’t control. It felt like as though it was trying to launch right out of her breast.

“My marriage to whom?” she asked sweetly.

“Doona’ deny it, Constant. Please?”

Kameron’s whisper almost got to her. Constant felt the prickling along the backs of her eyes that heralded a reaction she wouldn’t be able to deny. She drew in a trembling breath, blinked long and slowly, and got the emotion back under control. She looked at the two gentlemen as evenly and controlled as possible. She set her jaw.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you gentlemen are talking about,” she answered in the long silence that followed.

Kameron made some sort of exclamation. The servant man near him was instantly at his side and Kameron waved him away. Constant did her best to ignore them. She was grateful her chair was sideways to the window. She didn’t think she could continue the pretense if Kameron was directly in her sight.

She watched with a detached feeling as the two barristers exchanged glances. She refused to let in any emotion. And if she could just hold to that measure of self-control, she’d get through this unscathed. She’d worry over the consequences later. After all, she’d survived the dreadful events of last year. She could survive this. She had to. She had Benjamin and Abigail to protect now, too.

The thin barrister, MacVale, pulled a large leather wallet from his jacket pocket. He opened it and pulled out several official-looking pieces of paper. The room was completely quiet as he unfolded one, reviewed it, and then started speaking.

“I have here a signed statement from the commander of the garrison. It reads that on the evening of October 24, 1771, in his official chambers, he observed a woman burn a signed, clergy-officiated, witnessed, and executed certificate of marriage between Kameron Ballan and C. Ridgely. He wasn’t certain of the wife’s first name because he hadn’t had time to read it thoroughly before it was destroyed. Would you like to verify?”

He held the commander’s statement out to her. Constant didn’t move. After several moments, he refolded it and pulled out another paper.

“Verra well. This is a certified copy of a document, on file at the magistrate’s office, stating that a marriage did take place on the twenty-fourth of October, in the year 1771, between Kameron Ballan, groom, and Constant Ridgely, wife. It is signed by several witnesses, none of whom can be verified at present. The names are fictitious. Due to the circumstances, I was not surprised.”

“There were no witnesses, then?” Constant couldn’t help the note of hope in her voice.

“I dinna’ say that. I said they could na’ be verified, at present. I’m fair certain, if I do some research, I’ll be able to locate each and every one of them. I believe charges would accompany my search. Such charges would lead to sentences, some to the gallows. Lord Ballanclaire is against pursuing that to a legal conclusion. I’ve abided his wishes for the moment. I can, of course, change my mind. Should I be forced to do so.”

Constant whitened. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t open her mouth. She was afraid of what might come out.

The thin man’s face softened.

“It will na’ be a difficult search, mistress. We already ken where to begin. We were there but three days past.”

“You . . . were?”

“Let me digress for a moment. Lord Ballanclaire has been finishing his recuperation at his ancestral home, BalClaire Castle near Inveraray. He arrived there mid-February. He was . . . severely injured. It took months of rehabilitation. He has periods of melancholy associated with occasional blurred vision in one eye, and he has yet to regain the full use of his right leg—”

“MacVale!” Kameron’s interruption startled everyone with its force. Constant jumped.

“My lord?”

“I will na’ have my condition mentioned again.”

Constant flicked her glance toward Kameron. She couldn’t help it. She loved him more than life itself. There wasn’t a way to hide it. Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked rapidly and bit the inside of her cheek to control her emotion. Kam was still staring out the window.

Constant turned back to the thin barrister fellow. She knew by the smile he gave her that he’d seen her response. Constant moved her gaze to her hands, folded in her lap. She longed to kick herself. She couldn’t pretend ignorance of Kameron if she gave away her feelings every time she looked at him!

“Verra good, my lord. I shall curb my tongue. Or make a valiant attempt to it. Where was I?”

“His Lordship’s stay at BalClaire,” the portly one supplied.

“Oh. Aye.”

The paper was folded and another one opened. He held it out to her. Constant heard his movements, but she didn’t dare look up from the contemplation of her hands.

“It seems that while Lord Ballanclaire was recuperating from his injuries—ahem. I mean, while he was visiting at the ancestral castle, rumors began circulating of a marriage that took place between a colonial woman and the heir to Ballanclaire. This missive started it, actually. It is a demand for monies in order to ensure that certain secrets stay secret. It was sent to BalClaire Castle from these colonies. It is signed by a fellow named Simpson. We visited with him earlier this week. He is regretful of the missive now. He is in the stockade, charged with something that is na’ blackmail but will carry the same penalty. He dinna’ receive any money.”

Constant remembered the adjutant fellow from the garrison. She felt sorry for him, and then set it aside. She needed every bit of sympathy for herself.

“Apparently, this Simpson learned of a secret marriage involving Lord Ballanclaire. He believed the duke would pay handsomely to keep the information hidden. That was an impossibility the moment Simpson put pen to paper. The fellow does na’ ken the first thing about espionage.”

“Espionage?” she repeated.

“It’s a newer word. For spying. You see, espionage is the duty Lord Ballanclaire assigned to himself when he arrived in the colonies a year past . . . last summer. He was na’ supposed to see active duty. He was na’ to put himself in harm’s way. He was actually sent here as a reprimand.”

“Reprimand?”

The barrister looked uncomfortable. The portly one answered her. His expression carried something akin to distaste, as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. She moved her gaze back to her hands.

“Lord Ballanclaire has a history of. . . ahem. Well, to put it delicately—dalliances. His past is littered with them. There was an uncomfortable scandal following one of his last uh . . . affairs. There were familial repercussions. Most unpleasant business. The lady involved was a peeress, her rank of some stature at court. She wanted to sue for divorce in order to wed His Lordship. That is an impossibility. So, the duke sent his son and heir out here to keep him out of the public eye, so to speak. He was na’ sent to practice covert operations or put himself in danger. He assumed that mission himself. The commander of the garrison allowed it. I believe the reason is due to His Lordship’s personality. He can be rather . . . uh . . .
persuasive
is a good word, nae?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as if they expected her to either disclaim or agree. Constant watched her hands and kept silent. No one made a sound. The man finally started talking again.

“We doona’ hold the commander at fault. The duke is of a differing opinion, however. His Grace holds the man completely responsible for what happened. We canna’ change his mind. His son was na’ sent here to put his life in danger. He was na’ here to prey on unsuspecting young women. The duke believes the commander should have exerted more control over the heir to a dukedom. There will be repercussions, however they doona’ concern us at the moment.”

Kameron made another sound. Constant moved her gaze in his direction, even as she realized it for the mistake it was. He was holding himself rigid, his hands in fists at his sides. Her eyes lingered over his form, remembering their days in the loft. She returned her gaze to her lap.

“Sir Blair, if you would allow me to interject here?”

“Of course. Of course. Speak up.”

The thin man with the compassionate voice cleared his throat. Constant pulled in a breath and looked up and across at him. He smiled.

“Regardless of reason or fault, the facts are that Lord Ballanclaire did spend a good span of time in these colonies last year. He was verra nearly killed. He was rumored to have wed a colonist. The governor is being held liable on all accounts and is expected to make a full report to the House of Lords. We have been sent to . . . uh, handle the situation.”

“I still don’t understand why you are telling me any of this,” Constant said, although her voice wavered.
The governor?

The barrister reached a finger beneath his collar and pulled on it.

“If such a marriage took place, it has far-reaching diplomatic consequences. Lord Ballanclaire canna’ wed. He was betrothed at birth to the Princess Althea, youngest daughter of Philip the Fifth of Spain. The betrothal carries the signatures of King Ferdinand the Sixth and our late monarch, King George the Second. It was a gesture of goodwill atween our two countries. You see . . . the man you know as Kameron Ballan is na’ simply a peer. His mother is a member of the House of Hanover on her mother’s side and the Oldenburg dynasty of Norway on her father’s. Kameron’s grandfather was a son of King Frederick the Fourth’s second morganatic and polygamous marriage, to Anne Sophie Revent-low in 1712. This does nullify Kameron’s claim to either throne, but it does na’ alter marriage alliances.”

Constant was afraid of the tingling sensation about her nose and mouth. She’d dealt with it before. Never like this. It wasn’t possible. She’d heard it wrong. Kameron was
royalty
? Was that what she’d just heard? She parted her lips and forced shallow quick breaths through them, and within moments the prickling receded. She glanced toward Kam again. He wasn’t looking at her. She returned her attention to the lawyers.

The portly barrister cleared his throat again. He seemed to enjoy her discomfiture. Constant decided she didn’t like him very much. She waited. The thin barrister, MacVale, spoke again.

“Although it was to have taken place a decade past, there was nae marriage performed once Lord Ballanclaire reached marriageable age. This was nae fault of ours. It is strictly due to Princess Althea’s weak constitution. We receive quarterly reports on her condition. They are na’ encouraging. The princess is nearly forty, and to all purposes, a bed-bound invalid. That does na’ nullify the betrothal, however. According to the current Spanish monarch, King Charles the Third, it is but a temporary setback. Spain needs this alliance.”

“I . . . see,” she whispered. She did, too. Kameron had said he couldn’t offer her a future. He’d meant it. And she’d believed him, although nothing could have prepared her for this.

“So. To the matter at hand. Barrister Blair and myself are here at the behest of the Duke of Ballanclaire. We were to accompany his son to the colonies, locate any possible spouse, and dissolve any marriage that might have taken place. We were to spend whatever sum necessary to make certain of it. We traveled the moment Lord Ballanclaire recovered sufficiently from his injuries to withstand the rigors of such a journey.”

“MacVale!” Kameron spat the man’s name.

To Constant’s surprise, the thin barrister seemed to wink at her before pulling on his collar again. “Pray forgive me, my lord. I forgot.”

Kameron turned his head and looked across at them, looking first at MacVale and then moving that golden gaze to her. It scorched the moment her eyes met his. And then it caressed. Her heart stuttered. Her spirit soared. While a high-pitched note grew so loud in her ears she couldn’t hear him speaking at first.

“. . . state my wishes again. I will na’ have my infirmities mentioned. I will na’ tolerate pity. You ken?”

He turned back to the window.

Pity?
Was the man crazed? Every portion of her yearned for him, and he called it pity?

“His Lordship was pronounced healthy enough—I mean, he was prepared to travel, just this August. We left forthwith. We docked eight days ago. We proceeded to try to locate you. We traveled to the Ridgely farm.”

“The Ridgely farm?” Constant echoed, with what she hoped was an innocent tone.

The thin barrister smiled slightly. The portly one narrowed his eyes. Constant kept her eyes on them, although from the corner of her eye she saw the man at the window spinning to face them.

“You heard correctly. The Ridgely farm. We were led to believe it was your home. We dinna’ ken then that you were unwelcome there following your marriage. We were so informed, however. It was Lord Ballanclaire who came up with the means to locate you. We simply had to look for the establishment serving the best victuals. And found a Widow Ballan. You.”

Her culinary skills had been her undoing. Constant could feel Kameron’s agitation. She was leery of even glancing in his direction. She stood and regarded both barristers slowly and carefully, and then she smiled.

“This has been a very interesting and long story, gentlemen, but I really fail to see where it pertains to me. I have a supper to get on. I usually expect about fifty hungry diners to my table. Sometimes there are more, and I—”

“Will you cease denying it, Constant? I canna’ take much more of this. You doona’ ken!”

The pain in Kam’s voice almost broke through her resolve. Constant had to swallow around the immediate dryness in her throat.

“Lord Ballanclaire! You are to remain silent throughout the proceedings!”

The portly barrister’s order was accompanied by all six of the guards stepping away from the walls. She narrowed her eyes. It seemed the guards weren’t there to protect Kameron, after all. They were there to make certain he did what was required of him.

She sat back down.

“What is it you wish of me, gentlemen?” she asked finally, in a voice they had to strain to hear.

“Are you the woman that wed with Lord Ballanclaire?” the portly one asked.

She nodded.

“I’m afraid I can’t hear your answer,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

He opened the portmanteau at their feet and pulled out a flat leather pouch. He clicked his fingers and the servant named Torquil walked past to hand the lawyer an ink pot and a quill. Constant watched as the servant uncorked the ink pot. He didn’t look her way.

“I will be writing down your statement. You will need to verify it before signing. I’ll then read it to you. You can use an X for your signature. We will then witness it.”