Laird of Ballanclaire (29 page)

It took a certain talent to expect such service, and even more to ignore it as it was given. The old Constant would have been overheated with blushes, and probably in tears at the attention. The princess Althea was unaffected by it and stood, coolly appraising all those in the room as they started moving to one side to form an orderly receiving line.

The duke stopped at the first chair, the duchess behind him, her smile looking pleasant and genuine. It was false. Anyone who met her eyes would know it. She had the same golden-brown eyes that Kameron was blessed with, but hers were as hard as the egg-shaped diamond at Constant’s throat. It was obvious Constant was going to be on the receiving end of her displeasure, along with the man at her side.

Constant almost felt sorry for him.

“You have outdone yourself with your ineptitude, Alistair,” the duchess hissed as she stepped before her husband, her face a mask of pleasantry.

“I doona’ believe you have permission to use my first name, Your Grace,” he replied easily.

“I’ll use whichever name to call you and at whatever time I wish, although the one that comes to mind is impossible to voice.”

“As always, your bonny face hides a heart of stone. I sincerely hope you realize you are being overheard, and consequently a judgment of your character is being undertaken. Oh. I forgot. As you have nae character to start with, it canna’ be ascertained one way or the other, now can it?” he replied.

Constant sucked in on her cheeks. She wouldn’t need to expend any pity on His Grace anytime soon. He sounded well equipped to hold his own in a battle of wits with his wife.

“There’s no one near enough to overhear. And look. You’re inviting comment with the quantity and placement of chairs. You’re losing your touch, old man.”

“The princess has ears,” he replied.

“Her? Oh. Please. She’s a simpleton with bad hearing and slower wits. Rather on the same lines as you and your clan. Kameron is rather lucky to be spared any contact. I rather envy him that.”

“By your words, may I hope you’ll take up a reclusive life, as well? Why, if you’d agree, I’d wall you into Haverly tomorrow. Pray agree. It would be worth the cost of a stonemason.”

“Sir San Simeon?” Constant spoke up, using her high-pitched voice to call to the interpreter standing behind her chair. “What is it my husband’s relatives are saying?”

He cleared his throat. “It isn’t for your ears, Your Highness,” he replied in Spanish.

“I wish to know what they say.”

“They are greeting each other,” he said. “Exchanging pleasantries. Her Grace asked of his health, and he asks of hers.”

“Oh,” Constant replied. She really enjoyed Sir San Simeon. He had a dry humor and usually interpreted with an added bit of uncanny wit. He wasn’t a party to The Secret. Few were. The less who knew, the better. Supposedly that was another of Kameron’s rules for lying. It was a good one.

“You need to move on. You’re causing comment, gaining stares, delaying the line, and that will delay the dancing and the banquet. All of which I will be deducting from your allowance.”

Constant’s eyebrows rose.
Dukes’ wives get an allowance?
She hadn’t known that.

“As it’s my dowry paying for most, if not all, of this, I would hope you’d have ceased that nonsense by now,” she replied.

“Dowries are in payment for losing one’s freedom. Yours was large, I agree. Na’ large enough for what I lost, I’m afraid. Move down and cease bickering in front of the princess.”

“I already told you she has no wits, and she’s woefully inadequate at the English language. Aside from which, where am I supposed to stand? Before which seat?”

“End chair. And I will na’ command it again,” he answered.

Her perfectly groomed brows rose as she shifted to stand before Constant, portraying what looked like a loving greeting. Constant returned the smile as icily as it was given as the duchess moved forward to kiss the air beside her daughter-in-law’s cheek. Constant’s smile was a wasted gesture. The duchess wasn’t looking at her. She was still hissing words at her husband.

“You leave a chair vacant, they’ll talk. I’ll take this one.” She stood in front of the chair on Constant’s other side and smoothed her skirts.

“You’ll take the end and cease delaying, or you’ll raise more than eyebrows when my son arrives.”

Constant gasped, avoiding detection by the duchess’s own gasp. Constant concentrated on her hands, twisting them together. She probably shouldn’t have worn so many rings.

“Kameron is attending this eve? Now?
Here?
”

The duchess’s voice rose slightly with each word. Constant noticed that she had shifted slightly, however, standing in front of the last chair.

“Of course here. This is BalClaire Castle, the ancestral seat of the Ballanclaire clan. He’ll inherit the lands, the titles, and be chieftain one day. Why would na’ he attend?”

“Because he hasn’t attended a damn thing for over two years now, and you know it.”

“Careful, dear . . . such language. We’re about to be presented as a family, and you use profanity. What will our new daughter-in-law think?”

“I already told you, she can’t speak the language, and she doesn’t have any answers even if she knew what we were saying. She’s dipped in everything Spanish and you know what that signifies.”

“She’s related to the ruling house of France.”

“Not closely enough, I’m afraid. I’ve kept her company for weeks now, and I’m repulsed by all of it. I shudder to think it through. Look for yourself. She’s dense, unattractive, dark, sweaty, inbred, and ill-educated. If she weren’t a princess, I’d have walked by her without even tossing a farthing her way.”

Constant’s eyes widened and then narrowed. She watched her own fingers wriggling, and kept from making a fist by sheer willpower.

“I think she’s verra attractive. I canna’ think of a man that would na’. That is probably your prime complaint. And perhaps her unlined appearance. For a woman near in age to you, she has remarkably clear and unblemished skin. You should ask her secret.”

“She’s been locked away in a tower for decades. No one saw her. She didn’t see anyone. A fool could tell that’s the secret to her appearance.”

“You should na’ tempt me,” the duke replied.

Constant’s lips twitched. “What is it they say?” she asked Sir San Simeon.

“They speak of your clear and unblemished skin. The beauty of your appearance. The duchess wishes your secret to unlined skin.”

“Oh.” Constant looked over at the duchess and beamed a smile at her. “Please tell her it is a facial paste made of egg yolk mixed with heavy cream. The heaviest. Leave it on through the night. Every night. That is what it is. Tell her. Thank her.” Constant waited while the interpreter apprised the woman of her recipe. The duchess set her chin and didn’t say anything. Charity had once tried it. She’d awakened with blemishes from her forehead to her throat, and they had kept erupting even after she’d tossed the concoction.

When the interpreter had finished, the duchess glanced sidelong at Constant and the duke. Her look contained nothing but malice. Constant kept a vacant expression on her face. She didn’t know what the duke had on his.

“You did that on purpose, Alistair. I’ll remember it,” she finally said.

“Talk to me after you’ve tried it. Besides, she’s na’ going to be your problem much longer, is she?”

“She’s journeying to Pitcairn Tower next. I can’t stop her. She wants to be with her husband. She doesn’t seem to realize that when he doesn’t come it’s because he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want anything to do with her. I can’t reason with him. Nobody can. He doesn’t care what society thinks. He’s a widower. In mourning. I tried to tell the princess of it, but she just doesn’t take the hint.”

“It must be a woman thing then, for I doona’ want you, either, and yet here you are,” he replied.

Constant caught her reaction to that, turning it into a cough that she hid behind her hand. It only worked because Sir San Simeon was also coughing.

“Well, Your Grace, we’re about to greet our first guests, and with a vacant chair between us. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Doona’ fash yourself. He’ll be here,” the duke replied.

“What makes you so certain?”

“I ken the proper persuasion to use.”

“You can’t use your usual barbaric means of control. I will not tolerate having him bound and dragged in here. That would be too scandalous. I will disclaim you if you try. Surely you realize that.”

“He’ll be here. He’ll be in proper dress, and he’ll be on his best behavior. I guarantee it.”

“How?”

“I took his twins. I have them here now. How else?”

Constant had to squelch the desire to hit them. Both of them. It wasn’t easy. She wadded her hands into fists so tight the rings cut her flesh, while the duchess trilled what was probably a laugh. Constant gulped the anger to the bottom of her belly, where it sat, threatening to make her ill.

“I thought you dinna’ allow children into the castle,” the duchess finally answered.

“Kameron believes so, too. Very astute of you, although I’ll na’ be admitting that again. Aside from which, you left me little choice—with our daughter-in-law, Princess Althea, bringing a brat she favors. Why dinna’ you tell me she had a godchild, a wet nurse, and assorted attendants with her?”

“Because you never asked,” the duchess replied.

Then, everything stilled. All conversations ceased. Constant knew why: Kameron had arrived. She didn’t have to have it pointed out to her. She
knew
. She lifted her head, narrowed her eyes at the haze of smoke, and saw him.

It was Kameron, all right. He moved rapidly toward them, limping slightly with every other step. He was surrounded by men close to him in size. None of them looked ready to attend a fest. Of any kind. They looked road weary, mud spattered, wet, and ready for battle. It was obvious even in the dimly lit, smoke-hazed room. Swords held ready in their hands, they came to a clanking halt directly in front of the dais. She was three steps up from the floor and exactly level with him. Exactly. Constant swayed for the slightest moment. Her lips slipped open to gasp one breath after the other. She was actually amazed she wasn’t swooning.

The high-pitched note she hadn’t heard in over a year was back, too, overriding just about everything. She could sense the crowd, watching. Waiting. Silent. Kameron lowered his head, speared the duke with a malevolent look that had Constant even more breathless, and then sneered.

“Good evening, son.” The duke spoke up, the sound loud. Abrasive. Taunting.

“Where are they?” Kameron asked in a tight voice. “I’ve checked the nursery, and aside from a newly birthed brat, there is nae sign of my children. I repeat myself, and I will only do it once more. Where are they?”

“Where you will na’ find them easily, of course. Allow me to present your wife, the Princess Althea—”

“You’ll na’ tell me?” Kameron interrupted him.

“Give me three hours of your presence, Kameron. I’ll have them delivered back to you. You’ve my word.”

“You never keep your promises to me, sir,” Kameron replied. “If I give in to you now, it will be but the first time you appropriate them. My children are na’ pawns for your use! They are flesh and blood and beloved beyond measure. I will na’ tolerate this! Na’ for one more minute.” He turned his head to address his men. “Athelrod? Take your men and search the grounds and outbuildings. Greggor? The towers. Zeke? Room by room. Chamber search.”

The three men swiveled and jogged as they left, the clank of weaponry fading into stillness. The remaining four flanked Kameron, two on either side. All of them focused directly on the man to Constant’s left.

“Who are these men?” the duke asked.

“My honor guard.”

“Your allowance was halved last year. How can you support an honor guard?”

“There are some things even your silver canna’ buy, Your Grace. Trust. Honor. Duty. Integrity. Heart.”

His words gave Constant an absolute thrill, but the duke was angered. Curt. Gruff-voiced. She had chills for a different reason as he spoke.

“You wish your children returned, Kameron? Verra well. Here are the conditions. Take your place beside your new wife and greet our guests. Three hours hence I’ll see you reunited with your brats. Three hours. That is na’ too much to ask.”

“I’ve ceased being at your beck and call, sir. You knew it when I returned with my children . . . and without their mother. I made it clear. I’m warning you for the last time. If you doona’ tell me where to find Abigail and Benjamin, when I do find them I will leave the country with them and never return. There may be a new laird for Clan Ballanclaire, but it will na’ come from your line. I ask for the last time. Where are my children?”

His voice broke more than once. Constant had to look away for a moment. He was blurry with the tears she was unable to stifle—and she wasn’t even supposed to know what he was saying!

“You make a scene without reason. I’m na’ requiring much. Three hours at your new wife’s side. That’s all. They are safe. I’ll never use them again. You’ve my word. Now, cease this, and give me three hours.”

In reply, Kameron spun on his heel.

“Kameron.”

Constant quickly said the name, giving it the slightest resemblance to how she used to say it. She sensed everyone staring at her. She didn’t see anything except Kameron as he stopped. And then he turned back. Constant waited for him to look at her, but his gaze stopped at the egg-shaped diamond. She watched him wince. Then he looked away, the nerve in his cheek twitching as he turned his head to look at something on the wall behind his mother.

“That is his name, is it not?” Constant continued, utilizing her high-pitched, nasally voice, chatting away in Spanish before anyone could move. “Kameron?”

“The Princess asks if this is Kameron, her husband,” the interpreter supplied. No one answered.

“He is very handsome,” Constant continued, as if oblivious to the tense confrontation in front of her. “He’s very presentable. I wish introductions made, please. You may do the honors, Sir San Simeon.”

The interpreter tried; Constant had to give him that. Kameron dipped his chin, acknowledging that he heard, but he didn’t respond.

“I have a gift for him.” Constant spoke up quickly, the moment the introductions were finished. Still Kameron didn’t move, or even look her way. “A token of my esteem. Here.” She reached for the key tied to her elbow. Her hands were trembling almost too much to work as she unfastened the blue ribbon and retied it back into a bow. “Please tell him the object comes from the heart and has special significance to him—just him. You may do so now.”

She was holding out the ribbon with hands that were quaking. Kameron didn’t glance her way as Sir San Simeon repeated the words.

The interchange wasn’t going unnoticed. The sounds of whispers, chuckling, and snickering came from all about them. It was worse than Windsor had been, and a thousand times better at the same time, because Kameron was standing right there! Right in front of her. And if he didn’t take the ribbon, she was ready to leap across the dais and shove it at him.

“Please hand it to him,” Constant continued when Kameron just stood there, ignoring everything that had been translated to him.

One of Kameron’s men stepped toward her and did as she requested. Constant held her breath as Kameron finally took the ribbon. She watched him wind it about his fist, palming the key. She saw him tremble.

And then he turned away and stalked out, his men following, his limp more obvious. If his exit shocked the onlookers, Constant didn’t note it. She wasn’t aware of anything except Kameron. She couldn’t see through the film of tears as she watched him walk out of her life.

“Congratulations, Alistair.” The duchess moved closer. “You’ve succeeded in embarrassing yourself beyond my fondest dreams.”

“Shut up,” the duke replied, and he sounded as old and feeble and powerless as Constant’s father once had.

“You’ve managed such a scene in front of everyone . . . and you want me to keep silent? I think not. I couldn’t have asked for a greater triumph.”

“Pray silence yourself, or I’ll have you physically removed from the room. Doona’ force me to make good on my threat. I canna’ think of anything calculated to entice the rumormongers more than that.”

“Your meaning?” she asked, after a slight pause.

“My son stalks out, and my wife is then removed from the dais by my order. What connotation would you place on such a thing?”

“I won’t say another word,” she whispered.

“Start the reception line,” the duke called loudly.

Constant gulped away every vestige of tears from her throat, pasted the royal, vacant-faced look she’d spent a year learning onto her features, and forced herself to endure what had to be endured.

Again.

 

 

They’d gone through more than half the receiving line when Kameron returned. It seemed as if hours had passed while her knees pained her, her back ached with the chore of standing and holding up the weight of her attire, and her heart had become a fiery stone that sent agony to plague her. And then everything changed.

Constant knew the moment he entered the great hall. She was holding the hand of an ancient-looking woman with a tottering step and no teeth. The interpreter was just finishing the woman’s fulsome greeting when Constant felt Kameron’s gaze on her. She
felt
it. She was subtle about checking, though, using the lace of her mantilla to advantage. She caught the movement as he stepped into the hall, dwarfing everyone. He was unaccompanied. A stir of reaction came from those about him; then she saw him move to the center of the opposite wall to lean back against it, fold his arms, and look across the hall, right at her. She saw what he had wrapped about his fist, too—her blue ribbon. Despite her every effort, Constant felt the familiar stain of a blush. She only hoped it wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

“Your Highness? The lady is waiting.”

Constant forced her gaze from where Kameron lounged. “My husband has returned,” she replied.

She watched Sir San Simeon flick his glance to the opposite wall. A satisfied expression crossed his sallow face.

“He has had a change of heart, I see. Either that or he has located his children. I am hopeful it is both.”

Constant swallowed her first response, which was to agree with him. She wasn’t supposed to know! “His . . . children? What is this you say?”

“He—uh . . . his children had a mishap. They were missing. You must turn to your guest now.” He changed from speaking Spanish to English as he addressed the old woman, mouthing the same platitudes he’d been saying all evening. “The princess thanks you for the gifts. She wishes to acknowledge your presence here. She extends the warmest wishes to you.” Constant nodded slightly as the old woman responded with a toothless smile and moved to speak with the duchess on Constant’s other side.

“He is very handsome,” Constant told her interpreter. “More so than I’d been told, and even that sounded fanciful.”

“I am no judge of such, Your Highness,” Sir San Simeon replied.

“Oh, come now. You know beauty when you see it. He has the countenance of an angel. I’d heard that, too. I just didn’t believe it.”

“He is no angel when crossed. That is what I saw.”

“Yes,” Constant whispered softly. “He is especially wondrous when he is angered, isn’t he?”

“He does not appear an easy man to handle,” he replied.

“Really? Hmm.”

She smiled after the reply and moved her eyebrows several times, and was rewarded with his answering smile. Then she looked to the nobleman who was bowing before her, put her hand in his, and awaited the introduction.

Constant met personage after personage, a blur of plaid-clad clansmen and elegantly gowned clanswomen. Throughout it, she knew where Kameron was. He didn’t stay in one place, but he wasn’t mingling with the guests dining on haggis, salmon cakes, roast beef slices, quail, and a varied selection of wines. He was moving to various vantage points throughout the room, and always he was watching her.

He’d dressed for the event. He wore attire almost exactly like his sire; only on Kameron it emphasized his perfectly proportioned, athletic, muscled frame. He had a long sword strapped to his side. The purselike sporran. A red-and-white-on-black plaid kilt. A tightly fitted black jacket. A froth of lace down his shirtfront. He’d pulled his hair back in a queue. He was worse than beautiful. He was jaw-dropping. And he had the blue ribbon about his fist. He kept bringing it to his mouth as if in homage. Constant had a difficult time paying attention to the presentations. She didn’t see most of them, she couldn’t hear above the high-pitched note in her ears, and Kameron kept moving ever closer.

All of which changed when a beautiful green-eyed woman with pale skin, dark red hair, and blood-red lips curtsied before her. The woman had a spectacular shape, too, outlined in her dark green bodice and the contrasting white of her skirt. Constant’s eyes narrowed, and she forced herself to listen as the woman was announced, although she already surmised who she was, and why she was there.

“. . . of Barclay.”

“I have no wish to meet this woman, Sir San Simeon. Tell her that, if you dare.”

“The princess is pleased to see you, Lady Barclay. She extends warm greetings, and comments on how beautifully you are gowned.”

“If you extend an invitation to any of my homes, San Simeon, I shall make you regret it,” Constant said again, smiling and nodding to the overly painted woman. Lucilla had dusted Constant with powder, expertly lined her eyes with kohl, touched the slightest bit of rouge to her cheeks, and reddened her lips. Constant had thought it theatrical and unladylike. She knew the truth, now. She looked fresh and untouched next to the vivid picture the Marchioness of Barclay presented.

“Her Highness extends her warmest wishes to you, Lady Barclay. Thank you for attending. Good eve,” he finished.

“I see Kam is here,” the woman had the affront to whisper loudly. “I must see him. Surely you can arrange something.”

She wasn’t speaking to Constant. That much was obvious. She was addressing her request to the duchess. Constant’s eyes narrowed.

“You ask too much, Lindy. I have no control—”

“You got him to attend, didn’t you? Use your influence. Do something! He won’t answer my letters!”

“My son is recently wed, Lindy. To a princess, no less. You are causing a scene. Go. Don’t appear desperate. Men hate that.”

Her Grace knows enough of men to give advice?
Constant wondered. It didn’t seem possible.

“The Lady Barclay appears most insistent. Translate what she has said,” Constant ordered San Simeon.

“She is requesting a tea with Her Grace,” he answered. “I don’t believe the invitation will be forthcoming.”

“She’d best not look for one from me, either,” Constant commented.

The moment the green-eyed siren moved away, Constant was looking for Kameron. She shouldn’t; she didn’t want to know if he approached his former lover, or what he would do if she approached him.

She needn’t have worried. Kam was standing within yards of the dais. He had the ribbon-wound fist raised to his lips and his eyes on no other woman except her. He had them narrowed as he watched her, concentrating. Constant wondered why it was taking him so long to approach her. She hadn’t changed that much. True, she’d thinned to a smaller shape, had a veil worth a king’s ransom wrapped about her, bluish-black hair combed and arranged into a lattice-style hair covering made of hammered silver strands, and a touch of paint to her face, but she was still the same.