Laird of Ballanclaire (4 page)

Constant frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m a Highlander. Black Watch regiment.”

“A . . . Highlander?”

“From Scotland. And damn proud of it. Oh. Bother. You’ll pardon the profane portion of that, will na’ you?”

Constant’s face fell. “Aren’t you a soldier . . . in King George’s regiment?”

“That does na’ mean I’m English.”

“There’s a difference?”

He sighed heavily. “Keep me jailed in this tar long enough and I’ll have time to explain.”

“I’m not keeping you anywhere.”

He sighed. “You’re right, Constant, love. And it’s dense of me to get you angered right now.”

“I’m not angry,” she replied.

“Good.”

“I just need you to be quiet.”

“I doona’ think I can. We should probably change the subject again, though.”

“To what?”

“I would like to ken why it is that you’re na’ looking at a man’s nakedness every night of your life. That’s what I’d like to hear.”

She was hot with the blush. She put every bit of affront into her voice. “I am not wed!”

“Well, you should be. You’re old enough. I’ve seen how young they like them in this uncivilized, backwater colony. I’m finding it difficult to believe that our sovereign is actually preparing to quell the insurgency over here.”

“Insurgency?”

“When colonists rebel against their country it’s called insurgency. It’s also treason. It’s whispered about on every street corner of your cities, bandied about in every tavern, and it’s lauded in your little news rags, like the
Colonial Register
. All of which is treasonous by law.”

“I know what insurgency is, and you’re wrong. What you just described sounds like free men with a voice. If that is treason, then the word needs another definition.”

He sighed hugely, reaching for his mug of water. “I thought we changed the subject.”

“Find one more to my liking than looking at a man’s behind, then.”

His reaction was probably a chuckle. He shouldn’t have been drinking at the time, she thought, watching him cough and choke again. It was some time before he said anything. She waited.

“Verra well, Constant. We’ll leave off arguing finer points of treason and the law. I’m at a disadvantage at the moment. I canna’ face you and argue.”

She smiled at that. “Does that mean you’re going to be quiet, finally?”

“Quiet?” He tipped his head as if considering it. “I might, if you answer my question first.”

“What was it?” she replied.

“Why have you na’ wed?”

Constant had a handful of grease and was hovering above the well-feathered rump, trying to gather her courage. She knew what she had to do. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy. She knew it made her warm with the blush. Nothing helped. She swallowed.

“I have no offers,” she answered.

“Really? The men in this country are more dense than I suspected.”

She reddened even more, closed her eyes, and plopped her greased hand on his buttocks. It was just as embarrassing as she’d suspected it would be. She felt him stiffen as she picked up the cheesecloth and wiped him free of feathers. And then she opened her eyes.

Oh no! That is much worse!
More man than she’d ever seen was displayed right in front of her, covered only by the thin sheen of black tar.

“You should na’ be doing this,” he said.

“No, I shouldn’t. Why, I’ll probably have lost my virtue before I’m finished, too.”

He chuckled. “Na’ from this position, sweet.”

“Sir—”

“Kam,” he interrupted her. “It’s my name, Constant. Please use it. Please?”

Constant picked up her knife and started sharpening.

“I doona’ like the sound of that,” he said.

“What?”

“I may na’ be a colonist, Constant, but I’m still human. You’re starting to make me verra nervous. I dinna’ ask for this. I did little more than drink overmuch in the wrong den of seditious souls. Now I’m covered with a rock-hard substance, weak as a new bairn. I’ve some verra angered ribs, I’m na’ certain my legs survived the burns, I’ve my bare backside in the air, and a young lass who detests me is sharpening her knife prior to carving on me. I doona’ see much to like. Do you?”

“You liked my stew,” she answered. “Kameron.”

Saying his name gave her chills. It was almost as strange as the tingle she got when her left hand rested on him. She took a deep breath and slid her knife under the layer of tar. The skin she uncovered was as unblemished as his shoulder and a lot pinker. Her embarrassment deepened. If he said one word, she was going to choke.

She wiped the knife and slid the blade along his flesh, slipping the tar away just like an apple peel. It even curled as it lifted. Constant watched that, and ordered her mind and eyes not to see what she was revealing. And knew it was impossible.

She had to stop more than once to dab at her forehead, upper lip, and then her fingers. Her hands were shaking, too. It was so excruciatingly embarrassing it brought tears. She only hoped he didn’t hear it. And then it was finished. She was finally done, and she sniffed loudly against her sleeve. Then she put her hands to her eyes and tried to hold it in.

“I doona’ believe I can ever repay this, Connie,” he whispered.

“Please . . . don’t say a word,” she answered, her voice breaking midway through the sentence.

“I doona’ believe I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

“Please?”

She was shuddering with holding the weeping in, and going nearly sleepless for two days and a night was taking its toll. Aside from that, she usually wasn’t the type to cry. She was the one everyone counted on to be stoic, passionless, and strong.

“Is there a blanket or some such, to cover me?”

“Uh . . .” she looked up, wondering at the stupidity behind his having to ask such a question. She hadn’t considered what she’d put on him once he was without his covering of feathers and tar. She started untying her apron. “I’ve got an apron,” she answered.

“It’s a verra good thing I’m secure in my manhood,” he replied. “I would na’ survive being naked afore a strange lass and then having to wear her apron. My mother would na’ be able to show her face in society if she knew.”

“You’ve a mother?” Constant sniffed the last of the tears away and tucked her apron about him. And for some reason, it helped.

“Contrary to appearances . . . I was na’ hatched,” he replied dryly.

She snorted in amusement. It cleared her nose out and then she had to wipe it against her sleeve.

“I promise you, I’ll make this up to you.”

“You’ll do that when you walk out of my life.”

“I only hope that’s possible, love,” he answered.

She blushed and reached for the lard. “I’ve been doing some thinking, and you shouldn’t be calling me such endearments,” she replied.

“Probably na’. But you should na’ be with a near-naked man in your hayloft, either. Tell me something we should be doing.”

Constant rocked back on her heels and considered him. She’d gotten through peeling his backside. It couldn’t get worse. And she was stalling. She got a gob of lard and started spreading it down the back of one thigh. She stopped when her hand rubbed against a large strip of rope midway to his knee.

“There’s a binding on you.”

“You doona’ say? How odd,” he answered flippantly.

“They tied you?”

He ignored her question. “You’ve quite the hand in the kitchen, Connie, love. Your bread is most fragrant. Thick. Soft. Better than my sire’s chef. I wonder if the man will survive the insult once I inform him.”

“My name isn’t Connie.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to call you. It’s more informal.”

“Constant. My name is Constant.”

“I think I ken why they named you such. You bring constant joy into their lives”—he paused for a moment, as if for theatrical effect—“obviously.”

“You would be wrong.”

“So, why did they name you Constant?”

“Why did they tie you?”

“Because I’m verra large, verra strong, and I’m a devil when attacked. Would na’ you have tied me?”

“Why were they so vicious?” He must have had his mouth full, because he didn’t say anything while she wiped at the feather-grease mixture on his upper thigh. “And what did you really do?” she continued, working at the rope with her knife.

“You probably should na’ cut through that . . . just yet,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“Offhand, I’d say it’s doing a fair job of holding my leg in one place and keeping it straight. Rather like a splint.”

Constant dropped the knife. Her eyes flew wide and she looked up at him. He’d swiveled his neck to look at her and more tar had fallen off his face. He had fairly full lips and a perfectly defined, square jaw. He had a small cleft in his chin, too. Her mind went absolutely blank.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head. She couldn’t think of one intelligible thing to say.

“Well, if you’re na’ going to speak with me anymore, this is going to be a hellishly long night.”

Constant cleared her throat. It actually helped. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t speak to you.”

“Good. Then, go on with your story. Tell me why they named you Constant.”

“I already told you. It was punishment.”

His eyebrows wrinkled. Although they had tar sticking to them, she could tell they were a light brown color. She wondered if they matched his hair.

“Explain,” he said.

“My older sisters are Felicity, Prudence, Hope, Patience, Faith, and Charity. Father told my mother the last four were named for his virtues, because all she presented him with were daughters.”

“And?” he prompted.

“He told her if she presented him with any more daughters, he was going to start naming them exactly as he saw it.”

“And that was?”

“You can’t tell? Constant Stream . . . Of Daughters.”

“Good Lord! You canna’ mean he would have named a child Of?”

“Don’t know. Henry came next. Father said he should have come up with his threat years earlier, since they got too old to try again.”

“Thank heaven. I pity the poor girl they might have produced.”

“Do you have any sisters?” she asked.

“Nae,” he replied.

“Brothers?”

“Nae,” he replied again.

“You’re an only child?”

“That’s what occurs when one has no siblings, so . . . aye.”

He was smiling in order to make the sarcasm more palatable, but Constant narrowed her eyes. He was incredibly handsome, but he was also without morals and lacked any sense of how to treat the girl who still had carving to do on his body.

“Has your father passed on, then? Your mother?” she asked.

“Na’ to my knowledge,” he answered with the flippant tone he wielded so quickly and easily.

“I’m sorry, then.”

“You’re sorry my parents are both living?”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant I’m sorry they couldn’t have other children besides you.”

He smiled wryly. It made her mouth go instantly dry. She looked away.

“My mother produced an heir. Me. She fulfilled her duty. She was na’ about to put herself through anything like that again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What doona’ you understand, love?”

She turned back to him and frowned. “My name is Constant. You will use it when speaking to me, please.”

“You make this butter?” he asked, putting a bite of bread in his mouth and chewing it. “It’s verra good. Perfectly salted.”

“Cows make butter,” she replied.

He grinned. That was even worse. She should be grateful black tar still clung to his cheeks, his nose, and his forehead.

“Did you churn it, then?”

She nodded.

“You’re quite a catch, Constant Ridgely. I’m surprised the gents round here have na’ spotted it. They must be blind. Deaf. And care little about the taste of their food.”

She reached between his thighs to retrieve her knife. She had to avert her face to do it. Then she was peeling at his upper legs. The tar came up easily. She assumed it was because he had more hair there, which kept it from sticking as much. It wasn’t long before she had both legs clear almost to the backs of his knees.

He was tensing the more she touched him, though. The flesh was weeping a clear liquid with every movement of her knife, too. She had trouble controlling the trembling of her own hands. Her tears weren’t caused by embarrassment now. They were caused by his suffering.

“I’m not certain I can finish this . . . Kameron,” she told him when she slid grease down to his ankle, being as gentle as possible; and yet still he went ramrod stiff.

“Most surgeons . . . doona’ weep for their patients, Connie.”

“I’m not a surgeon,” she replied.

“So tell me . . . do you have a gent, Connie girl?”

He was shuddering so hard, the question came in chunks.

“Yes.”

“What’s . . . his name?”

“I don’t think I should tell you.”

“It’s . . . all right. I’m . . . na’ jealous,” he answered, huffing between each word.

She shook her head slightly. “I’m not going to tell you because of who he is and who you are. That would be stupid.”

“And just . . . who . . . am I?”

“A British soldier.”

“I’m na’ British, Connie, love.”

“Dearest God.” Constant breathed the words as she made the first slice of her knife at the tar behind one knee. The skin wasn’t unblemished and clear. It wasn’t even skin. It was flesh that was wet with a clear liquid.

“What is it?”

“I’m so sorry, Kameron.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve so she could see. “I’m not certain where to put my knife. Everywhere I try . . . skin comes up with it.”

“I’m burned, Connie. It’s probably dead skin, anyway. Besides, they did me a bit of a favor, actually.”

“A favor?”

“They left me tied.”

“That was a favor?”

“Aye. Na’ only was tar unable to reach the skin behind those ropes, but they gave my legs support in the event they’re broken. I doona’ think they did it apurpose. They dinna’ realize how much they helped me, and I was in nae fit condition to alert them.”

“You think . . . they’re broken?”

“Perhaps one. I doona’ ken for certain. I’m pretending I doona’ have much feeling in them at the moment. It’s almost working.”

“Is that why you won’t be quiet as I asked?”

“Bright girl. Remind me to search out the young gents in this country and knock some sense into them . . . leaving you unclaimed and available. Why, they’d best mind themselves. I’m na’ immune to your charms, myself.”

“Oh, I hardly think so, sir!”

“Kam,” he reminded her. “And what’s wrong with me having an eye on your charms?”

“Well . . . you’re a British soldier, you’re too old, you speak funny, and you’ve got a very slick tongue. If I didn’t think it to keep your mind off your pain, I’d accuse you of being a liar, too.”

“I keep telling you. I’m na’ British. I’m Scot. There’s a huge difference, sweet.”

“Constant.” She said it through gritted teeth.

“You’re na’ verra flattering, love. You deflate a man with few words. I speak funny and I’m too auld? Remind me to recommend your bedside manner to all my injured friends. And even if all that is true, how does any of it make me a liar?”

“You speak of charms. And I haven’t got any.” She peeled another bit of tar up and sighed with relief when it came easily, being attached more to rope than skin.

“Oh, you have plenty,” he answered. “Trust me.”

“Yes, I know.” She put her knife beneath another ridge of tar. “I’m strong. I’m built solid . . . like a man. I work hard. I bake and cook and I tend farm animals. I can till and harvest a field. Spin fabric. Sew. All wonderful exploits, I’m certain.”

“You doona’ look . . . in a mirror oft, do you?”

“Why would I do that? I know what I’ll see.”

“Describe it for me,” he asked.

“Why?”

“It’ll help keep my mind off other things.” He sucked in air through closed teeth.

“Other things?”

“Like my current state. My immobility. How much this pains. Things akin to that.”

“Oh, Kameron. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “That sort of reaction is na’ working. I need my mind
off
my current state. So . . . I’ll try another tack. What do you do about here for entertainment?”

“Entertainment?”

“You ken . . . dice. Board games. Cards. You have any cards?”

“Of course not!”

“Why? Are they against the law?”

“Drinking and gaming are vices. As are adultery and philandering.”

“You mean I’m on Puritan soil?”

“The Puritans live up Salem way. Past Boston. Now, that city has all sorts of vices. Not like here. We’re God-fearing Christians around here.”

“Of course you are. That makes it odd that I was in a drinking establishment when this all started. So you may be God-fearing and Christian, but you are na’ teetotalers. You drink. I know you do. I’ve seen you.”

“The menfolk might. I don’t know. I’m not one.”

“That is definitely one of your charms, Connie.”

“What?”

She looked up from the area at the back of one calf. He was a mass of stained, charred ropes as she neared his ankles, but little wounded skin. That made the peeling easier and quicker.

“You’re a lass. That’s a good thing in the current state of my affairs. I shudder to think what this would be like with a young lad working . . . where you’ve been.”

Constant looked up at his body, past the apron-draped backside, the cheesecloth-covered back, and took in black-framed lines of suffering etched on his face.

“We probably shouldn’t talk this way,” she said.

“You’re shy,” he replied.

She looked back down. “We go to church,” she said finally.

“What?”

“You asked what we do for entertainment. We go to church.”

“Too much singing, threatening, and complaining takes place at church. That is hardly entertainment. Think of something else.”

“Well . . . we get together when we can. Now that it’s harvest time, we do it more often.”

“Tell me about these get-togethers,” he requested.

“They’re for socializing.”

“What on earth do you colonists call socializing?”

“We meet at each other’s homes; discuss the latest gossip, the newest dress patterns. Who is engaged, who is expecting a child. News like that.”

“Oh. Sort of like a ladies’ tea.”

“It probably would be like that if we had enough money to afford the exorbitant tax. We haven’t had tea in months.”

He groaned. “Must we return to that again?”

Constant looked up from her ministrations. He was facing forward again, slumped over the log.

“We also have barn raisings. We attended one last month, at the Jacob Pryor place.”

“Barn raising? That sounds like work.”

“Oh, it isn’t. It’s great entertainment. The men compete in teams, to see who can get a side up the fastest and the best made.”

“Do you ever do anything together?”

“I just told you we do. A team is more than one.”

“I mean male to female, as in dancing. Do you never have balls?”

“Balls?”

“Where everyone dresses formally, puts on airs, and nae one is required to do more than dance and speak pretty words?”

“Sounds stiff and very British to me,” she replied.

He made a sound close to exasperation. Constant ignored it. She had one leg completely peeled. She mopped at her forehead before starting on the other knee.

“I think they have fancy-dress balls in the city. I’ve heard tales. I’ve just never attended one.”

“Why na’? Are you too young?”

“I have too much to do, and no fancy dress.”

“I’ve decided my method of payment to you, Constant, my love. I’ll see you clothed elegantly and beautifully, and then I’ll escort you to a fancy-dress ball. I promise.”

She blew out a sigh. “You’re going to leave, remember? That was our bargain. You’ve got a garrison to return to. Laws to uphold. Taxes to collect. Colonists to bully. Trouble could break out any moment. We won’t be allowed to dance. We’ll be near-enemies. Why, I’ve as much chance of dancing with you at a ball as I have of . . . of . . . well, of wedding my own beau at this point.”

“What’s wrong with the fellow?”

Constant started peeling at his other knee, disgusted to be saying anything. “I outgrew him,” she answered.

“Is he your age?”

“Yes.”

“Give him a couple of years. He’ll sprout. Most lads do.”

“There’re at least four other girls trying to catch his eye.” She tried to keep the wistful note from her voice but knew she didn’t succeed. “I haven’t got a couple of years. I probably don’t have but another season before he’ll be engaging himself to one of them, instead.”