Laird of Ballanclaire (5 page)

“Good riddance to him, then! If he canna’ see the prize right in front of his nose, then he deserves to lose it.”

Constant smirked. “Besides, we don’t need balls. We do other things to get together. We have quilting bees. I belong to three of them.”

“What is a quilting bee?”

“It’s a group who go from house to house, chatting and socializing and putting stitches into quilts. That way everyone gets new quilts each year, and it’s quicker than sewing them by yourself.”

“Boring,” he replied.

Constant stopped slicing. It wasn’t because of his remark; it was the leg beneath her. The ropes were cutting into swollen, tight flesh, and there wasn’t a speck of his leg that wasn’t a mottled purple color. She’d sprained an ankle before. She knew what they felt and looked like. He’d be lucky if it was broken.

“Oh, Kameron,” she whispered. “How do you manage to talk as if—”

“When are you going to call me Kam?” he interrupted.

“That’s too . . . informal.”

“You have seen my naked arse, Constant Ridgely, and you’re talking formality?”

Her lips tightened. “I don’t think you’re amusing,” she replied.

“Good. Use that emotion to get this over with, then. Doona’ stop and quail on me now, Connie, love.”

“But . . . it has to pain. I may hurt it worse no matter what I do.”

“Go on then. Finish. Assess the damage later. It could be worse. You could have left me there.”

“I’ll try to be gentle.”

“I ken. You’re a verra gentle person. The man who claims you will be gaining a treasure. I’ll help you find him, too. I promise. Oh. You want me to disappear. I forgot. Go on, love. Take up your knife and cut away. I doona’ offer such a thing to many lasses. There would be too many takers.”

“You’ve got a strange sense of humor,” she said.

“Always did. And worry does na’ change anything. Naught will. So . . . if I have to live without my lower legs, it will be my own fault, now will na’ it?”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I was dense. Extremely so, now that I ponder it.”

“Dense?”

“Aye. I recall entering one of your little sedition-minded, treason-filled and populated drinking establishments, and I remember wearing my uniform.”

“Were you drinking?”

“I was na’ just drinking, I was well into a good drunk.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“There’s naught ungodly about drinking, Constant.”

“If you hadn’t been drinking, would this have happened to you?” she asked.

“You have me there. Bright lass, as I’ve made mention. I suppose my answer will have to be that it might have happened, but I’d have given better than I received. At least one of them would be wearing feathers, too. So tell me, Constant, my love, how bad is it?”

She had the last of the tar off and didn’t know how he’d guessed. He was bound from above the knees to his ankles, and one leg was blackish purple and twice the size of the other. The healthy one looked all right. More than all right, it looked as well muscled and strong as the rest of him, but she couldn’t tell him any of
that
.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I think . . . one leg is fine.”

“Is the injured one setting straight?”

“How am I supposed to tell?”

“Ankles. Are they together? Side by side?”

She surveyed them. “Yes.”

“I might just be in luck.”

“I should go for the surgeon. I should, really.”

He swiveled his head to look at her. “And I already told you. Thatcher was there.”

Constant shook her head. “He doesn’t drink.”

“He may na’, but he had few qualms about joining a mob. Trust me.”

“We can’t just leave it, though. What if it doesn’t set straight?”

“Are you that worried about me?” he asked.

Constant looked at those golden-brown eyes and blurted out the truth. “It would be a pure shame, I think,” she whispered.

“A shame?”

“To have damage done to any part of you.”

“What?” He sounded strange.

“You may be the most handsome man . . . I’ve ever seen, Kameron. To have any part of you damaged is more than I can contemplate. I have to make certain it isn’t so.”

She shouldn’t have said it. Her entire body felt hot. He flushed, too. At least, there was a pink tint to his shoulders, his chin, and neck.

“With such sugared words, Constant, love, it’s a verra good thing I’m na’ on my back at this moment. A verra good thing. I might get ideas.”

Her brows went together. “About what?” she asked.

His lips twitched. Then he turned forward and picked up another slice of bread and addressed his next words to the barn wall. “When we find your husband, have him tell you. Fair? So, tell me . . . which part of me do you plan to uncover next?”

Constant’s eyes widened and her breath came quick enough to be called gasping. She had to control it before she answered. “I was thinking . . . I might pour . . . honey on your legs,” she said.

“You think that might help a break, do you?”

“It might salve your burns. Aside from which, the air has to hurt. It does, doesn’t it? If we get the spots covered, it might not hurt as much.”

“What makes you think . . . it hurts?”

She tipped the jar and watched the honey-herb mixture ooze onto the weeping, whitish-looking skin between the ropes. He went so stiff at the first touch that his body arched up from the straw, putting the brunt of his weight on his forearms. Tears stung her eyes again. She didn’t think she could answer. She was trembling before she finished getting the bandages on him.

“That . . . was na’ pleasant,” he croaked between the heaving breaths he was taking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I ken. I only hope my front is na’ as burned.”

“Oh no! I never even thought of that!”

“We’ll look at it tomorrow night. Fair enough? ’Tis late, and you need some sleep.”

“I don’t have time for sleep.”

“Make time. I’d rather you had some afore you continue carving on me. Think of that.”

“I still have to get the feathers from you. I have to peel the tar away. I have to get you covered again. I have to get you better—”

“You’ve tortured me enough for one night, Constant, love. Let it wait. Please? I doona’ think I can take much more right now.”

The tears overflowed. She put the heels of her hands to her eye sockets to stop them, but it didn’t work.

“Connie, please. Doona’ weep. I’m na’ worth it. I’m a detestable Highlander masquerading as a soldier, remember? I’m a philanderer, a profaner, and further . . . I drink to excess. Come along, love. Cease crying. Please?”

She shuddered through another breath and put her arm across her face to shield it while she wiped at her eyes. He was right. He was all those things. She was simply tired, and it was well past midnight already.

“See? That’s better. We’ll just do a little work on my arms and call it a night. You agree?”

“Your arms?”

“I doona’ think I took much burn up here. That happens when tar is poured on you as you dangle upside down from an available tree limb. It hits your feet first, your head last. At least, I think that’s how it happened. I was na’ fully conscious at the time. Either way, my arms doona’ feel burned, but I canna’ move them easily.”

“They’re hurt, too?”

“Nae. Uh . . . I have hair on them. It pulls with each and every move. Verra annoying. It feels as if I’m encased in a suit of armor, complete with horsehair shirt. Verra scratchy. I doona’ ken how my forebears stood it. It’s na’ pleasant. I would also like the opportunity to relieve myself at some point, without having to ask you to assist. I doona’ think I could bear that. In fact, I’m perishing at the thought.”

He wasn’t looking anywhere near her, thankfully. She wasn’t crying anymore. She couldn’t. She was much too embarrassed. She knew her face was red.

“So, tell me. Are you going to stay like that, or are you going to help me get this stuff off my arms?”

She picked up the tub of lard and crawled forward.

Constant hadn’t much time to think of her patient the entire next day. Charity had finally had her baby. It was a girl. That news was accompanied by consternation and wailing whenever it was spoken of. Constant rolled her eyes as she finished gathering clean clothing in the laundry.

It wasn’t so much the child’s gender they were worrying over, nor was it Charity’s husband John Becon’s reaction when he found out. The women in the house were more upset that Charity wasn’t recovering well. She might not be able to bear more children. That was upsetting everyone except Charity and Constant, but for different reasons. Charity was said to be relieved at never having to go through such agony again. Constant was less vocal, but she was relieved, too. There was enough of John Becon and his insufferable arrogance already in the world. She thought it might be a blessing.

Constant finished the supper dishes, dragged out the laundry tub, and started filling it with heated water for an impromptu bath. She was alone. Everyone was asleep, exhausted over the vigil at Charity’s bedside. Henry didn’t argue when he was sent to bed, either. That was odd, if she thought of it. He always argued over having to do things he didn’t want to do, and going to bed was definitely one of them.

Constant pulled down her best working gown. It was a hand-me-down, as were all her clothes, but it hadn’t one patch on it, and the pinkish color Charity had dyed into it still clung to each fiber. It also had a frilled apron. Constant blushed as she tossed that atop her pile, recalling where her other apron was.

It wasn’t much later that she was climbing up the rungs to the loft, a blanket looped atop one shoulder, her wet hair braided and wrapped about her head beneath her cap, her apron tied around a bundle of supper for him, and another bucket of warm water in her hand. It was going to be a chore to get the honey-dried bandages from him, but it was one she actually looked forward to.

She set her bundles down and lit the wick on her lamp, noticing for the first time how much frost was in the air. That wasn’t good, because she hadn’t seen to her patient. He hadn’t much to wear. Then again, she reassured herself, he slept in a hayloft full of straw. If he got cold, he should know what to do about it.

She knew where to find him this time. Constant smiled slightly. He was asleep and he hadn’t any straw atop him. He probably needed it. He was propped up on the log, although he’d pulled some of the quilt beneath him and onto the wood, making it more comfortable. He had her apron tucked around him. His arms were just as muscled and strong-looking as she’d seen last night. It was especially noticeable now that he hadn’t any hair on them.

Her smile got bigger. The tar on his arms had come up easily, but he’d been complaining the entire time of how much body hair she was removing with every motion of her knife. He seemed to think she removed it closer to his skin than she had to. On purpose. She hadn’t known men worried over that sort of thing, and she didn’t have anyone to ask. She went for her bucket and started unrolling another hank of cheesecloth as she considered him.

The bandage on his back was crusty with her honey mixture, but there wasn’t any sign of blood. Constant knelt at his side and dipped a bit of cloth to dampen the bandage on his back. She had to push his hair out of the way first, and then she held the soaked cloth to his bandage to soften it. His hair wasn’t brown as she’d suspected it would be. It was greasy-looking, but looked to be a white-blond shade. It looked thick and long, too. It probably reached the middle of his back when he had it properly tied back. She lifted the rag and put it into the bucket to soak up more water.

She was almost to his back again when he turned his neck and smiled up at her. Constant’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and her body started ringing with alarm. He hadn’t a speck of tar on his face or in the hair she’d been admiring, and he was worse than handsome. He was beautiful.

“Hello, Constant,” he said with a quirk to those lips.

She dropped the rag and put both hands over her mouth. It didn’t help, but at least it hid some of her reaction. “Oh, sweet heaven,” she replied.

“I hope your reaction has a bit to do with my appearance.”

“I-I,” she stammered, and then her throat closed off.

“If so . . . then every bit of bother today would be worth it.”

He was still grinning, and on the man that had been revealed, it was incredible. The tar hadn’t scarred one bit of his face. It wouldn’t have dared. Constant looked at the lushly lashed brown eyes she’d already noticed, the cleft chin at the juncture of a perfectly chiseled jawline, the lightly tanned skin, the full lips, and despite his claim of being twenty-eight years old, there wasn’t one hint of a line anywhere.

“What is it?” he asked.

She was feeling the shock evaporate, replaced by unreasonable anger. She felt as though some massive joke had been played out at her expense and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

“Nothing,” she replied stiffly and moved her hands from her face. She still had to get the rest of the feathers and tar from him. She had to soak the bandages off and put honey-herb mixture back on him. She’d yet to handle the most embarrassing task of her life: getting the tar-feather mixture from his masculine area, unless he felt capable to do it himself.

She was amazed at her sudden thought. She had been taught better. She never cursed, even to herself. Now she had to repent. And it was all his fault! He wasn’t supposed to be so striking he made her entire insides feel like mixed-up jam!
Damn it!
She swore to herself again. This time on purpose. If she had to repent for using unfit language, she might as well get some in. She had her jaw clenched as she soaked the bandage on his back.

“A little more gentleness, if you please,” he said, stiffening a bit.

“What?”

“I said . . . ouch!”

She lifted her hands from him the moment he jerked. She was being ridiculous and she knew it. She had to sit back, look at the vaulted ceiling of the barn, and take gulping breaths. And that didn’t even work. Nothing did.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said.

“For what?”

“Surprising you. I thought you’d be pleased.”

He wasn’t looking her way, but she didn’t look to verify it. She knew it by the way his shoulders moved.

“Oh, it is a surprise,” she said. “A rather horrid one.”

“If you’re na’ pleased, just say so.”

“I already called you the most handsome man I’d ever seen. It appears I was mistaken.”

“A simple ‘I’m na’ pleased’ would be sufficient,” he replied.

“But no,” she continued, watching her own hands quiver above his bandaged back. “You’re not only the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, you’re probably one of the most handsome ever born. What a horrible surprise.”

She didn’t dare look anywhere but at his back. Tears of mortification were stinging her lids and making every breath burn.

“The way I look is a horrible surprise? I doona’ believe I’ve ever heard it said that way afore. You’re named Constant because you’re constantly surprising. That’s the true reason, is na’ it?”

“I am going to try to peel off the rest of your tar and feathers now, Kameron. I’m going to finish my chore and then I’m going to wash my hands of you and hope we never meet again.”

“Damn. You really are na’ pleased.”

“I am not pleased,” she retorted.

“Why ever na’?”

“Because an English soldier is supposed to be ugly.”

He snorted but caught the sound before it turned into a full laugh. “Good thing I’m na’ English, then. Oh . . . Christ! That hurts. Uh . . . apologies. I mean, by heaven that hurts.”

“I haven’t touched you,” she replied.

“’Tis . . . my ribs. I keep forgetting.”

“Oh.” It was all she could think of.

“You can start soaking the bandage now. I will na’ move. I promise.”

“I don’t think I can,” she answered.

“What? Why?”

“Because of what you’ve done.”

“What have I done? I shaved everything from my face. I cut tar out of my hair. I rubbed myself with your lard, plucked feathers, and made everything in my chest ache. That’s what I did. On second thought, it was na’ worth it for me, either.”

He was stiff with anger. That was a better reason than pain. Constant looked over the entire length of him. It didn’t help. She returned her gaze to her own lap.

“You’ve made my work harder,” she whispered.

He looked at her again. She knew, because the hard ridge of muscle at his waist pulled a bit at the motion. She didn’t move her eyes from her own entwined hands.

“How?”

“I’m the seventh of eight girls. I have never before seen a—a man. Not this close, and definitely not this . . . intimately. I was not even allowed into the upstairs rooms while Charity was in labor.” Her voice was drying up. She looked over at him and her heart did a dive into the pit of her stomach. She swallowed.

“And?” he prompted.

“I still have to get the rest of this tar and feather mixture from you. It wasn’t easy. I proved that last night.” She couldn’t control the blush, but he wasn’t as angry anymore.

“And?” he asked again.

“It’s harder now that I know.”

“Now that you know what?”

“That you’re this . . .” she began, and her voice just stopped.

“Handsome? Or, would it be striking? Large? Perhaps more toward overpowering? Brawny? Maybe just strong? Manly? It could be that, too. Which?”

“All . . . of that.” She whispered the words, but he heard them.

He was openly grinning now. Constant couldn’t keep eye contact. She dropped her gaze back to her lap.

“I see now, lass. You’re pleased. You just doona’ ken how to show it. You’ve na’ had much contact with men, and I surprised you. I could apologize for startling you with my appearance, but I will na’ bother. Most women find me attractive. In fact, now that I think on it—
all
of them do.”

“I can leave you like this,” she replied.

He sighed hugely, and then caught his breath with what was probably pain. “Oh . . . verra well. I’ll be a good patient and keep my mouth shut and try to pretend that I’m an ugly auld soldier. I want you to ken in advance that it’s na’ going to be easy.”

“Kameron?”

“Aye?”

“I’m going to need you to be quiet now.”

He sighed again, softer this time. “Verra well. Begin. Do your worst. I’ll attempt to ignore how much it pains, with my own imagination for company.”

Constant reached for the cloth. Despite the chill in the air and the dampness of the material in her hands, she felt absolutely scorched, and only because she’d had been in contact with his bandage! She sighed and dropped the cloth into the bucket. Her hands weren’t cooperating. She picked up the rag and held it limply above the bucket and tried narrowing her eyes. That didn’t work, either. All that happened was the man at her knees shimmered with the lamplight.

She moved to soak the honey-encrusted bandage off and a strange buzzing sensation seemed to be affecting her palms. No matter how often she touched him, the vibration came again, and with it her fingers tingled, her wrists warmed, and her entire body flushed. It was terrible and odd, and thrilling and frightening at the same time. And she didn’t know what she was supposed to do about it.

The bandage came up, most of the honey-herb mixture with it. Constant peered at him for a bit. She didn’t know if the salve had helped. She reached for the jar and dribbled some more over him, following the latticework of wounds across his back.

“Connie?” he asked.

She folded four layers of cheesecloth together to put over his back and had it in place before she answered. It was a lot of cloth, but she was doing the laundry. She could simply wash it and hang it out. She was already debating if she’d have time in the morning. That way no one would ever know.

“Yes?” she answered as nonchalantly as possible.

“What do you look like beneath the shapeless sacks you wear?”

Her eyes flew wide and she inhaled cold air. It was a good thing she had her hands in the bucket of tepid water, where he couldn’t see them jerk. This time she didn’t bother wringing out the cheesecloth before pressing it atop the old layers on his legs. She was rougher than she meant to be, but her hands didn’t feel like her own at all. She watched him tense.

“You’re not to ask such a thing.” She managed to get the words through her teeth.

“Well, my own imagination . . . palls on me after a time.”

She was choking. Her eyes were wide and she stared, unseeing, at the length of bandage right in front of her. “Please don’t do this,” she implored.

“Why?”

“Because . . . I’m asking you not to.”

“Oh, verra well. You’re impossible to flirt with, Constant. You probably doona’ even ken the meaning of the word.”

“Of course I know what flirting is. It’s pretending an attraction to engage someone’s interest when you don’t truly want it.”

“Wrong,” he answered.

“Can’t you be a little quiet? At least until I get this off?”

His leg bandages came up easily. The skin didn’t look any worse than last night. She had honey-herb salve dribbled all over before he spoke again. His voice sounded lower than before and trembled slightly.

“Perhaps if you flirted with this beau of yours, he would na’ even look at those other lasses.”

“How do you pretend interest if you really feel it?”

She kept her attention on the length of cheesecloth she was preparing for his legs where the swelling was still severe. The top of the skin was flaky and whitish. She hoped he wouldn’t lose his leg. It would be especially cruel for someone who looked like him.

“Flirting is na’ pretending. It’s making the other person aware that there’s someone of the opposite gender who finds them interesting, if na’ downright intriguing.”