Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  “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.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Come here. I’ll show you. We’ll practice.”

  “I haven’t got your bandage in place,” she replied.

  “Verra well. Finish. And then come here to talk with me for a bit. I’ll show you how to flirt and you can practice on me.”

  She gulped. “I can’t do that. I still have work to do. I have to puzzle out how I’m going to get the front of your legs peeled. We probably shouldn’t wait much longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Tar on open wounds can’t be good. If they fester and poison, you might lose your legs.”

  “I doona’ think there’s much danger of anything except severe dry skin, Connie, love.”

  “You . . . don’t?”

  “I’m hazarding a guess they poured it first all down my back. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’m grateful. And lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m grateful they dinna’ burn all of me, and I’m lucky it cooled before reaching . . . uh, certain parts. Na’ that it does na’ itch and annoy, but I think ’tis little more than blisters. Besides which, I doona’ wish to put anything on my back just yet. It’s painful. Makes the front of my legs feel like faeries trifled with them.”

  “Oh.”

  It was easier to give him short answers, she decided. They didn’t give things away; like how little sense he made, and how it felt to look over a broad measure of the back he’d just spoken about.

  “So, come up here. Sit for a spell and keep me company while I sample what you’ve brought me to eat. You did bring me sup, dinna’ you?”

  Constant went to get the food she’d tied in her frilly apron. “I brought roast turkey, apple-nut salad, pickled beets, potatoes and gravy—although I mixed them together to travel better—and a half loaf of bread. You like my bread, as I recall.” She opened her apron and spread it for him.

  “Please doona’ tell me you cooked all this.”

  “I won’t,” she answered. “Besides, it wouldn’t be true. I didn’t cook anything in the salad.”

  He grinned to show he heard; then attacked his food. She should have brought him something earlier, she realized. As he shoveled it in so quickly, Constant wondered if he could even taste it. She sat on the straw beside him, her feet tucked under her knees, and waited. He had a healthy appetite. He polished off everything except one apple. But that was to be expected. He even drank the entire quart of cider she’d brought. She shook her head.

  “What?” he asked when he brought the jar back down.

  “I’m surprised at how much you eat.”

  “I get one meal a day and it’s a delight on the tongue. You think I’d waste it?”

  “I’m sorry. I never thought about that. I should have brought some for you to save for morn. That isn’t very considerate of me, is it?”

  “You’re an angel of mercy, Connie. Forgive my words. The verra last thing I wish is to make you feel bad. Your cooking is amazing, you are constantly amazing, and I spend most of the day sleeping, anyway. Unlike you. Did you get any?”

  “Any what?”

  She wasn’t pretending the confusion. It was difficult to concentrate when he turned the full extent of his golden-brown gaze on her. She wondered if he knew, then answered her own question. Of course, he knew. He had said he attracted not some, or even most, of the ladies, but all of them. All. She only wished it wasn’t most likely true.

  “Sleep,” he answered.

  “A couple of hours, I think.” She moved her gaze to her entwined hands.

  “You need more. I doona’ wish your carving hand shaking from lack of rest. Think of how that will affect me.”

  Const
ant couldn’t answer. The last thing she was pondering was lack of sleep.

  “So. Are you ready to experience a little flirting?”

  “Uh . . .” She didn’t have an answer. She was afraid of what her body was experiencing already. The idea he could make her feel interesting and intriguing sent everything to an even higher pulse-pounding tremble.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “We canna’ entice this beau if we doona’ look at him. Have you considered that?”

  She shook her head again. It felt as though her entire body was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. It would probably reflect in the oil lamp, and what excuse was she supposed to give? The air had a bite of frost in it and she was overheated. It was as impossible as it was faintly illicit, and just a tad exciting.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Thomas.” She croaked out the name. It was the best she could manage.

  “Thomas. The fellow has a lass like you waiting for him and he looks elsewhere. He’s a fool. You ken that?”

  She glanced up and gulped.

  Chapter Six

  “We’ll start again, and go a little slower. You ready?”

  She bit at the tip of her tongue and nodded.

  “Tell me. And be honest. Keep looking at me. Good. Now . . . tell me what you see.”

  At least she thought that was what he said. Her ears didn’t hear a thing over her own pulse. Constant held his gaze for a count of four before she dropped hers. She suffered through another blush.

  “Constant?” he asked in a tone she hadn’t heard before.

  “Yes?”

  “We canna’ flirt with this fellow if we canna’ look him in the eye.”

  “I think . . . I should go now,” she answered.

  “Look at me first. I promise I will na’ move. You have my word as a Highlander. My solemn word. ’Tis a farfetched notion anyway, since I’m still half covered with hardened tar and the accompanying feathers.”

  “We . . . should work on that,” she replied.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll put some weight on my back tomorrow. On one condition.”

  Her head came back up and she looked as levelly as possible at him. The lantern was somewhere behind her, putting her in semi-shadow, while his face was alight with the yellow glow. It had the same lighting effect on his eyes. They looked more akin to topaz. She would have gulped if her mouth and throat hadn’t gone instantly dry.

  “Better,” he replied.

  “What . . . is your condition?”

  “That you learn how to use your gaze on a particular Thomas fellow who is being a bit stubborn.”

  “This is foolish,” she replied.

  He didn’t say anything. He let his eyes do it for him, moving his gaze slowly and deliberately over her lips, down her throat, lingering at her bodice, before they slid to her entwined hands at her folded knees. It felt as intimate as a caress. At least, she thought it must be what a caress was like. It also felt as if everywhere he’d looked on her body was alert and ready.

  She very nearly crossed her arms in front of her breasts as the reaction there startled and embarrassed her. The one thing stopping her was if she made any such move, he’d know he’d embarrassed and startled her. She knew he was aware of it, anyway.

  He brought his gaze back the same way. Constant’s eyes were wide as he returned the full measure of his attention to her, and she was having a difficult time pulling in, then letting out, each breath.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Uh . . .” She tried to answer, but not much else came out.

  “Did I make you aware of me, Constant, love?” he continued, in the same low tone.

  She nodded her head.

  “As a man?” he continued, lifting one brow.

  She nodded again. It was safer, and her throat wasn’t working well enough to speak.

  “Do you ken why?”

  “Uh . . .” she replied again.

  “We’ll answer that later. Now, look into my eyes again and tell me what you see. Look deep this time.”

  Constant ignored the loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears and did what he asked. His eyes were well spaced and lushly fringed with dark lashes. “They’re gold,” she replied finally.

  He was smiling. Her breathing grew shallow. Constant forced in another breath, only to release it the moment she did. Then she had to do it again as he looked back at her.

  “I think they’re described as brown,” he replied.

  “No,” she answered. “They’re gold, and sometimes they look almost amber.”

  His eyebrows lifted higher. “Amber?”

  She nodded.

  “This could be a good thing for our little plot.”

  “What plot?” she whispered.

  “To entice the recalcitrant Thomas to your bed.”

  Her gasp was audible and she dropped her eyes again. She had to. The blush was too intense. She’d envisioned for a scant moment a man in her bed, but it wasn’t Thomas Esterbrook.

  “With the blessing of the church, of course,” Kameron continued, clearing his throat. “I could claim innocence of the thought I just planted in your head, but since I did it on purpose, what would be the point?”

  “What?”

  “Look back at me, Constant.”

  She shook her head. Look at him again? She couldn’t. She wondered with a strange sort of detached amazement what was wrong with her breasts. They felt larger, heavier, and the tips were even sensitive to the cloth that covered them. Looking toward Kameron was beyond her imagination at the moment.

  “Your shyness could be a fairly large stumbling block for our poor Thomas,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your beau. Thomas. He canna’ ask a question if you will na’ look at him.”

  “I look at him. He never looks at me,” she replied.

  “That’s what we’re attempting to rectify.”

  “What? How?”

  “Looking him in the eye. Enticing him. Dinna’ I just entice you?”

  “Uh . . .” Her face was red again. She could feel it.

  “Dinna’ I just make you aware of me as a male?”

  “I already said yes.” Her answer was directed toward the clasped hands at her knees.

  “True. You did. Now, for the best part. Dinna’ parts of your body tell you of it, as well?”

  “I really think I should go.” The first part of her statement came out as a squeak. The last part was a whisper.

  He chuckled. “It’s all right, love. Trust me. Such a response is natural and good and exactly as Our Maker intended. I promise. I also promise that I’ll do naught to harm or frighten you. How could I do such to my own angel of mercy?”

  “I’m not an angel,” she replied.

  “You are. I just have to get that blind Thomas fellow to see it.”

  “He’s not blind,” she replied. “He’s as sharp-eyed as they come. He takes the marksman prize every season.”

  “You defend him. That’s good. He may be a first-class marksman, but he’s woefully inept at seeing what he’s looking at.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because any man with sense kens the proper traits to look for in a future wife. They look for compassion, warmth, charm, a frame that will birth bairns well—doona’ quail on me now, Constant—where was I? Oh, yes. They should look for good health, a good disposition, and add in a heavy dose of culinary skills. It’s also nice to find skills with needle and thread, spindle and wool-comb. Nae man likes to go threadbare. This is what a man should look for. And this is what our lad, Thomas, is na’ seeing.”

  It was chilly in the loft, but Constant wasn’t aware of it. She was overheated from the reaction of her own body. But his words about needle and thread jogged her memory. She cleared her throat.

  “That reminds me. I brought a blanket for you. I forgot it last night. I wasn’t thinking.”

  He let out a long breath a
nd then he shrugged. At least, she thought he did, because it came with an accompanying groan and a mumbled curse followed by an apology.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, finally.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m na’ either. Why is that, you think?”

  She looked up, locked gazes with him for the barest moment, and looked away again. Then she shrugged.

  “It’s the autumn season. It’s the middle of the night. We’re in a loft with an open window, and if you huff a breath out, you can see it. Yet, we’re na’ cold?”

  “You’re half covered with tar still,” she offered.

  “True, but it’s on the side I’m lying on. Which does mean there’s na’ much on this side of me. I’m verra nearly naked, love.”

  She choked on the reply and moved backward so rapidly, she fell from her folded knees onto her backside, her farm boots landing right next to him. Constant rocked back to face him, holding her skirts in place. He was chuckling.

  “I—” she began.

  “Doona’ leave me.” He put a hand out to hold on to her ankle. Constant looked from his hand, up his shaved expanse of arm where muscles were flexing as if for her benefit, and right into very amused golden eyes. “Please?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin. “You reminded me on purpose.”

  “True enough. It worked well, too. Dinna’ it?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. It was true. She didn’t.

  “I was bringing you back to the subject at hand, and you are a verra astute student. That will also bode well.”

  “Also?” she asked.

  “Along with the romantic nature you’ve been keeping hidden. Verra well hidden, I might add.”

  “Romantic?”

  “That’s what I said. And that’s exactly what I meant. You are a romantic, my dear.”

  “I am not. I till and harvest fields, and work from dawn to dusk at my chores. I haven’t time for anything remotely romantic.”

  “You probably daydream through most of it, too,” he answered. “Tell the truth now.”

  Her ankle was warm where his hand was still attached. That was especially strange since she had boots on, and he was holding on to leather.

  “What makes . . . you say so?” she asked.