by Jackie Ivie
“Most women are like dolls to a man like you?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, a fleeting look that was probably frustration passed over his features, and then he opened his eyes again.
“You are na’ large, Constant. You never were, except to a small-sized family and a dwarf named Thomas, whom I would like to thrash the moment I recover.”
“No, please. You mustn’t. No one is to know of this. Of us. Of my actions . . . with you.”
“I would na’ do anything to harm you, Constant. Ever. Rest assured of that. You’ve my word. And that means any threats I utter, as well as any overtures I make, are as empty as my head. All of which makes this even more torturous for me.”
“What is?” She was mystified again, and it was worse than before because every inch on one side of her body seemed to be in contact with his.
“You are small to me, Constant, except in all the right places. That makes you desirable. Extremely so. I’m losing sleep over it and there’s nae end in sight. Constant dreams. Constant arousal. Constant self-denial. Aye. Those are the correct terms when added to your name, Constant, love. You were named extremely well and aptly by your parents. They’ve my compliments.”
Constant was aglow with his admissions, although he couldn’t really mean what he said. Could he?
“I must keep on subject, or I will deserve another bath in hot tar. You say you have large eyes? That much is true, I’m afraid. Right now, I’m wishful you had a third one, however.”
“What? Why?”
“For the love of—you need ask?”
“I ask about things I don’t know. I don’t know anything about men. I haven’t been in contact with one until you.” That got her another groan, but he didn’t say anything. Constant just shrugged her shoulders and blazed on with her words. “You’re acting very strange and I have no one to ask. I don’t have any older brothers, and I’d never ask my father. And I can’t ask a woman. You’re impossible to describe without them guessing . . . uh, something. I’m sorry if it makes me sound stupid.”
“Not stupid, Constant, love . . . just enticing. Damn and blast! Stop me before I say another foul word.”
“Enticing is a foul word?”
“It’s right in there with fornication. Doona’ doubt it.”
She gave him another wide-eyed look. He shut his eyes, tightly enough to cause little lines about them, while the groan that went through him shook her.
“What else did you complain of? Large eyes? We covered that. You have verra large eyes. I have to tell you, that’s na’ all. Your large eyes are bordered in lush black lashes. That made me suspect your hair was na’ the same light shade as your brother’s. You’ve been gifted with verra long, verra black lashes, Constant. ’Tis a gift of nature other women would be on their knees in thankfulness over . . . after spending hours preening in their mirrors. Such lashes are perfect for flirting. They create shadows that draw a man’s gaze. Yours do. They send shadows onto your cheeks when you’re concentrating, such as when you carved on my chest. How do I ken that? Because I noted it. And I held my tongue. And now that you’ve forced my hand, I canna’ seem to stay the words. You should’ve just looked in a damned—oh. Begging pardon, I forgot. You should’ve looked in any mirror when I told you to, and saved me from this.”
Constant brushed her eyelashes with a finger. She’d never wasted time looking at her reflection in any detail. She hadn’t known eyelashes were for anything except shielding one’s eyes from the sun’s harsh glare. She hadn’t known men looked at things like that.
“Another thing about those large eyes of yours, they’re breathtaking. Beyond enticing. Let me put you straight about it in nae uncertain terms. You have large eyes. Aye. You have large, turquoise-colored eyes. They are wide and compelling and incredibly difficult to look away from once ensnared. They are too honest, as well. They show everything. This is especially true when I’ve said something shocking. They darken to a near slate color sometimes. I’m afraid I ken when it happens. I’m terrified that I also ken why. That is a constant problem for me, Mistress Constant Ridgely. Constant problem. Constant enticement. Constant fascination. Constant frustration.”
His voice stopped and he was frowning. His eyes were still scrunched shut. It just couldn’t be true. The man she’d had all to herself was saying things she’d reserved for her daydreams. Her heart was pumping with more energy than it had all day, her cheeks were probably chafing at the heat, and she didn’t want to miss one word. She knew her memories were all she’d have in the future.
“Since I canna’ go with my first inclination and beat the person or persons responsible for your jaundiced viewpoint of yourself, Constant Ridgely, I am going to try to correct it. You are na’ large. You are na’ undesirable. You are definitely na’ plain. You’re so far from that word it should be hiding in embarrassment.”
She snorted. She couldn’t help it.
“Oh God.”
He mumbled the words and then went taut, right beside her. Since she was still touching him, she felt it. She probably should have moved away, but it was too exciting to stay right where she was, her head tipped upward to watch Kameron’s handsome face while she listened to the amazing words coming from between his perfectly formed lips.
“I’m going to convince you of your attractiveness, Constant Ridgely. I’m stating it in as near truth as I can without compromising you. This is what I will do. I started this, and I will finish it. Then, I would na’ bring it up again if I were you. Unless you wish consequences.”
“But—”
“I’m beyond arguing, love. Maybe later, once I’ve supped, and you’re gone, and I’m attired in your cast-off pantaloons—that you’re planning to take straight off your own flesh—oh my God, perish the thought!”
A tremor seized him and Constant felt every bit of it. His reaction came from thinking of her flesh-warmed underthings wrapped about him? Oh my!
His shaking subsided, then stilled. Constant watched as he puffed each breath in, then out. She wondered what a kiss from him would feel like. A kiss isn’t so bad, she told herself. It isn’t permanent. It doesn’t make one any less a virgin. It certainly doesn’t make one impure. Does it? That troubled the Constant who spent the day doing chores. But she was a far cry from the Constant who had her entire right side pressed against Kameron.
“You should have figured out all these things about yourself already, Mistress Constant, and saved me the torment of having to inform you about them. Where was I, anyway?”
Constant choked on her reaction as he sucked in air with such a kisslike pucker of his lips, she was totally riveted. It was a good thing he was answering his own question; she certainly couldn’t.
“Oh, I remember. Your nose. You describe your nose as large, too. I say again, na’ in comparison. A smaller nose would look incongruous. It would be lost. Your nose is just right. Trust me.”
He still had his eyes closed. She watched him lick his lips prior to sucking them both into his mouth, then sliding them out. Her eyes didn’t move from the sight. An icy cold shockwave went from the roots of her hair to her leather-booted feet beside his, and then back, although it settled in the area below her rib cage and just sat there, pounding with every heartbeat.
“Your mouth is also large, Constant. I think it was designed that way on purpose. Do you have any idea what large, luscious lips such as you possess can do to a man?”
She shook her head. She didn’t trust her voice. She was afraid of what might come out. He opened his eyes and looked at her then. The light was shadowing him. Not her. She watched him look her over.
“I was afraid of this,” he told her.
“What?”
The word was mouthed. She couldn’t put sound to her own whisper. Her voice was missing. It was probably lost in the knot in her throat.
“What large, luscious lips such as you possess can do to a man. I just remarked on it. Dinna’ you listen? And if na’, you need to start, because
I’m doing my best here to ignore it.”
“Why?”
“Because I will heal. I will leave this little loft. I’ll rejoin my regiment. I’ll go back to my life. All of which . . . you will na’.”
“I know,” Constant replied.
“We will na’ meet again. You’ll find some large, handsome, farmer type to marry. Or you can still pursue the undeserving Thomas.” His words weren’t as soft or gentle as they had been. “Either way, you’ll forget me. You’ll forget this. Everything will fade.”
“You too,” she said.
“I’m afeard ’tis too late for any of that in regards to me.”
She smiled and raised both eyebrows, and then teased. “Oh, I agree. I doona’ think there is a farmer in the land that will offer for you.”
“Have you ever been kissed, Constant?”
He’d read her mind! Oh. My. “Uh . . . no,” she replied.
“Would you like to be?”
“I—”
She had to drop her eyes. The answer was probably written so clearly on her face, he could decipher it. The slight indentation in his chin drew her gaze back. Then his overly full lips. She licked her own and watched his eyes widen.
“If the answer is nae, doona’ do that again, please.”
“What?”
“Constant arousal. Constant enticement. Constant promise. Constant Ridgely, you are constant, all right. You are a viciously desirable creature, too. I should have chosen a different gully to fall into.”
“I cannot believe you are saying these things to me.”
“Please doona’ tell me I’ve failed. I may be rusty, but I canna’ be that inept.”
“At what?”
“Making certain you’re aware of your own attractiveness. That is the task I set myself, remember? Do you recollect the bit about the rug seller?”
Constant wrinkled her brow. “The one about underpricing?”
“I doona’ want you doing the same. Ever. There is naught wrong with you, Constant Ridgely. Your Thomas is na’ worth the wait, especially if he puts four other lasses before you. If he is na’ brought up to scratch afore Christmas, find another beau. They’re out there. They’re bigger than you. They’re strong, too. They’re marriageable.”
“I don’t know any of them, though.”
“Then look farther afield. Go to Boston. You’ll see. Tell your parents you need a new wardrobe or some such.”
“A new wardrobe? I’m a farmer’s daughter. My family has land and property, but little ready funds. I wear hand-me-downs. We don’t get wardrobes.”
“Well, start. It’s a feminine requirement to get entirely new clothes in the latest styles. Every season. Without fail. How else would dressmakers stay employed? And haberdashers. Shoe makers. Parasol designers. Et cetera.”
“How . . . wasteful.”
“The man who weds you will receive a treasure. I hope he kens it. For that reason, I’m halting the lesson tonight. Treasures doona’ handle desecration well, and I’m afraid I’ve a mind to do something that might promote that very thing.”
“What you said tonight . . . was just a lesson?”
He sucked in on both cheeks and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I canna’ answer that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m na’ as truthful as you are, and there is nae correct answer. If I say it was a lesson, will that demean my words and make you doubt your own beauty? Conversely, if I say it was nae lesson, will that be even more dangerous for us? What is my answer, Constant? What? You tell me.”
Doubt her own beauty? Constant was reeling with what he’d just said. And he didn’t even notice.
“So tell me, Constant, love, didn’t you say something earlier about—?”
“Pantaloons?” she offered, rolling to her knees.
“Good Lord, nae! I speak of sup. You mentioned turkey pot pie . . . and something about rolls? You did say something about rolls, dinna’ you?”
“You’ll have to wrap them about you. I am not your size.”
Constant lifted the back of her dress where he couldn’t see and pulled the undergarment down to her knees. Kameron’s mouth gaped open.
“You do need something to put around yourself, don’t you?” she asked.
No answer. Just the openmouthed fish look he kept giving her. Constant swiveled to place her back to him and peeled the pantaloons over her boots. She turned back around and handed them out to him. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. She had to fold them neatly and put them on the straw beside him. Then she crawled over to get his supper.
She felt his eyes on her the entire time, or actually, it felt as though they were burning right through her dress to where her pantaloons should be. It was discomfiting, and more than once brought a blush to her cheeks as she assembled and then brought his supper over.
“Doona’ so much as think of sitting anywhere near me,” he said in a tight voice she’d never heard anyone use before.
She spread out the apron and scooted back about four feet, which appeared to be outside his reach. Then she crossed her legs, tucked her feet beneath her knees, and made certain the whole was covered with her skirt.
“Is that better?” she asked, with what she hoped was the same controlled tone he was using.
He glared straight at her, frightening her with the intensity from those golden-brown orbs. “Nae, it is na’ better, Nurse Constant, but it will have to do.”
“I’m not a nurse,” Constant replied.
“Bloody good thing. Or if you take it up, work on your own kind. Should our country take this damned rebellion to war, stay away from our wounded. Lay your own lads low with ministrations such as you practice.”
“I am that bad?” Constant hated the sound of tears in her voice as much as she hated how they felt gathering in her eyes. She should’ve known she’d be incompetent at this, too.
An expletive came through his clenched teeth. And then another. And then a moment of silence before he spoke. “Forgive me, Connie, love. I am na’ myself this eve. You are na’ bad. Ever. You are that damned good.”
“You can’t be saying such things to me,” she whispered.
He sighed hugely, his breath feathering her skin from more than a yard away. She looked in the general direction of his face, although she wasn’t sure she could meet his eyes. The light molded and shadowed every bit of him into ridges and valleys of mystery. She held her breath and tried not to look, but it was hopeless.
“You’re right. I canna’ be. I should na’ be. I have only my lack of control to blame. I hope you can forgive me.”
She couldn’t answer. She was concentrating on breathing normally, while he shoved a lock of his white-blond hair off his shoulder. She found herself wondering what it felt like between his fingers, and found hers actually tingling at the thought.
“You have ever been in control of yourself, though. Except, mayhap, when you were unconscious. I would tell you if it weren’t true. I promise.”
“That is na’ the control I am referring to.”
“You can’t possibly mean—,” she began.
“You need a husband, Constant Ridgely. You really do. A big, strapping one. One that could bend me in two just for imagining the things I have been imagining—let alone voicing some of them.”
“I don’t think they come that big. Or if they do, I’m not likely to run across one.”
He narrowed his eyes at that. “I canna’ believe my own stupidity.”
“About what now?”
“Everything. Starting with getting tarred and feathered. Although, now that I think on it, if I’d have known my torture would result in meeting you, I might na’ have fought it.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Na’ in the least. I’d probably have the use of my legs, too . . . but that would na’ be a good thing at this juncture.”
“You’d be able to walk.”
“If I were more mobile, right here and right now, we would be in
trouble. Extreme trouble.”
He turned back to face the feast she’d spread out for him. She heard him grunt with pain as he lifted his arms over the log. She knew it was probably from his ribs, and the movement he forced on them. She watched him for a few more moments, and then she had to ask.
“From who?”
He had a mouthful of food, and she had to wait for him to swallow. “From who . . . what?”
“Who would we be in trouble from?”
“Oh. Myself. This is good pie. Everything you do is good, though. I hope you realize that by now.”
She watched him shovel in a whole nine-inch pie in what appeared to be three bites. She waited until he swallowed before speaking again. “You would be in trouble from yourself?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.
“I already am, but it makes me a fool to voice it. I’m beginning to think my trouble is going to have degrees to it. It’s going to constantly increase, too. Another constant thing about you. I really like your name, actually. It’s so descriptive of everything about you.” Then he saluted her.
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like my brother does.”
He pulled the buttermilk tureen from his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at her. “The pip, Henry?”
She nodded.
“I think I’m insulted again.” He choked. “Nae. This time I am insulted. Are you likening me to a five-year-old now?”
“No. Only remarking that you’re using my name against me. He does it when he cannot get his way with me. I don’t know what your excuse is.”
“The same as his, actually.”
He shoved an entire roll into his mouth the moment he finished speaking. Constant watched him and thought the tremors running through his frame were from laughter. When he finished the roll, he kept trying to hold it in. Then he just leaned farther over the log and shook with repressed amusement, although the snorts and grunts were loud anyway.
Chapter Ten
The following day had a slowness to it that defied description. Every chore felt even more endless. That was one reason Constance procrastinated over them. Chores were onerous, lengthy, boring, and—despite what the reverend said—busy hands didn’t do a thing for her wandering mind . . . or the sins she was envisioning.
