Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  “Have I been found out?”

  She shook her head.

  “This new fear of my hurting you . . . have I done so?”

  She shook her head again.

  “I will na’, either. I give you my solemn word. You believe me?”

  She was caught by his eyes. Because the lamp was behind him, the light haloed his head and came slithering from around his black, tar-coated sides, over the newly shaved ridges of his torso and chest, and touched the crests of each muscle, then his jaw, and finally, the tip of his nose. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes from that vantage point, but her mind colored them golden brown, anyway.

  She nodded.

  “Then doona’ leave me. Please?”

  “I’ll be right back,” she replied.

  His jaw hardened. “I promise I’ll be more restrained. I’ll lie about nicely while you shave whatever portion of my frame you wish. I’ll soften my approach. Why, I’ll even pretend to sleep when you’re here. Forget I offered that. You’re the lone one I have to talk with, although I should have kept my words to myself.”

  “What words?” Constant asked.

  “I’ve been a fool to speak of things you’re innocent of. And if you’ll come back up that ladder and join me, I’ll stop. Every day in your loft is arguably the longest in my existence. I only get through them with thoughts of spending the eve with you. You canna’ leave me. Please? I’m begging you.”

  He emphasized the final word by pulling himself to the spot right in front of her. Constant had no trouble blinking then, and her eyes seemed to flutter, making him more difficult to look at.

  “I’m only going for a couple of saddles.”

  “Saddles?” he repeated.

  She had to drop her eyes. He was too close, too immense, and much too masculine. She was beginning to think that if what he wanted did hurt her, it would be worth the pain. That must be what made married couples, such as her parents, continue mating until there were nine children from their union. Constant should’ve known Charity wasn’t telling her the entire truth.

  “I’m getting them to—to brace you. I think I can get the rest of your feathers and tarring off that way. Uh . . . except for your male—”

  “Doona’ mention one part of that,” he interrupted her, using a rough-edged voice. “I already took care of it. I had to. The itch was unbearable.”

  Constant brought her eyes back to him. He appeared to be looking everywhere but at her. She watched him flush. At least, that’s what she suspected caused the darker tone creeping over his chest and spotting each cheek. She sucked in on her cheeks to still the reaction. She felt giddy with it. He is blushing? Real men blush?

  “I apologize most humbly, Constant. I hope you can forgive my rash tongue. I’m a simpleton with a like mind. I should na’ have said one word about how things are atween a man and a woman. Especially to my verra own angel.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, I shaved myself in the unmentionable area already. I’d have finished the entire job if I’d been able to reach and abide the pain at the time.”

  “When did you do this?”

  “Feels like a month ago. Maybe two.”

  She tipped her head. “You’ve been here four days, Kameron.”

  “The passage of time changes when one has nothing to concentrate on save one’s own stupidity. Trust me. You’re just going for saddles, then? You’re truly na’ leaving?”

  “I’m not leaving,” she answered, and went down a step, then another.

  “I believe you, but I think I’ll stay and watch. I’ve tired of holding myself aloft, anyway.”

  He dropped. She heard his grunt. And that hastened her descent.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So, tell me, Constant . . . and stop me if you doona’ wish to answer, but I’m puzzling something. I canna’ decipher the answer, and I’m deuced curious.”

  “Then ask.”

  “You spoke about hurting you.”

  Constant’s hands stilled on the top of his foot. Kameron was stretched out on two saddles, one at his hips, the other at his ankles. She’d been keeping as busy as possible with the lard, the cheesecloth, the tar, and the knife, trying to remain detached and businesslike. Nothing worked. She was extremely aware of Kameron. She knew every bite he took as he silently devoured every bit of food on his platter. She heard every breath filling and leaving his body—although it was difficult over the pounding sound of her own heart—and she felt every blush her body put her through.

  She worked on the front of his legs, where there was only a hint of blisters beneath the tar. Constant kept her tongue in her cheek as she shaved the black from him. Kam was going to look strange when he agreed to let her cut the ropes binding his legs together; there were going to be stripes of hairless flesh all the way down his legs. It didn’t bother her unduly. He wasn’t going to be scar-free from the burns at the back anyway, for nothing survived the scalding tar there.

  She’d been avoiding finishing his chest. She wasn’t willing to go where he could see her up close. Every time she put her hands on him, the odd vibration happened, going from her fingertips through her wrists and elbows, and from there into her upper arms and shoulders. Her breasts were painfully aware of each twinge, and her nipples had, more than once, hardened against the starched linen of her best underslip. When that happened, all she could do was lift her hands from him, catch and hold her breath, and wait for the sensation to subside enough that she could continue with her task.

  She was afraid he knew it, too.

  “Well?” He turned his head to look down at her.

  Constant tried ignoring him. She shoved her tongue between her teeth and lips and concentrated. She had a very large foot in her hand. Overly large. That was going to be troublesome. There wasn’t a pair of boots remotely near his size on the farm. And here she’d thought outfitting him with trousers would be difficult. She’d used every bit of her homespun on his trousers. She had one leg stitched already. The material she’d created back then was rudimentary in workmanship with uneven holes and gaps throughout, but it was better than what he wore now.

  Oh my!

  Constant made the mistake of taking her eyes off his foot and glancing toward the part of him she’d shaved the first night. Her pantaloons didn’t do much toward disguising one inch of him, and what was worse, he had his lace-covered buttocks elevated over the curve of one saddle.

  Constant blushed again, closed her eyes, gulped, and then opened her eyes again, returning to the foot in her hand. It didn’t dampen her trembling. She could only hope he didn’t notice.

  “Are you ignoring me, Constant?”

  His whisper had as much power as a shout, she decided, and was as devastating. The foot shook for a moment before she opened her fingers and let it drop.

  “I’m trying to finish, and you are not helping.” She used her best admonishing tone, sounding a bit like Mother.

  “Oh. I see. Verra well, then. My apologies.”

  He turned forward. Constant tried again, closing her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, swallowing. Then she opened her eyes and picked up his foot again. She shouldn’t be surprised at the size of it. The man was enormous. His foot had to be, too. It only stood to reason. She’d have to fashion shoes for him from something, though. Her eyes sharpened as the last of the tar came off. The bottom of his foot had taken severe punishment. It didn’t look like any of his other injuries. Not only was it burned by the tar, but the flesh was raw with what appeared to be branding marks.

  “What did you do to your foot?” she asked, turning it toward the light in order to look closer.

  “I had a bit of a run-in with your local blacksmith while getting trussed, beaten, tarred, and then feathered. He appeared to have the same opinion of a Scot soldier as the rest of you. At least I think that’s what happened,” he replied.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I was na’ fully conscious. It was probably better.”

&
nbsp; “You must have frightened them.”

  She could tell he was looking at her again as she examined his arch and heel, where the vague outline of an oxen-yoke symbol could be seen amidst the raw swelling. She knew who used such a brand, and what it signified. It was imbedded into both saddles Kameron was perched on.

  That particular brand belonged to Daniel Hallowell, Prudence’s husband, and Constant’s own brother-in-law. That could only mean one thing, and her mind refused to accept it. Kameron was an enemy of her family. She was committing an act of betrayal.

  There was something more, too.

  Prudence’s husband was the most congenial, happy-spirited, and compassionate man Constant had ever met. He always had a warm handshake and a kind word. All the children adored him. Those traits were the mark of a good man. Constant hadn’t needed to be told so. She knew it, just as she’d known instinctively that Daniel Hallowell was trustworthy, upstanding, and honorable. She’d known it when she perched atop his lap when she was a child, and she knew it now.

  Constant’s frown deepened and her quavering intensified. First Doctor Thatcher set upon him, and now the blacksmith? And how many others? And why? Why did all of them attack Kameron?

  Because he might have deserved it?

  “What is it, Constant?”

  She looked up from the horrible revelation and met his gaze. He smiled slightly, and her heart did such a nosedive, it was painful. She swallowed, refusing to admit the other truth in front of her face. It was betraying everything she knew. It was wrong. It was wicked, and absurd, and impossible. She couldn’t be in love. She would never fall in love with such a man. She just couldn’t!

  Constant gulped, her eyes filling with tears even as he watched. She couldn’t be such a fool. She couldn’t fall in love. She didn’t even know for sure what love was. She couldn’t love him. She wouldn’t. She didn’t.

  “Constant?”

  It felt as though she’d fallen headlong into the roasting fire, while at the same time plunging right into a snowbank. It felt bad. It felt as if her heart were getting squeezed in a great big fist. She was in agony over her gullibility, her foolishness, and what she knew was her own treachery. And all of it was overridden by this horrible yet wonderful amazement that had to be love. She didn’t dare let him guess what she was feeling. Constant swallowed and kept swallowing, trying to send the gut-choking sobs back to wherever they came from.

  Dearest God! She couldn’t love him. She wasn’t a romantic type, regardless of what he called her. She was a solid, well-grounded, churchgoing, law-abiding young woman. She’d been waiting for her beau to ask for her hand. She was a boring sort; sensible if argumentative, plain in face and form. She always had been. Such a girl wasn’t capable of falling in love with an enemy of everything she believed in, just because he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  Kameron was more than handsome, though. He was the epitome of it. Women fell for him by the droves. He’d told her so. That had to be the reason. How could she resist? He had years of experience in enticing women. And she’d been unprepared and defenseless.

  “Is it that bad?”

  His voice broke through her thoughts. She closed her eyes and kept gulping.

  “Lie down, Constant. On your back. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “You look as if you’re about to faint. Trust me. Lie back. Breathe shallowly. In quick little spurts. That’s an order.”

  She did. Constant lay on her back on the straw and watched the roof of the barn spiral above her with a detached sense of wonder, while the ringing sound of bells echoed in her ears.

  “Are you all right?”

  Kameron’s face came into view, and Constant’s eyes widened as he loomed over her.

  “Constant? What is it, love? What?”

  She put her hands to her eyes and started sobbing. She felt him drop onto the straw beside her. And then he brought her right against him, gathering her close, both arms wrapped about her waist to hold her to him, although he grunted when she came into contact with his injured ribs.

  “There, love. Let it out. You’ve been doing too much for too long, for too many others. You must forgive me for adding to your burden.”

  His soft words made her cry harder. So did the knowledge that her head was pillowed against his chest, her nose squarely settled against where his heartbeat thumped rhythmically from between mounds of muscle. He tightened his arms about her and rocked slightly. Constant had never felt the like. She felt warm, secure, protected, and terrible about feeling any of it at the same time.

  “It’s all right, love. It’ll pass. It’s been trying for you. You’ve done too much. I have added to it. I should’ve been able to get to the fort. I should’ve borrowed your horse and made my own way there. I’ve been dense.”

  She shook her head, sliding her nose and cheeks against shaved skin, reveling in what happened next. Heat spread from the contact—warmer than a newly set fire. Sparks chased after that—akin to those rocketing off of blazing kindling. She was adrift in liquid—the sensation the same as when she floated in the pond on the hottest summer days. And she was completely surrounded by a glow, as if she’d just been wrapped in a newly knitted afghan. All of it combined into an amazement of experience she could almost taste. It was better than fresh-baked bread with a pat of melting butter; more wonderful than fresh-churned ice cream; outdoing even pecan pie. Every one of her most cherished sensations seemed to meld and coalesce into one huge, overwhelming one. And it just kept growing until it seemed to encompass her.

  “Then . . . it’s my feet? I had nae idea they looked so bad. Forgive me for that, as well. I should’ve prepared you. I forgot all about them. I can barely feel anything from any part of my lower legs. I thought it a blessing, actually.”

  She shook her head again. Her nose rubbed against him, and now humming filled each ear, replacing the ringing.

  “That isn’t it, either?”

  She shook her head again. Constant forgot all about why she was crying. He was very warm. He was very large. He was very solid. And all of that was very wrong.

  “My feet are na’ that bad, then?”

  She shook her head again. She felt, rather than heard, him sigh.

  “That’s good to hear. I’d rather na’ be a cripple . . . along with everything else I am.”

  She sniffed loudly.

  “I’d offer you a handkerchief, but I’m a bit short on material of that sort at the moment. Actually, I’m woefully short of any sort of material at the moment. All of which I’d be best off na’ saying another word about . . . curse me, anyway.”

  She sniffed again; then giggled nervously.

  His arms loosened. “Well, that’s a better reaction than your first one, I have to admit. I’ll even allow a bit of laughter at my expense if it makes you feel better.”

  Her entire being was caught in the whirl of new experience. She’d turned her hands so that they weren’t shoved against her eyes any longer, but were molded about the muscles of his upper chest. She listened as his heartbeat grew louder and stronger and quicker right against her nose.

  “You’re all right now?” he asked.

  She moved her head in the affirmative. She felt and heard him groan. Then one of his hands moved along her back, sliding up her spine to her mobcap. She had her eyes tightly closed as he cradled her head, a thumb rubbing against the space below an ear.

  “Constant?” he whispered.

  The thumb moved until he had it beneath her chin, lifting it so she’d have to look up at him.

  “I need you to look at me. Say something. Anything.”

  She couldn’t reply. And she couldn’t open her eyes.

  “You’ve lovely eyes, Constant Ridgely. Truly. I spoke of them already. And I should cease speaking. Please look at me. Help me with this.”

  She’d never been this close to any man, and never one she’d just admitted she loved. She didn’t dare look at him. The finger at her chin trembled, an
d she felt his breath at her nose half a second before she felt it on her chin, then her cheek.

  “Damn me, anyway.”

  She felt the hint of each word against her mouth. And then his lips touched hers, pressing lightly at first, and then more fully, molding to them. A roar went through her, turning her entire being into one throbbing, tensile mass, wrapped around a core of amazement. He tilted her head, using his mouth in a caressing motion to suck on her lower lip, taste it, shape it, and then release it in order to do the same thing to her upper lip.

  She forgot to breathe. She refused to think. She was afraid she could hear singing now, but it wasn’t anything except a high, perfectly pitched, drawn-out note, and it seemed to go on forever.

  And then he released her, lifting away with the lightest of motions. Constant’s mouth didn’t feel like hers. Her lips felt swollen, and sensitive to the point she could feel the weight of air on them. Kameron was breathing hard. Each breath huffed across the bridge of her nose, and his chest moved with the same cadence. Constant stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, lips pulsing, and every sense heightened. She was completely and totally attuned to everything, even the light hissing noise the lamp was making.

  The arms holding her shook. Constant finally opened her eyes. Kameron’s lips were still pursed slightly, showcasing how full and almost feminine-looking they were. He had his brows raised and his eyes were wide. He looked stunned: shocked and stunned, and yet pleased. A surge of emotion rose to her cheeks and then fell, landing in the bottom of her belly as he just stared at her.

  “Oh my,” she whispered, through lips that garbled the words.

  He blinked slowly and carefully. Then he sucked in his cheeks and narrowed his eyes. She’d thought him handsome before. It had been an understatement.

  “We . . . I mean I should na’ have done that.”

  “You kissed me,” she replied.

  His lips twisted, and then he smiled, exposing white teeth. “True. I did. I just kissed you.”

  “Why?”

  “Uh—” He lifted his head, looking over hers. Constant watched his throat as he gulped. Then he looked back down at her. The high note had been replaced by a low timbre.