Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  Constant’s eyes flared at the way he spat the words. She watched him pull the jacket off and place it carefully beside him.

  “Is that the same fellow you were with this morn, walking about the fields as if you had na’ a care in the world?”

  She nodded and moved her gaze to the straw in front of her knees.

  “I suppose that’s your erstwhile Thomas Esterbrook?”

  She nodded again.

  “I gather congratulations are in order. When’s the momentous occasion?”

  “I didn’t accept his proposal,” she said quietly.

  “That was na’ what it looked like to me.”

  “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “So you had to ply him with kisses to find out the truth of his offer? What do you take me for? A complete simpleton?”

  Constant lifted her head in surprise. Kameron was as angry-looking as his words sounded. She stared.

  “Well?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Me? Good Lord, why?”

  “Be—because when I . . . turned down his offer, he reacted just like you said he would. Back with the rug-seller story, remember?”

  “I’ve been more than stupid, worse than incompetent, and now you toss it in my face? My thanks, but I’d as soon na’ ken anything about your courtship with him,” Kameron replied in an acerbic tone.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You never understand. I used to think it was refreshing and rare and entirely too enticing. Now, all I can think of is the hell I’ve gone and created for myself. You doona’ understand? So what? Puzzle it out.”

  Constant’s eyes filled with tears. The straw beneath her melted and blended together until it became a golden-hued mess, akin to the shade of his eyes. She blinked rapidly to clear them.

  “Did you bring your skean—I mean knife?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I’ll be needing it. I think ’tis time I sliced my legs free and went on my way. They’ve swelled, but they’re na’ broken.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “Oh. Listen to that. You actually know something? What a nice change. So what say you be a good little lass, hand me your skean, and then go fetch me a length of cording. Can you do that?”

  She swallowed. A good little lass? She repeated it to herself in disbelief. “You want a length of cord?”

  “Aye. An auld bridle, a bit of rein, some baling twine. Something along that line.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed heavily. “Again with the why? I need a cord to finish this splint I’ve fashioned for myself. Your loft was na’ built verra well. Either that or I was angrier than I thought.”

  He lifted a thin, jagged-edged board from the straw at his side.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I just told you. I pried a board from the loft floor with my bare hands. It gave me something constructive to do with them instead of—oh, Christ. Stop me before I say another God-damned thing. And I’m na’ apologizing for one word. You ken?”

  He stopped and then swore some more. Constant didn’t dare look to see what was wrong with him now. A long, uncomfortable silence followed his tirade, and when he spoke again, his voice was even colder.

  “It’s na’ going to be perfect, but it should hold my injured leg in place so I can move. But nae splint will stay against my leg without a cord. Why are you still sitting there? Get something to strap it with.”

  Constant scooted back from him on her hands and knees. She was afraid in this position she was showing too much bosom—after all, she’d chosen the gown for that effect—but she didn’t dare stand. The gown was sewn from thin cotton and clung everywhere. She heard his groan as she climbed over the top rung of the ladder.

  She looked across at him.

  Kameron was ripping the bandages from the backs of his legs, regardless of how painful it had to be. His blisters weren’t totally healed. She turned away before he saw her watching, clambered down, and slid over the bottom three steps, landing in a heap. It wasn’t but a moment before she was on her feet again. She couldn’t believe she’d dressed seductively for him. Kameron had changed since this morning. It didn’t seem possible. He wasn’t romantic or loving. He was a monster.

  She grabbed up Eustace’s harness and tossed it up to the loft. Then she found a coil of rope. She tossed that up, too. She grabbed a bridle and the reins that went with it. She was preparing to toss it, too, when he spoke again.

  “Are you attempting to knock me senseless?”

  “It would be an improvement,” she answered, and flung the entire bridle up and over the ladder.

  Silence. Her answer was nothing but silence. Constant gathered her skirt in her hand and started climbing again. She still had to finish fitting his trousers. She’d use large basting stitches. That would make it go faster, and grant her less time in his presence. She gritted her teeth. She couldn’t believe she’d been in a haze of anticipation as she prepared for this evening. She’d been a fool. Naïve. It was obvious. She’d been an easy mark for him; little more than a plaything to toy with while he recuperated; a way to pass the time. Every low description she could claim, she gave to herself before reaching the top rung.

  “Do you have any more of this bandaging cloth?”

  He had his legs atop the board, while he wadded up the bloodied, used cheesecloth. The motions made every muscle ripple and flex. Constant swallowed, averted her eyes, and crawled over the top of the ladder, carefully keeping her skirt to her ankles. When she looked back over, she caught him staring, unblinkingly, while his entire torso seemed locked into a display of strength and power. Her heart reacted, jumping so it filled her throat, then dropping to her belly to pound thumping pulse beats from there. She was being ridiculous.

  “Well?”

  “Bandaging cloth?” She wasn’t following his words. There was something vibrating through the loft that felt a lot more urgent. More visceral. More vibrant. Heated and immense. Ground-trembling. Breath-stealing. It felt as though even the air was weighted, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Everything has to be repeated to you. And then it has to be explained, and even then you fail to ken. This is bandaging cloth. I need more of it.”

  He threw it at her. Constant dodged sideways and then turned to watch it sail to the barn floor.

  “That is a length of cheesecloth. I stole it from the dairy shed. I’ve yet to see any of it washed and replaced. I guess I’ll worry about it once you’re gone.”

  “You in such a hurry to see me go, are you?”

  “I wasn’t before.”

  “I think that’s the best thing I’ve heard all eve . . . so do you?”

  Constant went to her knees as she looked at him. She still didn’t know what was wrong with him, but the entire strange aura in the loft seemed to be emanating from him. Directly toward her. The hair on the nape of her neck stood up.

  “Do I . . . what?” she whispered.

  Kameron closed his eyes, shuddered, and then reopened them. Constant watched as he slid his glance down to her waist and back. And she could’ve sworn he paled.

  “Do you have any more cheesecloth?” he asked, his lips in a snarl that revealed clenched teeth.

  She shook her head.

  “Can you get some?”

  “There isn’t any more to get. I have to wash it. Didn’t I just say as much?”

  “Give me your slip then. I have to stay the bleeding. I canna’ wrap it until I stop that.”

  Constant glanced down. “I’m not wearing one,” she replied to her lap.

  “Oh Lord . . . doona’ say so! Doona’ even mention it. Doona’ remark on it. Doona’ say another blasted, God-damned thing. Damn you, Constant! Give me your pantaloons, then. Damn you for making this harder than it already is.”

  Constant looked up at him. He was still sitting up, but he had both arms about his thighs now, trying to keep his lower legs fro
m contact with anything. Since that position stiffened every bit of him, and every bit of him was exposed to her, she reacted. Her mouth opened, her breath came in little pants, her breasts seemed to enlarge, chafing against the confinement of her bodice, and her eyes roamed over every inch of his body before returning to his face.

  “I’m not wearing any of those, either,” she whispered.

  His eyes went wide and he choked. Constant would have approached, if he hadn’t stopped her with a growl.

  “Good God, Constant! You vixen! You fool! You ken how much I crave—you little—how can you do this? You ken what you do to me! I told you as much last night. Ah . . . Jesu’.”

  “I have my apron. And . . . if that isn’t enough, you can have my . . . chemise. Here.”

  “Doona’ offer, Constant . . . please?”

  She held out her apron, and when he didn’t move, she tossed it to the straw beside him. Then she reached behind her for the knife.

  He didn’t say anything as she crawled to him. It sounded as though he was coming up for air each time he sucked in a breath, and then he was exhaling strongly enough to blow out several candles at once. Her hands shook as she spread the apron beneath his legs. He didn’t move. He didn’t react. She didn’t know what to do save what he’d requested. Cut his legs apart.

  She put the knife blade under the ropes at his ankles and sawed.

  She had to guess how much it pained him as the first rope gave. He hadn’t been able to move either leg for five days now. The swollen one shifted a bit from the other, and at that Kam swiveled, going down onto his side with his back to her.

  That was troubling for Constant. He hadn’t much covering on the front of him. He had even less on the back. She looked at the honey-herb encrusted bandaging still stuck to reddish striping all about his back, and then down to where the ridges of his spine flowed into the tops of his buttocks. She put her fingers out to trace the path her eyes had just followed, but his words stopped her.

  “Constant?”

  He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded like a wounded animal. She lifted her hand.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “Cut the next one now. Doona’ let me know. Just cut it.”

  “All right.”

  She scooted down and gently pried the cut rope from around his ankle. The purplish leg was black where the binding had been. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. She started sawing on the next rope.

  “Constant?” He whispered again.

  “Yes?”

  “Why did . . . you kiss him?”

  The cutting stopped. She lifted the knife away and watched it tremble in her hand. She waited for a few moments before answering, but her voice shook anyway.

  “I wanted to see how it compared.”

  “Compared?”

  “To one of yours,” she told him and held her breath.

  “Curiosity? That’s what you’re telling me I witnessed?”

  “I had to see if it would feel the same.”

  “You were just seeing if it felt the same,” he mimicked, not sounding the least bit hurt. He sounded judgmental and harsh. “And I suppose you kept kissing him for the same reason?”

  Constant hacked away at the rope, letting her anger move the blade, and when it sliced open, he groaned before rolling farther onto his stomach.

  “I didn’t kiss him more than once, Kameron.”

  The words were little more than a whisper. She didn’t know how she got her throat to work. Regardless of how cold and rude he was, she loved him, and he was still injured. His leg had to be extremely painful. The extent of the damage was even more visible when compared to his good leg.

  “What are you waiting for? Get another one off. I canna’ leave this godforsaken loft until I can move, and you sit and tarry. Get your skean busy and saw.”

  “But . . . your leg, Kameron. I don’t know what to do. If we don’t get you to a doctor, any doctor, you might lose—”

  “I saw his hands all over you, Constant. That was more than a kiss from your little beau. That was full-out seduction . . . by mouth,” he said, interrupting her.

  Constant looked down at the next rope and tucked the blade under it. His words were offensive and said with an ugly tone. And then she realized what he was up to: he was trying his argument ploy again, to take his mind off the pain. He was good at it, too. She studied his legs. At least the blisters weren’t bleeding. They were weeping a bit of liquid, though. That was his fault. He’d yanked off the honey-encrusted cloth. He should have waited for her to help.

  “It was just a little kiss, Kameron.” Constant started sawing as gently as possible at the next rope.

  “Oh. Please. Doona’ take me for a blind fool. If I’m na’ mistaken, you have bruising everywhere he touched. That was nae mere kiss.”

  “I think I know what’s wrong with you.”

  “Good for you. So do I. And it is na’ pleasant.”

  Constant frowned. “I’m being as gentle as I can, Kameron.”

  “I don’t want your gentle touch . . . except maybe in one—God damn you, Constant Ridgely! Just saw with the bloody knife and help me get these ropes off.”

  “What did I do wrong now?”

  “I’m tired of your naïve posturing. It’s wearing thin. I want you to ken that. Anyone who launches herself at a man like you did that young pup doesn’t need instruction or explanation of her charms. She needs a swift spanking. That’s what she needs.”

  Constant drew back. “A spanking? Whatever for? He asked me to wed with him. How was I to know if we’d suit or not? Surely that sort of decision deserves at least one kiss. How would I have known to decline otherwise?”

  “That was a declination? God help the poor ass you do accept. He’ll need sustenance to survive the betrothal party after being subjected to you.”

  Constant attacked the next rope with a vengeance. She had it sawn clear through and pulled from between his legs without a bit of compassion. She slid it roughly against his skin without a twinge of conscience.

  “I want you to know I do not appreciate what you say, Kameron. I don’t. I think you’re calling the kettle black. And it isn’t fair. You told me not to accept him unless he made me feel akin to how you do. So, I did that. I checked. And I wasn’t the least bit passionate about it, either.”

  “You’re a born . . . seductress. You ooze passion . . . with every breath coming from your body. I only wish . . . it was working.”

  “With what?” she asked icily.

  “Taking my mind off this God-damned, bloody pain.”

  He choked through what could only be a sob, and Constant was instantly at his side, bending over him.

  “Kameron?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. He just shook his head while his entire frame jerked. Constant watched him for a moment, wondering how she could have missed something so innately raw and obvious. She reached for his head and turned him. He didn’t stop her. His face was scrunched into lines of agony, and there were tears streaking down both cheeks.

  “Oh, Kameron. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I’m a strictly reared, stubborn, bloodless Highlander, that’s why. We never admit pain. Or injury. Or hurt. We embrace it. So, why doona’ you cease pitying me and finish with the ropes? I already told you, I canna’ leave your loft without the use of at least one leg. Perhaps you could keep up your end of the argument and assist me with it rather than stare at me like I’m a lost yearling pup. Unless you have a better idea?”

  Constant sat back and studied him. Then she reached behind her back and started unbuttoning her dress.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Oh no! Na’ that. Nae, Constant, please. Na’ that. God, nae. Nae. Anything but that. Anything. You can just stop. I forbid it.”

  As Kameron talked, Constant kept unfastening hooks. Then she sat on the floor to pull her boots off. She kept the thigh-high stockings in place. She’d worn them because
they were the match to her chemise and had lacy tops with large bows. They made her legs look long and shapely. The boots were no loss. They’d ruin the image she wanted to project.

  She stood.

  “Nae, Constant. Please. I canna’ let you do this. I will na’ allow—doona’ you dare take that off! Doona’ even think of it! I forbid it. Doona’ so much as think of—”

  His voice continued as she turned her back to him in order to peel the dress off her shoulders. She knew she was blushing. She knew what she was doing was inconceivable. She was still doing it. She’d pretend. It was akin to a daydream. It was a delicious dream, too. One she’d treasure forever. She dropped the dress to her ankles and stepped out of it.

  There wasn’t much to her chemise, although it was woven with strands of flax linen. It barely covered her buttocks. She was very proud of the weave; she’d done it herself last year. Candlewicking embroidery made a large butterfly between her breasts to support and cup them. It was her design. Constant pushed her hair off her shoulders and swiveled around.

  Kameron’s words stopped. His mouth dropped open. That was gratifying. Almost as much as the wide, round, golden-brown of his eyes in his tear-streaked face. She could see every bit of the amber color. She was definitely shocking him into thinking about something else.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Oh . . . dearest God,” he whispered.

  “Are you thinking of something else now?”

  He gulped. She watched his throat make the motion.

  “I hope so, because we’ve got some more ropes to carve away, and I’ve got your trousers to finish fitting. I wasn’t certain of the size. I’m probably close, though.”

  “My . . . trousers?” he repeated.

  His eyes were still huge, watching her without once blinking. Constant took a step toward him and watched him tremble.

  “I’ve fashioned trousers for you from my homespun. They’re crudely cut and sewn worse, but they’ll cover you. When I’m finished with you, that is.”

  He choked on whatever the reply was. Constant hovered above him, allowing him a very good view up her legs. She could tell he was looking, for there was a flush starting from his neck and going over his shoulders as she watched him. Then she sank, as gracefully as she could, to her knees beside him.