Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  “Now, what were you asking me?”

  “If I . . . hurt you.”

  “Oh. Nae. Not now. There’s naught bothering me at all, sweet.”

  “Then why did you ask me to come up here?”

  He half lidded his eyes again, while a tremor shook him. Then he opened his eyes again and moved his glance to hers. “Do you really need to ask?”

  She shook her head and moved to lift her straps back up. He stopped her with a hand atop hers. At the touch, Constant stilled.

  “Leave them be. For now. It’ll give me something to think on. Finish unbinding me. We’re at the last one?”

  She nodded.

  “Go then. I’m ready.”

  She slid back into place, although her garment didn’t make the move with her. By the time she reached Kameron’s hip, the chemise was dangling from her knees. She wondered if he’d planned that. The straw was scratching her everywhere, the blades prickling and tickling and awakening sensations where they touched. The air might have a hint of frost to it, but it wasn’t cold. It couldn’t break through the haze that enveloped her with a glow every bit as warm and golden as his gaze.

  Her breasts felt odd, as nothing but air met every movement. They felt heavier, too, without the meager support of the chemise straps. She slid the knife under the last rope. It was thick with dried honey, and encrusted with filth. There wasn’t a hint of a blister near it, however. Constant closed her eyes in thankfulness for that, reopened them, and started sawing. She felt Kameron tense with each movement of her knife.

  Then the rope sprang loose and his legs separated, and he was shaking with what could only be agony. Constant put her hands on his legs and tried to hold them together.

  “Constant?” It sounded as if he was strangling on her name.

  “Yes?”

  “Come here. I need you. Now.”

  The chemise was worse than a binding as it looped about her ankles and made moving difficult. She kicked it loose before she reached him.

  He swore when he saw her. “Where did your clothing go?”

  “I—” she began.

  “Never bloody mind! Come here. Now.”

  Constant didn’t know what he expected. She was already as close as she could get. Then she knew, as he gripped her, pulling her so he could settle his head between her breasts, while everything about him just kept coiling and tightening. Shudders enveloped him. His upper lip lifted. His eyes were scrunched shut. A solitary tear slid from beneath his eyelashes. There was a low hum accompanying all of it. She didn’t even realize it came from her.

  And then, something changed. He lifted his head, speared her with that golden gaze, and licked his lips.

  “You had better move . . . from me now, Constant.”

  “Now?”

  “Pain has a way about it, love. It afflicts with a tormentor’s embrace. Then it ebbs to a burn. Then it becomes a throbbing, and after that . . . it finally becomes bearable.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s becoming bearable.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “Then other parts of me that are suffering for totally different reasons take over. I’m a man, Constant. I’ve been teased and inflamed to my wit’s end tonight. I canna’ think of one thing to keep me from finishing this and taking your maidenhood. Trust me. You have na’ got much time.”

  “But I want you to,” she whispered.

  His answer was intelligible and came through thinned lips. He’d closed his eyes to say it, too. Constant felt the tremor begin within him, and then he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her downward in order to slam his lips to hers. Her breath intermingled with his, their flesh connecting with fervor and heat. Passion and wanton desire took over, combining to a fury of emotion. It stole her thoughts, her emotions. Her morals. There was only Kameron and the erotic and exciting sensations he evoked with his mouth. She squirmed against him, undulated her nakedness to every portion she could touch, and his response was a guttural grunt as he rolled onto his back, pulling her astride him.

  “Damn you, Constant. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you.”

  He murmured the curses against her lips, and Constant caught them with kisses. Her body was aflame with need and desire and craving. Massive craving. Immense yearning. Unbelievable want. Her hands slid down his belly, reaching for the pantaloon-covered part of him, grabbing and then caressing his hardness as it tried to drill into her hand. Kameron tore one of her hands away, but she was right back, shoving the old pantaloons off and out of the way. She needed both hands to lift him. Hold his rod in position . . .

  “Dearest God, Constant—stop!”

  In reply, she locked her thighs to him, positioned herself over him, and shoved downward, gasping in shock at the ripping burn she experienced as she encased him, and then the sensation of fiery flickers as he grabbed her hips and held her affixed atop him.

  “Oh, sweet . . . doona’ move! Doona’ flinch! Doona’ . . . oh no!”

  The last word was such a garbled and unintelligible sound and said in such a deep tone, she lifted her head. Kameron’s face was a mask of torment and bliss. Those full lips of his were curved into the most beatific smile she’d ever seen as his hips lifted, and then he went to an arc, his throat sending an unearthly sound into the loft, holding it until his breath ran out. He sucked in another breath and groaned through that one, too. Constant experienced the strange pulsing sensation where they were joined, while her palms seemed to thud with the heavy hammering of his heart beneath them.

  And then he collapsed back down onto the hay, a sheen of moisture coating his body. Constant had never seen anything like it. She watched him with wide eyes as he took heavy breath after heavy breath, until they finally slowed.

  “Oh God. Oh, love. I’m so sorry. Forgive me,” he whispered.

  “For . . . give you?”

  “Aye. Forgive me for taking you, and na’ even having the fortitude to do it properly. Oh . . . God. There are nae words.”

  He opened his eyes then, and she watched as they went from almost entirely black, back to the golden-brown color she adored.

  “I knew this was how I was going to feel. Damn me, anyway.”

  “It wasn’t pleasant, then?”

  Constant watched as Kameron’s eyes took on a blank look.

  “The fault is entirely mine, Constant. I bear complete blame. You are na’ at fault. You ken?”

  The voice he was using sounded as false as the look in his eyes. Constant narrowed hers. “I refuse to let you—”

  “Listen to me, Constant! I will na’ have you think any less of yourself because I could na’ control my base nature. You ken? This is my burden to bear and my guilt to live with. And it is na’ going to be pretty, either.”

  “But . . . I love you.”

  The moment it was out, she wanted it back. She didn’t need his severe frown to convince her of it. Or his words.

  “I accept full responsibility for that, as well. Doona’ fash yourself. I accept it. I knew what I was doing. But I canna’ change facts. I am a Scottish soldier, Constant Ridgely. You are a seditionist’s daughter. I doona’ offer a future. I canna’. I need warn you there could be consequences to what we’ve just done. One time is usually safe, but na’ always. A bit of quickness is needed. A prompt washing. You need to move and then you need to handle it. The sooner, the better.”

  “You care for me. You do. Admit it, Kameron. That’s all I want. Be honest with me here and now. Admit it.”

  He blinked. The glassy sheen in his eyes didn’t shift.

  “I really need you to move. My leg is starting to pain again. I still have to bind it. I canna’ leave until that is done. And I need to cover myself. As do you. Now. You’ve brought trousers?”

  Constant slid from him and gathered her discarded clothing in hands that didn’t feel like her own. She tossed him the trousers. They weren’t finished, but she didn’t think her fingers would cooperate enough to hold a needle. He’d just have to do with wh
at he had. She didn’t speak to him. She didn’t look at him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Constant wiped another of her incessant tears away with the back of her hand and returned to chopping onions. She’d volunteered for the chore with alacrity because it would hide her emotion better than anything else she could’ve done.

  When she’d returned to the bedroom she shared with Stream in the predawn, she’d barely been keeping the tears at bay. Stream had taken in Constant’s bedraggled state, her weepy, red-rimmed eyes, and had done nothing more than hold out her arms. Constant hadn’t been able to stop the tears. Now, hours later, she still couldn’t.

  “We need those onions for a stew tonight, Constant.”

  Mother looked into the darker corner of the kitchen. Constant nodded and kept her face averted.

  For a magical span of five days, her entire world had been alight with a sense of joy, anticipation, and excitement, and in the hours before dawn it had ended. Kam had said more after she gave him the trousers. A lot more. He’d said he didn’t want her knowing anything more about him, or where he was going, or how he was planning on getting there. He wasn’t interested in doing anything other than leaving this hellhole as rapidly as possible.

  Constant gulped, sniffed, and gulped again. It wasn’t working. Tears obliterated the onion in her left hand and the paring knife in her right. She only wished they were doing the same for her memory.

  Shame accounted for some of the salt trails down her cheeks. She realized that much as she lifted her hand and wiped again. She’d acted worse than a brazen hussy, and the continual throbbing of her woman area was the result. It added to her punishment for forcing herself on him. Charity had been right about the humiliation part, too. But nobody had said a thing about the heart-sore, bereft portion of it.

  Nobody.

  Constant gave up, put her arm up to block her eyes, and sobbed. There wasn’t anyway to stop the moisture, but maybe she could get some of it out of her system before Mother checked on her again.

  She’d known Kameron had to leave. She didn’t need him to tell her. She knew they didn’t have a future. She hadn’t needed him to speak of that, either. She didn’t like anything about Britain. She’d spent her entire life hearing about the wickedness over there and how class-conscious and full of snobbery they were. She knew he was going back there and she wasn’t.

  She only wished her heart knew it.

  “Constant!”

  It was Henry. He’d been running. Constant sniffed deeply and wiped away as many tears as she could.

  “These are very strong onions,” she commented before turning toward him.

  “You must . . . come quickly!” Henry reached for her sleeve. “They’ve got him.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re hurting him again! You’ve got to come. You’ve got to do something!”

  “Who?” Constant dropped the onion into her bushel barrel of them. Her heart already had the answer.

  “Kam. Hurry!” He had her hand and was trying to pull her.

  “Who is Kam?”

  She used as innocent a tone as she could manage. He looked heavenward for an instant before looking back at her. Constant didn’t move.

  “The bird-man you had in the stable loft. You know who Kam is! Hurry! They’re going to kill him!”

  Her eyes flew wide and she stood. “Who is, Henry?”

  “Everybody. Please hurry! They’ve got him strung up at Middle Oak. We’re going to be too late!”

  “Oh, dear God! Not that!”

  Constant didn’t bother saddling Eustace. It would take too long. She put a bridle on him and placed Henry atop the animal. Then she jumped up in front of Henry and kicked the horse’s sides.

  Middle Oak was aptly named. It had been used as a landmark for as long as Constant remembered. It was the sturdiest of the three oaks that marked the corner of the Ridgely property. It was also perfect for a hanging tree.

  “How do you know all this?” she yelled over her shoulder as the horse settled into his longest lope.

  “I watched them. They discovered the loft. They trailed him.”

  “You watched?”

  “Kam’s my friend.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’ve been helping him. I brought him water and . . . handled his bucket duties. I visited him during the day. He told me not to tell anyone.”

  “You kept it secret? Really?”

  Constant would never have guessed Henry had it in him.

  “He asked me to. He didn’t want you worried. You’re all he talked about. I think he likes you a lot.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He couldn’t wait to leave.”

  “You’re wrong. He was sad. He sure looked it.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just before dawn. Look! You see them? They’ve strung him up! Do something, Constant! Now!”

  The fear staining Henry’s cry transferred to her and then the horse. She could see the crowd ahead through the leafless limbs. She clucked her tongue, nudged with her knees, and flicked the rein. Eustace responded, taking the final field like he was a yearling rather than an old plow horse.

  “Wait!”

  Constant reached the edge of the mob and swung down from Eustace even before he halted.

  “Stop!”

  There were more men than she had suspected and Constant’s nerve would’ve failed her if she hadn’t seen Kameron. He was astride a horse, his hands strapped together on the pommel of his saddle, his neck stretched upward with a noose about it. And he was hurt. Her heart shared every bit of his pain. She’d spent so much time working to heal him, and all of it for nothing. It looked as if they’d taken a strap to every inch of his upper body again, to even worse effect. Thomas Esterbrook was brandishing the two-sided coat again.

  The homespun trousers were torn, muddied, and there was a stream of blood dripping from the foot of his injured leg onto the ground. He was conscious, but it wasn’t by choice, she decided. He was probably staying aware in order to keep from hanging himself with any slackening of his posture. And one of his eyes was so swollen he might be in danger of losing it.

  “Stop this immediately! Father! Thomas! Daniel Hallowell! Stop!”

  “Get back to the house, Constant.”

  Her father had a feeble voice when he’d overexerted himself. This was one of those times. Constant turned on him.

  “I will not!”

  “You dare disobey your own father?” Thomas asked.

  “I dare anything to stop a crime from being committed.”

  “What crime is it to put a traitor to death?” John Becon asked.

  Constant looked at each of them in turn before answering. “And who are we branding a traitor? And why? As we’re still an English colony, and that man is an English soldier, how can he stand accused of such?”

  “Leave the politics to the men, Mistress Constant. Friend Esterbrook, take your intended wife to task, since her own father is failing to do it.”

  “Lay one hand on me and you’ll regret it, Thomas Esterbrook.” Constant spat it toward him. She was just as surprised as they looked when Thomas took a step back from her.

  “Your children have been spared the rod too long, Master Ridgely,” John Becon said in a loud voice.

  “Constant—” her father began.

  “Cut him down right now and let him go . . . or I’ll bear witness to this. I’ll swear to a constable about all of you. And all of this.”

  Nobody answered. Nobody moved. Constant looked up at Kameron. He was focused on something over their heads. He didn’t meet her eye.

  “Cut him down. Give the order.”

  “You’d take responsibility for such a man. Why?”

  “Because no man deserves such treatment without a trial. You know this! You’re a burgess. You uphold that very right.”

  “He’s a British spy, Constant!”

  Constant spun on Thomas. He looked even smaller than usual. “He still deserves
a trial. Everyone does! You know the law. All of you!”

  “And I still ask why you’d take responsibility for such a man. You failed to answer. We are still awaiting it.”

  John Becon spoke without the slightest hint of emotion in his voice. Everyone listened until he’d finished. He had a position of authority in Boston. The quality and range of his speaking voice were obviously part of the reason.

  Constant flushed as she turned to him. “An injured man is being strung up by a mob! Without a trial, with no magistrate, and not one charge leveled against him other than baseless rumor. I’m stopping it because someone has to. You know this. You’re sworn to uphold the law.”

  “The man wears a turncoat. He is a turncoat. Wait a minute. This is the same jacket I gave you yestermorn.”

  They all watched Thomas flip the coat inside out and back.

  Constant gulped. Then she lifted her chin. “What of it?” she asked.

  “You gave it back to him? You?”

  She didn’t answer. Nobody said anything, and then her father spoke up feebly, with a pleading tone.

  “No. Please no. Say it isn’t so, Constant.”

  “I don’t know what it is you ask,” Constant lied.

  “It was you. You had him in our loft, didn’t you? You fed and nursed and protected him, didn’t you?”

  “I—”

  “You betrayed your own family?”

  “How is helping an English soldier betrayal, Father? We’re still English citizens, are we not?”

  There was grumbling, but no one answered her outright. Then John Becon spoke up. “Well, gentlemen! We all heard. By her own mouth, she acknowledged guilt.”

  Constant stepped closer to Kameron’s horse and grabbed for the loosely dangling reins. They’d been fashioned of rawhide strips, braided together. She wound them about her fingers, tightening her hand until it felt bloodless. She ignored it. It didn’t matter. As long as she had the reins, the horse wouldn’t bolt. And that’s what mattered. She took a deep breath, stood straighter, and turned to face the mob.

  “I haven’t said anything of the sort, and there’s no crime I stand accused of, now is there?”