by Jackie Ivie
She directed her query mainly to John Becon. Charity’s husband was a like height. He was twice again as heavy as her, and three times her age. He was still a frightening man. He raised his big, gray eyebrows. Constant swallowed with nervousness.
“You were with a man in a hayloft. Without chaperonage.”
She tossed her head. “What of it?”
“Constant, no,” her father remarked.
“We strung him up not a moment too soon, I would say,” Thomas remarked in a snide tone. “And you can consider our engagement ended, Mistress Ridgely. I don’t offer for, nor will I accept, damaged goods.”
“We’ve heard enough. Haven’t we, friends?”
John Becon used his orator voice. Everyone seemed to stop and listen. The very air seemed to join in the silence.
“This man is not only a traitor and a spy, but he has compromised a good patriot’s daughter. A hanging may be too good for him. We all agreed?”
There was a chorus of yelling. Prudence’s husband reached for the reins she held.
“No!” Constant backed closer to the horse.
“Give me the reins, Constant. Go back to the house.”
“Wait! You don’t understand.”
The horse was shuffling and pawing at the muddy ground near her feet. Constant had to continually step away from its hooves.
“Give me the reins.”
“You’re wrong. All of you! This man is no spy. He never was. He wore the coat to disguise himself, true, but it wasn’t to ferret out any secrets. It was to visit with me at night. You have wronged the man, I tell you.”
“Constant!” Her father’s voice carried every bit of his shock.
“You—you and the turncoat are lovers, then?”
Thomas had an odd look on his face, and was running his eyes all over Constant’s frame. Constant moved farther along the horse’s side and jostled Kam’s leg as she did so.
“Con . . . stant?”
The feeble sound of her name gripped at her heart. She looked up. His swollen eye was bleeding. Oh, dear God. Her eyes filled with tears, and she sent them away. Then they filled with nothing but hatred. She turned back to the mob and glared at each one in turn. She’d never felt such hatred. She was vibrating with it. There wasn’t one man there she wouldn’t gladly take her knife to. But that wouldn’t save Kameron. There was only one thing that might. She opened her mouth and said the only thing she could think of to stop them.
“If you hang this man, you are murdering the father of my unborn child. He has done nothing more than that! Nothing!” She was yelling when she finished. It wasn’t necessary. There was complete and absolute silence.
The horse shuffled closer to her.
“Is this true?”
John Becon looked up at Kameron to ask it. Kam spat on the ground, and the spittle contained blood.
“Are . . . you actually asking me . . . something?”
“Have you been intimate with this woman?”
Kam’s good eye regarded her. There wasn’t any expression on his face. Then he looked up again, over all of them. “I never . . . saw this . . . woman afore,” he finally answered.
More crowd noise followed his announcement, and Constant used her weight on the animal’s reins to subdue it. Shock was the emotion stinging her, stealing her breath and her voice, and then it cleared. Kameron had told her he was an expert liar. She should have expected it.
“He lies!” she shouted.
“He lies? But why would he do such a thing? If admitting to fornication with you would save his skin, what sane man would lie? Even an innocent man would admit to it.”
There were murmurs of agreement among them.
Constant swallowed. “Kameron?” She looked up at him. Kam wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“She knows his name!” Thomas was pointing a finger at her as he said it.
Constant looked back at him. With his face twisted in murderous intent, he wasn’t the least bit handsome.
“Of course I know his name. I just told you we were lovers. Why wouldn’t I know it?”
There was a look of absolute shock on every face in the mob.
“And I actually asked for your hand,” Thomas Esterbrook said in disgust.
“Is this true, Constant?”
Her father’s eyes were old and sad. He was old and sad. Constant looked him over and actually saw him as he was—a feeble old man. She only hoped he still had enough influence to stop the hanging.
“He’s the father of your unborn grandchild, Father,” she said. “That is the man’s only crime. You’d have my child born a bastard?”
There was a long silence.
“Cut him down,” Constant’s father said.
Her eyes began to tear up and she viciously stifled the reaction. She wasn’t letting any emotion get through. Not now. Not yet.
“Cut him down?” Daniel Hallowell asked.
“I’ll see my daughter wed to him. You heard her. He has taken liberties with her. The child born of their sin will not suffer.”
“He didn’t agree to what she said.”
“He’s a turncoat. His profession is lying. My daughter has never lied.”
“She has fornicated, though!”
She didn’t know who said that, but the comment caused another round of unrest and mumbling among the men. Constant closed her eyes for a moment to gather strength. All she had to do was see Kam cut down. She’d get him to his garrison. See he had medical care. Then she’d face the consequences of her actions.
She knew what they’d be. She didn’t care. No one would ever offer for her. No one would ever shelter her. Not in this town. Perhaps even farther afield. She still didn’t care. All she cared about was getting that noose off Kam’s neck. She opened her eyes again.
“What makes you think he’ll wed her if we set him loose?” someone asked her father.
Constant watched his frame waver with uncertainty.
“Is the preacher still among us?” John Becon narrowed his eyes at her as he spoke.
Constant didn’t so much as blink in response.
“Reverend Williams?” someone asked. “Of course he’s here. He’s just hard of hearing. As always.”
“Get him!”
Constant held her breath while Reverend Williams was brought forward. Everyone was watching the drama unfold. Constant should be prostrate with mortification and shame. She wasn’t. Everything within her seemed to throb with purpose as she stifled everything except one goal. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed. She could do that later. Her entire focus was on saving Kameron.
“You wish a wedding performed? Who is she wedding? A horse?” Reverend Williams asked loudly.
“The turncoat.”
The reverend looked up at Kam. “But I thought we already hanged him.”
“As you can see, he’s still alive. We need him in that condition in order to finish the ceremony and keep a child from the sin of bastardy.”
John Becon was still orchestrating everything, using his orator voice. Reverend Williams pierced her with his gaze. Condemning. Judging. Constant started to tremble and halted it with a supreme act of will. She had to get through this before allowing any emotion to vent. All that mattered was Kameron. That’s all. Kameron. Nothing else.
“Mistress Ridgely? Constant Ridgely? Is that you?”
She nodded.
“You . . . have been intimate with this man?” He gestured up to Kam.
She nodded again. The reverend’s eyes looked down, away from her. She didn’t care about that, either. Later she’d let it bother her. Along with everything else. Just get the noose off Kam’s neck . . .
“Does any among you possess a license? I can’t wed them without one.”
“Master Esterbrook?”
“I’ve got a license. It was for my own marriage to her. Here. Take it.”
There was some discussion over legalities and such, and then Thomas’s name was scratched out and they looked to Kam to
supply the rest.
“You want . . . me to . . . speak . . . again?” he asked.
The noose was tight, and that was probably what kept his words short and his voice hoarse. The sneer was entirely his own, though.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Why?”
“We need it for the license. I can’t wed you without it.”
“You want . . . me to . . . marry this . . . woman?” He wheezed through the words.
“We’ll not have any child born nameless. State your name and surname. We’ve not got all day.”
“She . . . carries . . . nae . . . bairn,” Kam replied finally, each word requiring great effort.
“But she might be?”
Kam turned his good eye on her and blinked slowly. Constant could sense not only pain but a strange emotion radiating outward from him although nothing showed in his expression. And then he nodded and looked away.
“You compromised Friend Ridgely’s daughter, you’ll wed her. Reverend? Start the ceremony.”
Constant had dreamt of her wedding day. It would be full of flowers and organ music and white roses and a beautiful white dress. It wasn’t to be with an almost naked man, beaten nearly senseless, trussed up and about to be hanged, while she stood at his side in an old, worn, serviceable gown and held his hand with one smelling of onions. She glanced to where he was still losing blood and her lips tightened. They could annul it later. She could do everything later. For now, she had to get him free.
“What is your name?”
“Kameron . . . Ballan,” he replied.
“Very well. Constant Ridgely? Do you take Kameron Ballan as your husband?”
“I do,” she replied.
They asked the same thing of Kam. He took a long time to answer in the affirmative. Someone draped the document across his thigh while he signed with his still-bound right hand. Constant watched him do it. They all watched him.
The license was given to the reverend, who signed it and handed it to her. Kam gazed down at her with his good eye for a long moment before he turned away, looking over their heads again.
“Verra well, ’tis done. Gentlemen. You . . . may . . . finish.” Kam choked out every word and then he closed his eyes.
“Proceed!” Becon yelled.
“What?” Constant screamed. She no longer cared about holding anything at bay, including emotions. She clung to the horse’s reins like a possessed woman and forced the animal to stand still while she burst into a sobbing, shrieking wretch at its side.
“You didn’t think we’d allow him to live, did you?” Becon’s words came to her over her own screaming. “Leave off the reins, Mistress Ballan. You’ve a name for your unborn child. And shortly you’ll be a widow. Congratulations.”
“No!”
Constant’s cry wasn’t heard over the sound of a military horn, followed by a field full of soldiers on horseback. The lynch mob scattered. Constant didn’t note it. She was holding to the reins, using every bit of weight and strength at her disposal to keep the horse from bolting. When she finally looked up, she saw Eustace loping alongside her father’s steed, with Henry clinging to his mane. Everyone fled.
And that’s the last she saw of them.
The horse finally quieted and stood docilely beside her. That’s when reaction seemed to close in, making her weak and giddy. She held to the reins then for a different reason—to keep herself upright. Her legs shook, her arms were next to useless, but her heart soared. She’d done it. She’d saved him!
And then soldiers surrounded them, anger and shock in their every word. Constant barely heard it. She was watching Kameron as he slumped forward, tightening the rope about his neck. And then finally, as if materializing through a fog, somebody using a long sword cut him loose.
Chapter Seventeen
“Well? Anything to report, Lieutenant?”
The voice was as calmly authoritative as it had been all day and into the evening. Constant held her breath in order to listen through the half-open door.
“They’re trying to save the eye. He took a nasty blow there. He might not be able to see with it, if they can save it. The surgeons aren’t certain, sir.”
“Is Thornacre working on him?”
“Has been since he was brought in, sir. Exactly as you ordered.”
“Very good. You may go. Shut the door on your way out.”
“Yes, sir.”
The soldier came out, shutting the door behind him with a little click of the lock. He glanced toward Constant, perched on the long wooden bench, and then away.
He turned, as if on a lightly sanded dance floor, and walked past her, his footsteps echoing loudly on the wooden floor. She watched when he got to the end of the corridor and swiveled smartly to proceed down the next hall. And then she returned to contemplating her apron-and-skirt-covered knees.
The sound of the soldier’s footsteps slowly faded. Constant listened until she couldn’t hear them anymore. The entire building was filled with long corridors of plank-lined walls and floors. The space echoed loudly with every movement. It also had a strange quietude, so that when no one was about, it felt as if even the sound of her breathing was sucked from her. Constant blinked her eyes at the sight of her apron, felt the burn behind her eyelids before she reopened them, unable to rest even for that amount of time. She wasn’t tired. She was exhausted. There was a difference. If she was tired, she’d be able to nap. But her physical and emotional exhaustion left her unable to do more than sit, blink occasionally, and wait to eavesdrop on the next update of Kameron’s condition.
It had been the same since they’d brought her here. Constant had informed one of the soldiers that she was Kameron’s wife, but he’d only chuckled and continued to ignore her.
They’d assisted Kameron down from the horse at Middle Oak and eased him onto a makeshift stretcher. Constant hadn’t been able to see what they did from that point, for soldiers surrounded him. Nobody paid any attention to her. She was left to mount Kameron’s horse and follow. She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go home. Despite how much she detested the members of the mob, she couldn’t betray her community. Soldiers were scouring the countryside for the perpetrators. And she was wed now. Her place was with her husband.
And that’s why she followed the line of men bearing Kameron’s injured body all the way to their garrison.
Constant traced the slight stain on her apron and brought it to her nose. She sniffed, and then remembered. She’d been peeling onions. For stew. To hide her sobs. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Footsteps started echoing in the hall again. Constant turned her head to watch the same adjutant perform the same forty-five-degree-angle turn at the end of the hall and then proceed to the door beside her. He ignored her as he knocked and was bidden entry.
“You have an update?”
“He has a broken collarbone. It’s been set. His ribs may be broken. He’s suffered internal injury, making a diagnosis difficult. His leg may be broken, as well. It’s too swollen to tell . . . and he’s lost consciousness, sir.”
Constant’s heart stopped, and then it restarted, flooding her with a rush of heat. And then such cold, she trembled.
“This is not good.”
“Actually, Doctor Thornacre believes it’s merciful. The pain had to be intolerable. Lord Ballanclaire spoke of it more than once. He was in constant agony, sir.”
“Ballan spoke of pain? Nonsense. The man’s a Highlander.”
“It was more something about the constant amount of it. He kept mumbling that word, sir.”
“What word?”
“Constant, sir.”
“Keep me informed. You may go.”
“Very good, sir.”
Then came the same clicking noise from the lock, the same sidelong glance in her direction, and then the soldier was walking down the corridor to do his perfect swivel turn.
Constant looked back at her hands atop her apron, taking in the wrinkled condition
of her skirt, and then the unyielding surface of the bench she sat on. It hadn’t been constructed for comfort; it was probably intolerable to sleep on. She eyed it. She supposed if she had no other recourse, she could sleep there. She was going to have to go without food and water, though.
For her wedding day, it was certainly strange. She leaned back and tried to keep her eyes closed to rest. It didn’t work. She opened them on the plain, smoothly sanded plank walls forming the hall across from her. Undecorated. Dreary. Uninteresting.
They’d called Kameron Lord Ballanclaire. Sweet heaven. Lord Ballanclaire. She repeated it in her thoughts. Titled lords were only allowed to wed titled ladies. They certainly couldn’t marry a farm girl from the colonies. No wonder the soldiers had looked at her like she’d lost her wits when she told them of the marriage.
Footsteps started echoing again in the hall. This time there were two of them: the lieutenant and a fellow behind him who was balancing a large tray. It was the commander’s sup.
She knew she wasn’t going to get any. She didn’t even have to ask. Constant turned her head away as they knocked on the door. She only hoped she could keep her belly from growling.
“Any update?”
“None, sir. We’ve brought your supper.”
“What am I being served this time?”
“Mutton, sir.”
“Oh. Very good. Set it and go. Bring me an update when you have it.”
There were sounds of cutlery, liquid being poured, a chair being scraped along the floor. Constant’s eyes misted over, despite her effort at stanching it. The tears didn’t help relieve the hot, scratchy feeling in her eyes.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No.”
“Very good, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
The door clicked shut. This time, two sets of eyes looked down at her. Constant met their glances and then looked away. She wasn’t able to see them clearly through her tears.
Constant listened to both sets of footsteps as they moved away in perfect synchrony. “Who’s the wench?”
“Later.”
She heard the whispers before they got to the end of the corridor. As one unit, they both swiveled to continue around the corner, out of sight. She sighed, put her head back, and watched the wall of nothing opposite her.
