Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  “You truly want me to?”

  Constant tried to lie. She forced her eyes not to look him over, and not to guess at the parts of him he’d yet to display, and not to shiver with the remembered ecstasy of being clasped against him.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You’re a lousy liar, love. Always were.”

  He stepped into the space in front of her, kicking his discarded clothing aside. Constant lifted her hands, put her palms against hard sinew and chilled flesh, and fell into the embrace. She couldn’t help it.

  The tears wouldn’t stay away as he enfolded her in his arms. She shuddered with suppressing the weeping, pressing her forehead into the center of his chest, below his throat. She could hear his heart beating, and held her breath to listen.

  “Oh, Constant, love. We should try to forgive them. We really should.”

  “Never.”

  “But they doona’ ken how it is. I canna’ fault them. Orders are orders and I doona’ have the capacity to make them understand, although I do try. I’m fair certain Blair and MacVale tire of hearing it every time I open my mouth.”

  “Know how what is?”

  “A love such as you and I share. True love. The kind poets write sonnets of, minstrels of old lamented over, and men gladly go to their deaths for. That’s what we have. There are nae straps that can hold it at bay, either. There is naught that would. Life is na’ worth living if I have to do it apart from you. They doona’ understand because they’ve never felt it. I pity them, actually.”

  “Oh, Kam . . . eron.”

  Constant almost got his name out before the emotion overtook her, leaving her sobbing against him. Through it all, Kameron held her, swaying with each roll of the ship, his hands at first holding her sides, then caressing her all over until he stopped at the board at her back.

  She caught a ragged sob as he knocked on her backboard with his knuckles.

  “This feels like wood. Please doona’ tell me they’ve got you strapped to a board.”

  She nodded.

  “By the saints! At least I only had bonds to keep me from escaping. You have to wear yours on your back! I swear on all I hold holy, every one of these men will reap the penalty. I swear it.”

  “It’s not punishment. It’s to improve my posture.”

  He pulled back in surprise. “Why? There’s naught wrong with it that I can see.”

  “They’re trying to make me into a stiff-backed duchess.”

  “Truly? I may have to rethink the tortures I was planning for MacVale and Blair. I may even have to consider returning to my prison without being forced. Speaking of which, we still haven’t finished getting my clothing to your maid, have we? Lucilla, wasn’t it? She’s Spanish?”

  Constant nodded.

  “I recognized the language, even if I failed to learn it. You’re verra good at it. But I recollect that from the loft. French, too. Right?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “See, I dinna’ spend every moment pleasuring my eyes and dreaming of this body of yours, although it may have felt like it. I listened to you, too.”

  “Kameron!”

  “What? Please doona’ tell me you have nae notion of what I speak, for I’ll not believe a word of it. You ken exactly what I refer to. You were born to the art of passion. It does na’ have to be learned. You only have to close your eyes.”

  “Kam—”

  “Close them and listen. I’ll prove it.”

  Constant did as he asked, although she made certain she had a hand firmly about his upper arm. The roiling of the deck wasn’t conducive to standing securely with both eyes open; it was frightening and awkward with eyes closed.

  “I need you to listen, Constant. Just listen. It’ll be easier if you are na’ watching while I say it. Trust me. MacVale thinks me stupefied with it, and he’s heard but a portion. You might think me crazed, too. So be it. Maybe I am.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed, and blew the breath across her nose. “I love you. I do. ’Tis of an immense nature. The love I feel for you is akin to Homer’s for his creation—the enchantress, Circe. It’s the same as Romeo’s devotion to his Juliet. My love is right up there with the emotions the composers bring to life with every note. You are the missing piece of my life. The soul of it. The heart. The fire. Everything I reach for. If I have a dream, you are at the root of it. I close my eyes and feel you . . . I can almost smell you. You are the center of every thought I have.”

  “Kameron, please.” Constant spoke to stop him, but her voice trembled.

  “You can try to stay me. ’Twill na’ work. I torture myself with this almost every waking moment and most of my sleeping ones. I’ve been strapped to my bed with little else to do. My days are filled with thoughts of you. My nights are torment. You have to ken it. You have a body made for caresses . . . my caresses. I find myself shaking simply at the thought of taking every stitch from you. It may take me all night to do so, I think.”

  “But why?”

  “To prolong the moment, love. You would na’ believe how I spend every day. Well . . . maybe you would, but I intend to make certain that I have even more to dream of for the duration of the next two weeks.”

  “Kameron!”

  “You think me wicked? Well, come and be wicked with me. But doona’ open your eyes just yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was strapped at the hips and across the lower legs, too. ’Tis na’ a pretty sight. The saltwater I just bathed with stung, too.”

  Her eyes flew open. “They put straps on you there, too?”

  He chuckled down at her. “’Twas my own fault. I would na’ lie passively as they expected. How could I? I’d promised you, and I’m na’ an easy man to dissuade. I’d as lief say these are wounds from fighting and it took a dozen men to subdue me, but it would be a lie.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “It only took one. With a club. They cheated.”

  “They hit you? Oh, Kameron, does that hurt, too?”

  “If you will take my mind off the pain like you did last time, I will admit to it in every excruciating detail. So, what say you?”

  “Take your skirt off and let me see.”

  “Kilt, love. Kilt. Please. This here is a kilt. Or feileadh-breacan . ’Tis na’ a skirt. It’s a kilt. You ken?” He corrected her, but he was grinning as he started unwinding the cloth.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lucilla didn’t hide her desire to peek. Constant had to give her that. Any woman would have done the same. Kam was hidden behind the open door of the armoire, his feet, lower legs, and upper body visible. He rested his chin on his arms, which were folded over the top of the door, while he waited. Constant watched as Lucilla looked over what the swaying lamp revealed, licked her lips, and then sighed.

  “Here are my husband’s clothes.” Constant held out the sodden bundle, trying not to get wet. It was futile. Her thin, damp muslin gown clung to her curves.

  “Sí, señora,” Lucilla whispered, but didn’t move.

  “You are to press the water out as best you can, and hang them.”

  “Sí, señora,” she said again.

  “You are to do it now, Lucilla.”

  The woman finally moved her gaze from Kameron’s area of the room and opened her arms to accept the bundle of clothing.

  “This will take some time, mistress.”

  Constant shrugged. “I still have my two hours left, or most of them. That is enough time.”

  “His Lordship brought the sea in with him. Does he need toweling off, too?”

  “I have it under control, Lucilla. You may leave.”

  “You do not wish me to assist? He will be chilled if he does not dry off well. I will be honored to assist.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you would. He is very handsome, isn’t he?” Constant couldn’t resist. She almost bit her own tongue for saying it, though.

  “Madre de Dios! He is a god. I cannot believe
such perfection in a man, of all creatures. If I had a man such as he . . .” Her voice trailed off, leaving it to Constant’s imagination.

  “What is taking so long? It’s na’ exactly warm over here,” Kameron called from the other side of the chamber.

  “It’s your fault,” Constant replied over her shoulder.

  “Mine? How do you come up with that?”

  “Lucilla is in raptures over you, Kameron. Perhaps you shouldn’t display so much of yourself next time you visit me.”

  “Constant, I’m warning you.”

  Constant smiled wryly. “He isn’t a patient man, Lucilla. Thank you for taking care of his clothing. I will call for you.” Constant was holding the door open, and when that didn’t work, she had to turn Lucilla and give her a push. She was rolling her eyes by then. Kameron had warned her. He really was desired by any and all women.

  “Damn it! This is ridiculous! I am a married man.”

  The armoire door slammed as she turned the lock. Constant swallowed before turning around. The reply died in her throat. Kameron’s nakedness was caressed by the light every time it swung over him. He had his arms folded across his chest; feet planted apart; his hair tucked behind his ears, leaving it to curl slightly on the mounds of his chest; and his chin lowered to glare at her—and those were the parts of him she managed to look at without blushing.

  Constant caught her breath at the sight. “You may be married, Kameron . . . b-but you’re still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. I can’t fault the others for noticing. I can only join them.”

  “You really think so? Even with my scars? My deformities?”

  “What scars? Where?”

  He turned around, flaring his back. Constant’s eyes widened at the myriad of jagged, brownish-looking stripes across his skin. She only wished it detracted from him a little. He was still handsome, muscled, and very much naked.

  “The honey-herb salve didn’t work?” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” She was, too. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “The Brits doona’ stock it, love. Is it that bad?”

  “No,” she replied, but knew he’d hear the tears she was holding back.

  “Damn it, Constant. I didn’t escape to make you cry. That’s the last thing I want. Believe me.”

  He turned back. She watched him wince before he quickly stifled it.

  “Oh, Kameron, where does it hurt?”

  “Forgive me. Wrong leg.”

  She ran her eyes over his legs, trying to swallow her nervousness. She couldn’t see a thing wrong with his legs; they were perfectly proportioned, very muscled, and without one hair marring them from his ankles to his . . .

  Constant gasped and looked away.

  “I ken. I should na’ have brought it up. One leg is shorter than the other, and na’ as muscled. Result of wearing a splint for as long as I had to. You can look aside. It’s all right.”

  “Oh, Kameron.”

  “Constant Ballan, doona’ dare pity me! I would na’ stand for it in that little cramped parlor, and I definitely will na’ now. You hear me?”

  She forced herself to look directly at him. He thought she pitied him? With every bit of him displayed every time the dim, golden light slithered across him?

  She took a deep breath. “Pity?” she asked. Louder, she repeated, “Pity? Why would I feel such a thing? And why would you believe it so readily? You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, Kameron Geoffrey Bennion Alistair . . . uh, Gannett, and whatever-other-names-you-have, Ballan!” Constant stopped to suck in more air. “Pity? What scarring you have only makes you more dangerous-looking, and you don’t need any more of that! As for any deformity—to either leg—let me tell you, I can’t see it. I only see legs that need some hair on them!” She had to stop to breathe again. “I told you I think you’re the most handsome man born. It’s still true. Pity you? I have to shove the women away. Pity? I can’t believe the stupidity of the word!”

  Her chest fell as she used the last of her breath to finish her rant.

  His lips twisted. The next time the light caught him, he was grinning. Then, he was moving. Constant seemed rooted to the spot as she waited, her breathing more rapid and shallow as he neared.

  “No, Kameron . . . wait—”

  She didn’t get anything else out as he reached her, pulling her so rapidly into his embrace, she stumbled there. Then he was stealing her breath away with the pressure of his lips against hers. Then he was sliding his mouth across her cheek, teasing her neck, tempting an earlobe.

  Constant was trembling. It was far shy of his shaking, though.

  “You’re cold,” she managed to whisper.

  He chuckled, and the parts of him that she was pressed against moved with it. Her eyes flew open at the pressure.

  “Na’ even remotely, love,” he answered, whispering against her ear.

  “But—but—”

  “But naught.”

  “Then . . . why—”

  He bent his neck, tickled his tongue along the edge of her jaw, and Constant lost her question in a sigh. He molded his lips to her chin, moving it upward until she faced the darkness of the ceiling.

  “Why . . . what, love?”

  She gulped. Kameron moved his lips to toy with the slight movement in her throat.

  “Kam . . . ?”

  “Hmm?” he answered, moving his mouth to the indentation at the base of her throat before pulling her closer. His hands reached around her, where she could feel them fingering the corset encircling her waist. He groaned against her skin. “The board has to go first,” he whispered.

  “Board?” Constant repeated. She couldn’t think. She could barely remember to breathe.

  “I’ve better ways to improve your posture. Starting with running my fingers along your spine and feeling you tremble. That sounds nice.”

  He was fitting word to deed, although the only hint she had that he was undoing her hooks was the feel of release at her bosom. She couldn’t feel a bit of it along her back, but knew when he finished as his fingers slid beneath the wood and supported each shoulder, curving her more fully against him.

  “It’s polished wood,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “It was carved for this purpose? They make such an instrument of torture?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll na’ allow one near our daughters.”

  “We only have . . . one daughter,” Constant panted in reply.

  It was difficult to keep her mind on what he was saying while he untied the ribbons keeping her backboard in place. She felt it give along her ribs as each one was freed. He slid the piece away from her, dropping it with a thud of wood on wood as it hit the decking at their feet.

  “We’ve but one daughter thus far, darling. I fully intend to correct that deficiency. I have been so warned, you know.”

  “Warned?”

  “Save for the occasional male, your family births daughters. Lots and lots of them. I recollect hearing that. And ’tis my bound duty to give them to you. I fully intend to do so, too.”

  “But, Kameron, I—”

  “Doona’ worry, love. I ken the rules. I ken the punishment, too. Trust me. My entire body kens. It’s na’ likely while you still suckle the twins, anyhow.”

  “How—?”

  “How do I ken such a thing? I’d answer, but I canna’ recall. Some woman, in another lifetime, must have told me.”

  She stiffened. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “If you’re going to get all unyielding and argumentative every time I lose my wits and speak without thinking, I’ll just have to keep my mouth busy on other things.”

  “I didn’t—”

  He didn’t let her finish that either, as his lips caught hers again, draining any desire to talk or do anything other than cling to him. She wasn’t standing on the floor any longer, and she couldn’t recall when her feet left it.

  “Oh, God. Oh, love. Oh . . . Constant.”
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  He was breathing the words against her mouth, filling her with such emotion there wasn’t anything about her that felt unyielding or remotely argumentative. He lifted her, balancing her with his hands hooked beneath her armpits, his elbows taut against her sides. Constant’s hands fell to his shoulders as she was held above him, her eyes wide and staring as he rocked back and forth with the ship’s motion beneath her.

  “Kameron, we’re going to fall,” she said.

  “You think it possible to fall any further, love?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I ken verra well what you meant, and you’re going to have to learn to trust me.” He slid her back down him, closed his eyes, tightened his entire frame, and then a glimmer of what had to be pain arced across his face.

  Constant held her breath and waited. It seemed to take forever until he opened his eyes, although it was only four sways of the lamp. She stood, confined by his arms and watching through a mist of tears until he met her gaze.

  “You are more beautiful than my dreams, love, and that is difficult to believe,” he whispered.

  “You’re in pain,” she answered.

  “What?”

  She didn’t imagine the surprise on his face. She blinked, and the moisture in one eye became a tear, wending its way to her mouth. “You can’t hide it forever,” she answered.

  “I am na’ in pain, love. Well, mayhap I am, but ’tis the kind that’s most enjoyable. I guarantee it.”

  “You cannot lie to me, Kameron.”

  “I doona’ lie. All right, I lie sometimes.” He sighed, and her body moved with it. “Verra well, I lie a lot. But right now, I’m telling the truth. I am na’ in pain. Anywhere. I canna’ feel anything except my wife in my arms, my body giving me trouble over it, and a center of warmth radiating from where I have her clasped. If that is pain, God but grant me more of it.”

  “You winced. I saw it.”

  He smiled, and his eyebrows moved wickedly up and down several times. “I keep forgetting how innocent you are. It does na’ seem possible, when you’ve the body designed by my deepest desires, but so be it. I am na’ in pain, Constant, love. I am stifling myself. It is na’ easy.”

  “Stifling . . . yourself?”