Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  Constant swallowed her first response, which was to agree with him. She wasn’t supposed to know! “His . . . children? What is this you say?”

  “He—uh . . . his children had a mishap. They were missing. You must turn to your guest now.” He changed from speaking Spanish to English as he addressed the old woman, mouthing the same platitudes he’d been saying all evening. “The princess thanks you for the gifts. She wishes to acknowledge your presence here. She extends the warmest wishes to you.” Constant nodded slightly as the old woman responded with a toothless smile and moved to speak with the duchess on Constant’s other side.

  “He is very handsome,” Constant told her interpreter. “More so than I’d been told, and even that sounded fanciful.”

  “I am no judge of such, Your Highness,” Sir San Simeon replied.

  “Oh, come now. You know beauty when you see it. He has the countenance of an angel. I’d heard that, too. I just didn’t believe it.”

  “He is no angel when crossed. That is what I saw.”

  “Yes,” Constant whispered softly. “He is especially wondrous when he is angered, isn’t he?”

  “He does not appear an easy man to handle,” he replied.

  “Really? Hmm.”

  She smiled after the reply and moved her eyebrows several times, and was rewarded with his answering smile. Then she looked to the nobleman who was bowing before her, put her hand in his, and awaited the introduction.

  Constant met personage after personage, a blur of plaid-clad clansmen and elegantly gowned clanswomen. Throughout it, she knew where Kameron was. He didn’t stay in one place, but he wasn’t mingling with the guests dining on haggis, salmon cakes, roast beef slices, quail, and a varied selection of wines. He was moving to various vantage points throughout the room, and always he was watching her.

  He’d dressed for the event. He wore attire almost exactly like his sire; only on Kameron it emphasized his perfectly proportioned, athletic, muscled frame. He had a long sword strapped to his side. The purselike sporran. A red-and-white-on-black plaid kilt. A tightly fitted black jacket. A froth of lace down his shirtfront. He’d pulled his hair back in a queue. He was worse than beautiful. He was jaw-dropping. And he had the blue ribbon about his fist. He kept bringing it to his mouth as if in homage. Constant had a difficult time paying attention to the presentations. She didn’t see most of them, she couldn’t hear above the high-pitched note in her ears, and Kameron kept moving ever closer.

  All of which changed when a beautiful green-eyed woman with pale skin, dark red hair, and blood-red lips curtsied before her. The woman had a spectacular shape, too, outlined in her dark green bodice and the contrasting white of her skirt. Constant’s eyes narrowed, and she forced herself to listen as the woman was announced, although she already surmised who she was, and why she was there.

  “. . . of Barclay.”

  “I have no wish to meet this woman, Sir San Simeon. Tell her that, if you dare.”

  “The princess is pleased to see you, Lady Barclay. She extends warm greetings, and comments on how beautifully you are gowned.”

  “If you extend an invitation to any of my homes, San Simeon, I shall make you regret it,” Constant said again, smiling and nodding to the overly painted woman. Lucilla had dusted Constant with powder, expertly lined her eyes with kohl, touched the slightest bit of rouge to her cheeks, and reddened her lips. Constant had thought it theatrical and unladylike. She knew the truth, now. She looked fresh and untouched next to the vivid picture the Marchioness of Barclay presented.

  “Her Highness extends her warmest wishes to you, Lady Barclay. Thank you for attending. Good eve,” he finished.

  “I see Kam is here,” the woman had the affront to whisper loudly. “I must see him. Surely you can arrange something.”

  She wasn’t speaking to Constant. That much was obvious. She was addressing her request to the duchess. Constant’s eyes narrowed.

  “You ask too much, Lindy. I have no control—”

  “You got him to attend, didn’t you? Use your influence. Do something! He won’t answer my letters!”

  “My son is recently wed, Lindy. To a princess, no less. You are causing a scene. Go. Don’t appear desperate. Men hate that.”

  Her Grace knows enough of men to give advice? Constant wondered. It didn’t seem possible.

  “The Lady Barclay appears most insistent. Translate what she has said,” Constant ordered San Simeon.

  “She is requesting a tea with Her Grace,” he answered. “I don’t believe the invitation will be forthcoming.”

  “She’d best not look for one from me, either,” Constant commented.

  The moment the green-eyed siren moved away, Constant was looking for Kameron. She shouldn’t; she didn’t want to know if he approached his former lover, or what he would do if she approached him.

  She needn’t have worried. Kam was standing within yards of the dais. He had the ribbon-wound fist raised to his lips and his eyes on no other woman except her. He had them narrowed as he watched her, concentrating. Constant wondered why it was taking him so long to approach her. She hadn’t changed that much. True, she’d thinned to a smaller shape, had a veil worth a king’s ransom wrapped about her, bluish-black hair combed and arranged into a lattice-style hair covering made of hammered silver strands, and a touch of paint to her face, but she was still the same.

  The last fellow in line bowed before Constant. She heard his name with half an ear, recognized that he was a knight of some order or the other, and saw that Kameron was moving toward her. She was breathless as he approached, and incapable of saying any of the fulsome words San Simeon put to voice in her name for the knight. She didn’t care, either.

  Kameron reached the dais and stood where he had before, his chin lowered and his lips pursed. Constant had rarely seen anything as stirring. She knew it had something to do with how the candles in the chandeliers had dimmed, losing their light in the softening tallow. It also had something to do with the small group of musicians tuning their instruments from behind the curtained minstrel gallery. It had a bit to do with the activity taking place, as servants cleared away the banquet tables and arranged seating along the walls for those who preferred to watch the dancing. But it had the most to do with Kameron’s steady regard.

  “I see you’ve returned, son. Saving face?” the duke asked.

  “Doona’ fool yourself, sir. I dinna’ return to save anyone’s face, least of all, yours.”

  “Well, at least you’re consistent. I’ll have to give you that much, lad. Always did hate me, dinna’ you?”

  Kam shrugged. He didn’t take his eyes off Constant. There wasn’t a single indication that he recognized her. Not one.

  “You worked to gain my hatred. You must have wanted it. I complied.”

  “You’re verra blunt, especially for a man meeting his wife for the first time.”

  “Oh . . . I’m verra blunt for any man, sir. That’s one of the things the ladies seem to appreciate about me.” He smirked. “At least, so they tell me.”

  “Kameron Ballan!”

  The duke’s exclamation almost hid hers. Kam lifted his brows.

  “I am also in possession of my bairns. I would na’ have returned, otherwise.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I expected nothing less.”

  “Besides, I’ve been assured she does na’ speak our language. With the words you two spout, her ignorance is a decided blessing. So tell me, does my new wife speak anything besides Spanish?”

  There was a bit of consternation between her new in-laws. Sir San Simeon answered, “Her Highness is well versed in the language of her father, my lord. King Philip was once the Dauphin of France before gaining sovereignty over Spain. His daughter speaks French. Fluently.”

  “Français?” Kam repeated.

  “Oui,” her interpreter replied.

  “Bien.”

  Then Kameron actually asked Constant if she knew the dance steps well enough to couple with
him. She couldn’t believe her ears, although her heart did. It fell. And then it pounded with increasing fury from her belly. She was incapable of dancing. She was afraid she might be physically ill.

  “I am . . . unwell,” she replied.

  “I will take my place beside you, then. Your Grace, if you please? My chair?”

  Kameron’s mother looked annoyed at being moved, but she stepped sideways and sank into the end chair. That was a relief. They could all sit. Constant silently prayed not to fall. She had to wait for her attendants to raise the back of her wire-stiffened underskirt. This made it possible to sit at the front edge of the seat, her skirts falling about her ankles, as was considered graceful and proper. She waited as her attendants knelt to each side of her and settled the back of her skirts on her chair, leaving white satin underskirts to cover her. The skirt was arranged to billow about her, and then she nodded, dismissing them. She kept her eyes downcast. She didn’t dare look at Kam until she had the blank expression back on her face.

  Then he was beside her, although he didn’t deign to use the steps. He simply put a foot onto the platform and climbed up, sliding in one smooth motion into the chair beside her. Constant stared straight ahead, although every nerve was aware of him at her side.

  “No one spoke of the beauty of my bride,” Kameron said in French. “I’m surprised. I had heard . . . uh . . . certain things of Spaniards. I was foolish to believe them, I see.”

  “What . . . things?” Constant asked. Then frowned. Her voice was a croak. Not remotely lyrical and high-pitched. She had to correct it, but how? Wouldn’t heartbreak automatically transfer to one’s voice?

  “Too horrid for your delicate ears, I’m afraid. And definitely too unflattering.”

  “My . . . lord!” Constant managed to reply.

  “You must call me Kam. Please. I will accept no other. We are going to be close, you understand. Verra close. That leads to intimacy. Marital intimacy. You and I. The idea has merit, I must admit.”

  “You are even more blunt than I suspected, son,” the duke interrupted, speaking flawless French from Constant’s other side.

  “And you are eavesdropping on a private conversation, sir.”

  Kameron had answered in English. Constant stiffened further. This was going to get even more difficult if she had to remember which words she was supposed to have understood, and which she wasn’t.

  The duke snorted. “Private?” he answered, again in English. “In a roomful of gossips and hangers-on? You do the duchess proud, although I find myself wondering at it, too. Earlier, you wouldn’t even look at her. Why the change of heart?”

  “I dinna’ get a good enough look. Obviously. Also, my attention was elsewhere at the time. Now, it is na’.”

  The duke snorted again. Louder this time. Constant did her best to look ignorant of all of it.

  “What of your first wife? Your grief? The overdramatic mourning at Pitcairn Tower? Your reclusive behavior? You see a bonny face and forget your first wife so easily?”

  “It was time, I think. I’ve mourned long enough. Time to live again. And you’re mistaken. My new wife is na’ bonny. She is astoundingly beautiful.”

  The duke chuckled. “You decided all this, in what? An hour?”

  “I had a very good look throughout that hour. The king has seen fit to wed me to a beautiful woman . . . possessing amazing features and a ripe shape. I came to a decision. It has something to do with physical discomfort. I canna’ be celibate forever.”

  “If I labeled you blunt, it was an understatement. You’re in luck she doesn’t speak the tongue. She’d probably be swooning.”

  Constant was beyond swooning, although it sounded like a grand idea. The entire room before her felt as if it was reeling in a circular fashion. She just couldn’t fathom why she was still sitting upright and stiff beside the man she’d given everything for.

  “So tell me, chérie,” Kameron whispered, leaning close to her ear. “What does the key unlock?”

  Constant toyed with telling him a lie, but couldn’t think of one. She couldn’t think of anything. She swallowed, and blurted out the truth. “Ma chambre,” she said.

  “Bien,” he replied. “Très bien.”

  Constant watched the myriad of couples forming interlocking circles on the floor before them with eyes that were swimming in tears. She’d spent months preparing for this moment, changing her appearance and her demeanor. But now she was at a loss. What could she do?

  She’d just replaced herself in Kameron Ballan’s life.

  The musicians struck a chord. It didn’t match the one she was hearing. The one she heard was akin to glass breaking.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “That spawn of el diablo! I am a fool! An imbecile! And that man! I will never trust him . . . never. I swear it! I think I hate him!” Constant flung the mantilla at the floor. “And to think I have re-created myself for him! Dios! I am a fool! And there is nothing worse!”

  “There is much that is worse, Your Highness.” It was Lucilla answering, and her even tone only made Constant angrier.

  “How dare he?”

  “You must calm yourself.”

  “Calm myself? Why should I? No one will care. He doesn’t care!”

  “He cares.”

  “He does not! He doesn’t even know that it’s me!”

  Lucilla sighed heavily. “Did you truly expect him to? Look at yourself. Go ahead, take a good look.”

  Constant’s lips thinned, and then she did the same to her eyes. It didn’t change anything. She was still getting prepared to be bedded by her new husband, and there wasn’t anyone she could blame but herself. Lucilla lifted her hands and pointed.

  “Go ahead. Look. I dare you.”

  Constant swiveled, blinked, and still couldn’t believe her own eyes. Three oversized cheval mirrors were arrayed in one corner of her tower chamber, so it was easy to view herself from every angle. Without the mantilla veiling her, it was impossible to miss the tiny waist, the large bosom, and the wealth of blue-black hair that was enshrined in netting woven with strands of pure silver. Her nose had a slight upward tilt at the end of it, the outline of black around her eyes made them look like stones of vivid blue set in the center of a pristine, porcelain complexion, and what Kameron had once called large, luscious lips were just that, especially with the salve Lucilla had spread on them earlier. She’d described it when she’d been putting the finishing touches to Constant’s attire. Such a salve contained capsicum, a pepper that was sure to enlarge and redden sensitive tissues like lips.

  Lucilla hadn’t lied. It had stung for a bit, too, but the result had seemed worth it . . . then. Now it was another unwanted indication she’d be giving the great Kameron Ballan when he attended her. She was displaying that she desired him. Constant watched her mirror image waver for a moment with tears she couldn’t cry, and then she sighed.

  “Very well, Lucilla. I’m looking. I’m very desirable. I’m very lush. I’m very beautiful. You didn’t lie. I look nothing like myself. You have done wonders with your paints and your salves and your inks.”

  Lucilla tossed her hands in the air. “But I used nothing! A bit of kohl, a dusting of powder and some lip salve. It is the foundation that matters! A beautiful woman will always be so. She will just be more so when enhanced.”

  Constant turned away from her image. It didn’t help. The heartache wasn’t because of how she looked, but how well it had worked. She was beautiful now. So beautiful that it had taken about an hour to be replaced in his affections once Kameron had seen the new version of her.

  An hour.

  “He didn’t recognize me,” she whispered.

  “It has been a long evening, fraught with turmoil. It will be an even longer night for you, I think. We have a filmy peignoir set aside—”

  “Must you go on and on about it?” Constant spat, interrupting the recitation. She didn’t want to hear about the gossamer gown and robe. She already knew. She’d picked it ou
t. She’d wanted a seductive atmosphere.

  “He is a man, señora. You are very much a woman . . . his woman. He hasn’t had a woman since his first wife’s death. I know these things. They gossip about him. They will gossip about you. They already do. I have heard them, and understood with what English I know. It will be a long night. If I was unwed still, I’d envy you. They all do.”

  “Get them out.” Constant eyed each of the other three maids, all wide-eyed and openmouthed as they watched her, uncomprehending looks on their faces.

  “I cannot handle your gown on my own, Your Highness. It’s worth a king’s ransom, and weighs as much. Sir San Simeon waits in the hall to take it under his control. At least give me their assist until we have it taken away.”

  “Not a moment longer, then. You may proceed.”

  Constant turned her back to them, facing her reflections in the trio of mirrors again, and watched Lucilla’s set chin.

  “They can cease looking at me with such envy, too. Tell them to cease. I refuse to allow it.”

  “You cannot command looks,” Lucilla answered.

  “Why not? I’m a princess, am I not? I command. Others obey. What use is royalty if no one obeys?”

  “They’re envious of you. Any woman would be. His Lordship is known for his . . . uh . . . how shall I say it? Abilities? Yes, that is it. The man had a reputation, although he is a changed man since wedding you in the colonies. He turns away from every woman. It doesn’t change what he is, or how he appears. He still is most handsome. Manly. You know. He takes the breath away. He is a muscled, massive, virile-looking male . . . without equal. Any woman would envy you.”

  “Let them take my place then. Dios! I can’t believe my own stupidity. I even gave him a key!”

  “It was ever so romantic, too. The servants have whispered of little else since.”

  “I will not be the subject of gossip! I will not! Tell them to stop!”

  Lucilla sighed again. “You are a member of the peerage now. They are servants. I am a servant. We gossip. But do not fret. It is not hateful gossip, such as that duchess woman spouts. The staff is very pleased about the turn of events. Very. His Lordship is well liked by the staff. I don’t think his padre and madre are aware of that. It is contrary to how they themselves are regarded.”