Laird of Ballanclaire (10 page)

“You do need something to put around yourself, don’t you?” she asked.

No answer. Just the openmouthed fish look he kept giving her. Constant swiveled to place her back to him and peeled the pantaloons over her boots. She turned back around and handed them out to him. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. She had to fold them neatly and put them on the straw beside him. Then she crawled over to get his supper.

She felt his eyes on her the entire time, or actually, it felt as though they were burning right through her dress to where her pantaloons should be. It was discomfiting, and more than once brought a blush to her cheeks as she assembled and then brought his supper over.

“Doona’ so much as think of sitting anywhere near me,” he said in a tight voice she’d never heard anyone use before.

She spread out the apron and scooted back about four feet, which appeared to be outside his reach. Then she crossed her legs, tucked her feet beneath her knees, and made certain the whole was covered with her skirt.

“Is that better?” she asked, with what she hoped was the same controlled tone he was using.

He glared straight at her, frightening her with the intensity from those golden-brown orbs. “Nae, it is na’ better, Nurse Constant, but it will have to do.”

“I’m not a nurse,” Constant replied.

“Bloody good thing. Or if you take it up, work on your own kind. Should our country take this damned rebellion to war, stay away from our wounded. Lay your own lads low with ministrations such as you practice.”

“I am that bad?” Constant hated the sound of tears in her voice as much as she hated how they felt gathering in her eyes. She should’ve known she’d be incompetent at this, too.

An expletive came through his clenched teeth. And then another. And then a moment of silence before he spoke. “Forgive me, Connie, love. I am na’ myself this eve. You are na’ bad. Ever. You are that damned good.”

“You can’t be saying such things to me,” she whispered.

He sighed hugely, his breath feathering her skin from more than a yard away. She looked in the general direction of his face, although she wasn’t sure she could meet his eyes. The light molded and shadowed every bit of him into ridges and valleys of mystery. She held her breath and tried not to look, but it was hopeless.

“You’re right. I canna’ be. I should na’ be. I have only my lack of control to blame. I hope you can forgive me.”

She couldn’t answer. She was concentrating on breathing normally, while he shoved a lock of his white-blond hair off his shoulder. She found herself wondering what it felt like between his fingers, and found hers actually tingling at the thought.

“You have ever been in control of yourself, though. Except, mayhap, when you were unconscious. I would tell you if it weren’t true. I promise.”

“That is na’ the control I am referring to.”

“You can’t possibly mean—,” she began.

“You need a husband, Constant Ridgely. You really do. A big, strapping one. One that could bend me in two just for imagining the things I have been imagining—let alone voicing some of them.”

“I don’t think they come that big. Or if they do, I’m not likely to run across one.”

He narrowed his eyes at that. “I canna’ believe my own stupidity.”

“About what now?”

“Everything. Starting with getting tarred and feathered. Although, now that I think on it, if I’d have known my torture would result in meeting you, I might na’ have fought it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Na’ in the least. I’d probably have the use of my legs, too . . . but that would na’ be a good thing at this juncture.”

“You’d be able to walk.”

“If I were more mobile, right here and right now, we would be in trouble. Extreme trouble.”

He turned back to face the feast she’d spread out for him. She heard him grunt with pain as he lifted his arms over the log. She knew it was probably from his ribs, and the movement he forced on them. She watched him for a few more moments, and then she had to ask.

“From who?”

He had a mouthful of food, and she had to wait for him to swallow. “From who . . . what?”

“Who would we be in trouble from?”

“Oh. Myself. This is good pie. Everything you do is good, though. I hope you realize that by now.”

She watched him shovel in a whole nine-inch pie in what appeared to be three bites. She waited until he swallowed before speaking again. “You would be in trouble from yourself?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

“I already am, but it makes me a fool to voice it. I’m beginning to think my trouble is going to have degrees to it. It’s going to constantly increase, too. Another constant thing about you. I really like your name, actually. It’s so descriptive of everything about you.” Then he saluted her.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like my brother does.”

He pulled the buttermilk tureen from his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at her. “The pip, Henry?”

She nodded.

“I think I’m insulted again.” He choked. “Nae. This time I am insulted. Are you likening me to a five-year-old now?”

“No. Only remarking that you’re using my name against me. He does it when he cannot get his way with me. I don’t know what your excuse is.”

“The same as his, actually.”

He shoved an entire roll into his mouth the moment he finished speaking. Constant watched him and thought the tremors running through his frame were from laughter. When he finished the roll, he kept trying to hold it in. Then he just leaned farther over the log and shook with repressed amusement, although the snorts and grunts were loud anyway.

The following day had a slowness to it that defied description. Every chore felt even more endless. That was one reason Constance procrastinated over them. Chores were onerous, lengthy, boring, and—despite what the reverend said—busy hands didn’t do a thing for her wandering mind . . . or the sins she was envisioning.

If this was what Kameron had been referring to when he was teaching her about flirting, it was a devastating condition; akin to sleepwalking. If troops could be made to suffer such a thing, the outcome of battle would be a foregone conclusion: the soldiers would be useless.

Constant took her hand from the stretched clothesline so quickly it twanged. Could that be what Kam meant when he told her not to nurse any of his soldiers? He couldn’t possibly mean she put him into the same emotional state . . . could he?

There was no one she could ask. She’d told Stream nearly the whole of it, but her sister simply nodded and smiled, as she always did. She was a comfort to talk to, but Stream didn’t have any answers. No one did.

Only once did Constant ask her mother about any of it. They were assessing the contents of the smokehouse for what meat would suffice, since turkey was starting to pall on everyone’s palate. Constant got brave and asked Mother what it meant if a man wanted his way with a woman.

Constant had been troubled, ever since Kam said it, that it meant exactly what she suspected. But it didn’t seem possible. The handsome, self-assured Scotsman couldn’t possibly want such a thing with her. Mother was indignant, and banned Constant from receiving any visits from young men for a month. That was no punishment. She never received visitors, and the last thing she wanted was a visit from Thomas, anyway.

She’d had to avert her face to keep any of that from showing, however. She hadn’t been able to stop her entire body from flushing. It was a good thing it was dim inside the smokehouse.

But nothing made the day go any faster!

Each minute passed by with excruciating slowness, and heightened her awareness. Constant had never been more aware of everything. The air-dried sheets radiated stiff and cold as she folded them. The butter felt slick and moist, melting with a smattering of bubbles when she spread it on toast. Every bite of her oatmeal had a separate taste and texture. She’d tarried over her bowl, letting the bites languish on her tongue until she could swear she tasted each separate oat.

She had an even worse time just before the noon meal. Mother wanted a pig put on a spit for roasting outside. Constant blushed ceaselessly while working with the meat, first impaling it, then guiding it onto the spit, and finally smoothing salted honey into the flesh. She couldn’t think beyond how firm and supple it felt, rather like Kameron. Mother had even scolded Constant to cease fondling the meat and put it over the flame, for goodness’ sake.

Her visit with Charity was the worst, however. The new mother had developed a cough, and while that was worrisome, her apathy was more so. She was pale and listless in the bed, sending back most of her food untouched. Mother merely clucked her tongue over it, and took the new baby. According to Mother, Charity was suffering from a common condition called blues, although nothing about Charity looked that color.

At the lunch meal, Constant tipped Charity’s door open with her hip, balancing the food tray. Her sister looked over from a position against the headboard, and frowned.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve brought a nice soup of lentils and beef broth. There’s a slice of bread, too. Fresh baked. I hope you enjoy it.” Constant adopted the most cheerful tone she could manage.

“When you learn how to make bread, I’ll enjoy it.”

Constant’s smile wavered for a moment. She put the tray on the table next to Charity’s bed and shrugged. “Fair enough,” she replied finally.

Charity’s frown deepened. She had her best feature, the Ridgely reddish-gold hair, brushed back and secured under a bed cap, leaving her colorless and plain. She hadn’t been a raving beauty before, although her willowy figure had captured one of the richest, most influential of the landed gentry; but at least she’d had color to her cheeks and a saucy way with her lips.

“What? No ready retort? No nasty words of argument? This is most unlike you,” Charity said.

“If my bread displeases, forgive me. It must be the birth that changes your taste. No one else complains.”

“You’re acting differently. I just can’t decide if it’s for the better or not.”

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Constant moved to open the drapes.

“Leave them be! It’s gloomy, it’s cold, and the sky’s dark with clouds. It’s the most miserable fall on record. It has to be.” Charity’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“No, truly. The sun is out, turning everything to mist. I swear, ’twas difficult finding Jezebel this morning to bring her in for milking. That one was aptly named, for certain. She runs from me, but everyone knows she has buckets of milk to give.”

“Are you meaning something with that statement?” Charity asked.

“No.”

Constant turned from the drapes. Her sister was looking for someone to argue with. Normally, Constant was a ready participant. Today, however, only her body was there; her mind was yards away. It was in the barn loft, on a freshly shaved, massive chest that rippled everywhere with muscle. Constant closed her eyes on an image so clear she swore she could actually smell him, and then she reopened her eyes to Charity.

“If you don’t require anything else, I’ll be about my chores.”

“My, my. You’ve certainly changed,” Charity remarked.

“I’m no different than before, except . . . mayhap more charitable?”

“I don’t need your charity, or anyone else’s!”

“You’ve got color to your face again. It’s an improvement.”

“Do you wish to wear my soup?” Charity asked icily, lifting the bowl with both hands.

“Not especially. You should try it. It’s good. If it makes it more palatable for you, tell yourself Mother made it.”

Charity lowered the bowl back to the tray. Constant was surprised to see her sister’s arms trembling. Perhaps that was it. She was weak. Then she realized Charity was crying. She’d rarely seen her sister cry. Constant’s eyes widened.

“Oh, cease staring and let me enjoy my misery.”

Constant walked back to the bed, pulled open a drawer in the nightstand, and handed Charity a handkerchief embroidered with a nosegay. “Do you wish me to fetch Mother?” she asked.

Charity shook her head.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Charity again shook her head. Constant sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

Charity was right about the day, although the curtains hid it. It was dull and gray, with heavy clouds full of snow. It was also invigorating when breathing in a chestful of frost-filled air. The pig Constant was due to turn was smoking and putting the most heavenly odor into the air, while everywhere she looked it was crisp and bright. The day even seemed to have a sound to it. The leaves crunched underfoot, the fire snapped, and when she blew out a breath, it made a noise as well as a misty cloud. It was truly beautiful to see and experience.

And her sister called it miserable.

Charity blew her nose, sniffed again, and Constant turned back to her. Charity had more color, but it seemed to have gone right to the end of her nose and around each swollen eye. Constant looked her sister over critically. She wondered if what Kam had told her was correct, and if Charity’s misery was attached to the lie she was living.

“Has Thomas come by, at last?” her sister asked.

“Thomas?”

“Your beau.”

Constant smiled slightly. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You’re acting . . . strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were seeing a beau. And since only one man on the earth knows you exist, it has to be Esterbrook, no?”

Constant turned back to the bureau. There was definitely another man who knew about her existence. And if Charity got one glimpse of him, she’d be green with envy instead of this blue color Mother had spoken of. That was such a pleasant thought that Constant had to quickly make certain there wasn’t any expression of it on her face.

“I have no beau, so I could hardly be seeing one,” she replied finally.

“Your Thomas chose another? I’d say I’m sorry, but you’re better off without him. You’re better off without any man. Trust me.”

That sobered her. Constant looked back at her sister. “Is it that bad? Truly?”

“Are you asking of the marriage
bed
?” Charity spat the word.

Constant’s heart felt as if it dropped into her stomach and started pounding from there. “It isn’t that bad. It can’t be. Mother had nine children. Tell me it isn’t that bad.”

“Are you asking of the birthing, or the making of the baby? Ask the question straight, and I’ll give you the same when I answer.”

“I—uh . . . perhaps I should wait and ask my husband.”

“Once that happens, it’s too late. I know what you’re asking now. You wish to know of the mating act itself, don’t you?”

“Well, I—I mean, not . . . especially. I’ve seen animals. I don’t need to ask that.”

“It’s worse than anything you’ve witnessed.”

“It can’t be.”

“Oh yes, it can.”

“Then why does everyone keep doing it? I mean—”

Constant’s voice stopped. Her cheeks were so warm, they burned. She watched her sister’s eyebrows lift. And then Charity’s eyes narrowed.

“They do it because men like it. They’re bigger. Well, most men are, with the exception of little Esterbrook. They’re stronger. They force a woman. It’s not pleasant.”

“Is that why it’s called a man having his way with a woman?”

Charity drew her head back a bit in surprise. “Have you stooped to listening at keyholes now?”

Constant gulped. She’d known it was sinful. Wrong. Illicit. She didn’t need Mother’s censure, followed by Charity’s ugly words. She stood. “I have to go now. I have to turn the spit. I’m roasting a small pig. It’ll be a welcome change from turkey, Mother says.”

“It hurts,” Charity said.

Constant put her hands together for something to hold on to. “Hurts?” she repeated.

“Bad. It burns. The entire time. Every time. You can beg, too. It doesn’t stop him. There’s a part on every male that’s like a weapon. It grows and it hardens . . . and it hurts, and they don’t care.”

“A weapon?” The word was almost unintelligible.

“That’s what I said. They pry your legs apart and force it into the deepest part of you. It’s not pleasant. It’s not. It’s painful. It’s humiliating, and it’s awful, and then they use it for what seems to go on forever.”

“I . . . had better go now.” Constant walked to the door.

“The man gets above you. He holds you down. He doesn’t ask if it’s all right. He doesn’t do any stroking, or any soft gestures, or even speak with loving words. No. All he does is get atop you, shove your legs open, and insert his part in you. It’s horrible, I tell you. Horrible!”

Charity’s voice had risen and she’d started crying again, the words garbled and shrill but still understandable. They were terrifying to hear. They also brought Mother.

“Constant!” Mother had already assigned blame as she opened the door. “You are not to upset your sister.”

“She taunted me with my duties. I don’t want to go back with John, Mother! I don’t!”

“Constant, how could you?”

“But, I—” Constant began, only to be interrupted by Charity.

“Yes, she did. She asked me what it meant when a man wanted his way with a woman. She forced the issue! I don’t want to talk about it ever again! Make her go!”

There was no defense Constant could mount. She’d already asked the same question of her mother in the smokehouse. So she ducked her head and waited for the discipline.

“We’ll discuss this later, young lady. Now, hie yourself back to the kitchen. I think we need more candles made. Get Henry to help you melt wax. Now. Charity? Calm yourself. That’s a love . . .”

That was the punishment? Making candles? They already had more than three gross of them on the shelves. They put a pleasant, mild smell into the air. It was quiet in the alcove off the kitchen. It wasn’t punishment, especially as it came on the heels of escaping Charity’s bedroom.

 

 

Constant’s heart felt as heavy as her step when she approached the loft. She’d waited until past midnight. It didn’t feel remotely like last night, and she knew why. She’d started the day with wonder, and now felt only trepidation and fear. She didn’t feel like herself. Even her hands had felt awkward and ill-equipped to carve a platter full of pork slices, a heaping mound of scalloped potatoes, green beans, and four slices of bread. She’d finished the platter off with a bowl of spiced apples.

The clouds had held off snowing. It wouldn’t be long, though. The day had been too crisp, still, and mild. That was usually the harbinger of snow. Constant filled her chest with cold air and pushed the barn door open. She shut it with her foot and put the tray down in order to toss two more blankets over her shoulder.

It was warmer in the barn. The animals made it so. Constant approached the ladder with feet that dragged.

“Constant? Is that you?”

She didn’t answer the insistent whisper. She fumbled in the dark for the ladder rung, and wondered how she was supposed to finish getting the tar from him now.

“By God, it had better be you.”

“It’s me,” she replied.

“What’s wrong?”

Constant stopped, one foot on the ladder, and one still on the barn floor.
He knows something is wrong already?
That wasn’t good. In fact, it was so far from good as to be disastrous.

“Constant?”

She cleared her throat. “I’ve brought pork tonight.”

“I ken. I’ve smelled it all day. It’ll be delicious. Of course, if you had a hand in it, anything would be.”