Laird of Ballanclaire (18 page)

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.

“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.

She thought she may have snoozed when the footsteps began echoing again. She shook her head, straightened. If she’d managed to sleep, it had done absolutely nothing for the ache behind, and inside of, her eyes. She put both hands to them and rubbed.

She had her hands perfectly folded in her lap, and was sitting up straight when the same two soldiers came into view again. They were still in perfect lockstep. They didn’t glance her way.

They were given permission to enter at the knock. Constant tipped her head to listen.

“Well? You have an update?”

“His ribs are broken, sir.”

“How many?”

“Too many to count, sir.”

“Too many?”

“Yes.”

Constant caught her hands to her breast to hold the reaction in.
They’d hit him that hard, and that often? Oh, Kameron!

“But . . . he will recover?”

“He’s strong. In good health. Doctor Thornacre believes he should make a full recovery. The damage can’t be mended until the swelling goes down, though.”

“I see. Draft a report for his father. I’ll sign it. Anything else?”

“What of the woman, sir?”

“What woman?”

Constant’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her fingers went icy.

“The one who accompanied him, sir.”

“There was a woman with him? Why wasn’t I informed earlier? She may know something. Fetch her. Fetch her immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

It seemed an instant later they were both standing in front of her, looking and waiting.

“Mistress?”

She didn’t look at them. She looked at her entwined hands. She gulped. She tried tightening her muscles. Nothing worked. She was afraid to stand. Her legs felt like jelly, and just as strong.

“The commander is requiring a word with you, mistress.”

“A . . . word?” she whispered.

“We’re here to escort you. Now, mistress.”

Constant shifted forward. She put her hands on her knees and silently ordered her legs to support her. The soldiers didn’t wait that long. Large, male hands gripped her upper arms and hauled her to her feet.

Constant dangled between them, searching for some feeling in her feet, and that’s why she got dragged across the threshold and into the commander’s apartments. It wasn’t an auspicious way to meet the man holding her fate in his hands, but there was nothing she could do about it.

“Set her in the chair. Gently, Lieutenant.”

They put her in a chair. She supposed it was gently, but it was mortifying all the same. Constant sank into the padded wingback chair, folded her hands, and kept her eyes on her lap.

“Now, young woman. Speak up. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Constant looked up. The commanding officer was standing in front of her, feet apart, his bearing stiff and militaristic. He still looked short. There was a large portrait of what must be the king, George the Third, behind him. Shelves full of books flanked the painting. A large fire lit the area from a fireplace on her right, bordered by long, velvet drapes. The walls were covered in dark wooden paneling separated by wainscoting in a lighter shade. A coat of arms was mounted above the fireplace. Compared to the dull, nondescript hall outside, it was awe-inspiring. Constant stared.

“Does she have a voice, or is she a deaf-mute?” the commander asked, without taking his eyes off her.

“Well? Speak up, wench.”

They were all looking at her. Constant swallowed in order to find her voice.

“She was at the scene, sir. She had the horse’s reins.”

“Really?” The commander put a supercilious note on the word.

“She might know who the devils are, sir.”

“Has anyone seen to that, then?”

“We didn’t know what to do with her. She claims to be, uh . . . pardon the gall, sir, married to Lord Ballanclaire.”

“Oh. I’m certain she wishes as much. What else does she claim?”

Constant was grateful she hadn’t found her voice yet. She narrowed her eyes and regarded the trio.

“Not much else, sir. No one has spoken to her since her arrival.”

“That isn’t very comforting. You let an unknown woman wander our halls? Worse yet, a woman who participated in Lord Ballanclaire’s beating and near hanging? Where have your wits gone, Adjutant Simpson? Out with the night watch?”

Constant watched a flush rise from the man’s high-necked collar. She almost felt sorry for him. She cleared her throat, making them all look to her again.

“I wasn’t participating in anything,” she told the commander. “I was holding the horse to keep it from bolting and snapping Kameron’s neck.”

“Kameron?” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.

She nodded. She watched him consider her. Then he pulled a chair forward in order to sit facing her.

“You know who did this?”

She nodded again.

“And yet, you did nothing?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she stared without blinking, quivering in place as she struggled to stop them. She failed. She watched as he wavered and blurred in front of her as tears slipped from her eyes and more just kept coming. She was disgusted with herself. With good reason. After staying dry-eyed since the onions, she had to start weeping now?

“Hand her a handkerchief, Adjutant. Yes. One of yours.”

Constant ignored the offered linen, lifting her apron instead to her eyes. They waited while she got herself under control. This was horrid. Detestable. She didn’t blame them for any low opinion they might have of her. After enduring what she had, she should be able to explain herself without sobbing helplessly. Nobody said anything as she finally squelched the tears, lowered her apron, and looked across at the commander again.

“Are you ready to continue now?”

Constant forced her face into a blank expression that matched his. She’d been told of the English sense of superiority. Their snobbery. An almost inhuman adherence to class restriction and rules. She hadn’t known it included lack of chivalry. They didn’t even offer her a sip of water. She finally nodded.

“Does that mean you did something about this unlawful perfidy perpetrated on Lord Ballanclaire?”

That was a mouthful of large words. It sounded ridiculous, too. If he was attempting to show his superiority through his vocabulary, though, he should have picked on a less educated girl. Constant studied him for a few moments before nodding again.

“And just what would that be?”

Her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn’t seem to help it. What had she done? She’d ruined her reputation with an entire community. The admission in front of all those men today wasn’t going to stay secret. She was a soiled woman now. A woman of low repute and loose morals. A Jezebel. An outcast. Constant had to look down, and watched a tear drop onto her abused and soiled apron. Then another one. She swallowed. It scraped along her throat. And then she answered.

“I . . . wed with him,” she said.

The commander’s reaction was immediate. He choked, and then he was outright laughing. Constant lifted her head and found his amusement helped conquer the unbridled sobs. He wasn’t just chuckling, either. He was near to falling from his chair with merriment. The last tear fell, clearing her eyes. She sniffed the last of her emotion away. And then she just waited.

He seemed to take a long time to sober, but finally he pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in his perfectly starched and ironed uniform, and used it to mop at his eyes.