Laird of Ballanclaire (8 page)

Constant forgot how to breathe for a moment. Then, when she remembered, it felt like an entire lungful of winter frost.
He called me very pretty!
Whatever had been the trouble with the increased awareness and sensitivity of her breasts was happening to her entire body. She hugged her arms about herself and made herself breathe in and out.

“Forget I said any of that, will you?” he asked.

“How . . . can I do that?”

He sighed. She watched his back rise and fall with it. The honey mixture stayed in place and then showed the slightest hint of blood. She busied herself with folding more cheesecloth and then put it on his back. She reached for her knife and started sharpening it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Getting ready to get more of the tar off. Just as I said I would.”

“I canna’ put any weight on my back, Constant. I’m na’ so certain I dinna’ crack a rib or two. It’s na’ possible to remove any tonight.”

“Doesn’t it itch?”

“Almost unbearably.”

“Then I’ll get it off you. Besides . . .”
I want to see if the front of you is as manly as the back
. She couldn’t finish speaking. Her thoughts were making her body alternate between flamelike heat and ice-cold chill. Heat. Chill. Fire. Ice.

“Besides what?” he asked.

“Oh . . . nothing.”

“Christ. Oh, bother. Apologies.”

Then he swore some more before speaking in a language she’d never heard before. Constant continued sharpening the knife until he quieted.

“Besides, I have an idea. Can you lift yourself with your arms?”

“How do you think I move? Wishful thinking?”

His tone was as rude as his words. Constant narrowed her eyes. She tested the knife on a blade of straw. It cut easily and cleanly. It was as sharp as it was going to get.

“Lift yourself. I’m going to get beneath you and shave your chest.”

“You are na’!”

“I most certainly am. And if you possess any hair, it won’t be difficult to get the tar off.”

“I will na’ sit idle while you shave every bit of hair off me! Do you ken how long it took to grow in the first place? I canna’ even grow a decent beard. I’m a towhead, for pity’s sake.”

Constant’s brows knit. “What does that mean?”

“White-blond. Towheads canna’ grow much hair, and when we do, it’s pale and hard to spot. I’ll have you know that women expect certain things of a man. One of them is hair on his chest. I’d rather be scarred head to toe than hairless as a newly birthed bairn.”

A flush rolled over his shoulders and disappeared beneath the bandage on his back.

“But you told me you weren’t married,” she said.

Kam made a sound that resembled cursing, but there weren’t any words to it. Constant slid onto her back to lie beside him.

“You are na’ getting beneath me, Constant. I forbid it.”

“Oh yes, I am. I’m shaving your chest. And I can’t get to it if I don’t get beneath you. Now, lift up so I can apply the lard.”

“I am strong enough to raise myself, but I canna’ hold it that long. What do you take me for, a mule?”

“We’ll do a little at a time. Now, lift.” She poked the handle of the knife at his side and was rewarded with his instant movement.

“You enjoy having me at your beck and call, doona’ you?”

He growled, but moved to place his hands, palm-down, beneath each shoulder. Constant watched the muscles flex in his shaved arm, and had to close her eyes for a moment.

“I am trying to heal you, Kameron.”

“Right,” he muttered, and pushed himself up.

Constant slid a hand into the lard bucket and smoothed it over the feather mixture coating the closest section of his chest. Feathers came away in her hand, even before she used the cloth to wipe at them. Tar was hanging in pieces from what appeared to be a very muscular, lightly haired chest. She bit her lip to keep her reaction in. It would be an easy process to go fetch scissors and cut the clinging tar from him.

That would also result in letting him keep almost all of his precious chest hair. She sucked in her cheeks as she considered. Then she put her left hand on him to steady herself, and started shaving.

“Back away, Constant. I’m coming down.”

Constant slithered out from under him as Kameron lowered back to the log. She’d known her time was about up. The trembling in his arms had increased the longer she’d slid her blade along his skin. That was her first indication he was tiring. She’d let it go on for some time though, because it disguised her own shaking.

She was having difficulty keeping the knife against his skin, and not just due to all the muscular ridges on his chest. It was more because the skin she revealed wasn’t white, injured, or remotely infirm. It was supple, clear, and unblemished, and it was tanned, as if he went shirtless often. She wiped the tar, hair, and lard mixture from the knife blade onto the dirty cheesecloth and watched her own hand quiver.

“Ready to go again?” he asked.

“I brought turkey pot pie for you,” she told the straw.

“Good. I’ll think on filling my belly. It might work.”

“With what?”

“Instead of the obvious. Are you ready or na’?”

She was blushing and afraid to consider why. She watched him lift and hold himself up. His leg wasn’t broken. She knew that for certain, as he held himself anchored with all ten toes.

“Constant, I doona’ grow any lighter, and consequently holding myself up does na’ become easier, with your idleness.”

“Oh.”

She lay on her back and scooted her head beneath him. In little time, she had the upper chest uncovered and was ready to start on what looked to be solid bumps of muscle beneath the skin of his abdomen. Only it got more difficult the longer she worked. Constant’s entire left palm kept tingling where it was propped against him, and her right was having trouble gripping the knife properly. He also smelled suspiciously like rose water, but that was impossible.

Her head was wedged against his stomach, placing her bodice beneath one of his armpits as she finished the area about his rib cage. She was as careful as possible, but still he tensed as she scraped at his ribs. She ran her fingers along the shaved skin, feeling for any uneven bones as well as thoroughly enjoying how the striations of muscle seemed to tense and release with the slightest touch of her fingertips.

“Looking for something?” he asked, his voice tight and sarcastic-sounding.

She rotated her head along the ridges of his shaved chest to look at where he’d tipped his head down to watch her. “I’m testing your ribs. They appear to all match up, although this one—and maybe this one here—have swelling on them. I think they’re cracked. We probably should wrap you.”

He sucked in air as she touched the lumps. She didn’t have to guess at the pain she caused him. His body tensed with it. She scooted out from under him and waited as he eased back down onto the log again.

“Cracked.” He finally repeated the word when the silence grew to absorb even the sound of her breathing.

“I think so. It’s bad, but could be worse. You’re lucky you’re a man. We’ve put down animals for less.”

He turned and put those beautiful lips into a smile. “You certainly do dampen a man’s enthusiasm, Constant, my love.”

“What . . . does that mean?”
And it couldn’t be what it sounded!

“More than I’ll admit at present. So . . . you think two of them are cracked?”

She nodded. “They’re healing straight, though. As far as I could tell.”

“That’s truly what you were doing?”

“Uh . . . yes.” She wasn’t going to say a thing about how much her hands were still tingling from the experience of touching him as intimately as she had. “Why?”

“I appear to have developed an overactive imagination”—he paused before finishing—“obviously.”

Constant’s brows drew together. She knew she wasn’t the type to make any man enthusiastic, especially a man like Kameron. There had to be another meaning. She just couldn’t decipher it.

“What have you brought for me to eat tonight?”

She searched his face. He had a blank look on his perfectly formed features.

“There’s turkey pot pie with peas and carrots and potatoes. Um . . . gravy . . . some pickled beets, and rolls. Buttermilk to drink. Honeyed cranberries for dessert. I think.”

He was grinning. “You think? You certain you’ve na’ forgotten anything?”

Constant had to look down at the straw-covered floor. “You wish to eat now, or finish with your chest?” She spoke to the hay, her voice halting and stupid-sounding to her own ears.

“Your choice.”

She glanced up. He had his head cocked toward her, resting it atop the log, his arms in the position to lift again, putting definition to the muscle. And those golden-brown eyes were impossible to look at for any amount of time. Constant dropped her gaze again. She should have run for the scissors.

“Well?”

“We’ll finish,” she whispered.

“Fair enough.” He took a huff of breath and pushed up.

This time when she ran her knife along the array of muscles in his abdomen, the knife shaved more than hair. Constant had to stop her ministrations and wait to see if the area darkened with blood. She didn’t tell him of it, though. She was watching her own handiwork with wide eyes. She shouldn’t have dimmed the light as much as she had.

“What color is your hair, Constant?”

She moved her eyes from his belly to his face. Even in the dim light she could see that he was looking right at her.

“Brown. You’ve seen it,” she replied.

“You always wear a mob-cap affair. If I’ve seen it, I’ve lost recollection. Refresh my memory. Describe it for me.”

“I just did. It’s brown.”

“But what sort of brown? Light brown? Dark brown? Medium brown? Does it contain reddish highlights? Strands of gold? Darker auburn? What?”

“Oh . . . dark brown, I guess.” She moved her gaze back to where she’d scraped at him. The area looked pinkish, but hadn’t bloodied.

“Dark brown? And here I thought you a romantic. So . . . what else is it, besides dark brown? Is it curly? Straight? Thick? Thin? Stringy? Which?”

“Um . . . wavy. My father calls it unruly, whenever he notices me. It never stays in a braid long.”

“When your father notices you? Does that mean what it sounds like?”

“I was his seventh disappointment. He never speaks to any of the others. I am the exception, I guess.”

“Why are you so lucky?”

She reached for the tub of lard resting beside her hip and got three fingers full of the stuff. “I help him with the chores, remember? I required instruction more than once. I wasn’t the best student at the time.”

“That better na’ mean what I think it means, either,” he replied.

“What?”

“He dinna’ beat you, did he?”

“I required the strap more than once. I probably deserved it. I didn’t want to do heavy field work. I didn’t want to till soil. I didn’t want to grow great muscles like I have.” She ran her hands along his left side as she spoke, from the thick cording of muscle at his waist to his armpit, thinly spreading the grease. That way she wouldn’t have to dip more. She could tell he sucked in a breath and then held it. She felt the motion under her fingertips and where her forehead rested against him.

“You are
not
shaving me there,” he said, letting the air back out when she moved her hands from him and wiped at the feathers with her cloth.

She giggled.
Men care about hair even there?

“And you’re to cease that, too.”

“What?”

“Your laughter. You can cease laughing at me. I’m na’ immune. Nae man’s fond of being laughed at. You ken?”

“It bothers you?”

Constant wasn’t following their words. She was considering the tar glued all along his supple-looking side.

“Aye.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“The hell you dinna’.”

He said it so softly, she thought she might have heard wrong. She nearly giggled again.

“Are all men so vain?”

“Vain? What? I am
na’
vain. I’ve rarely been so insulted. Vain. Me.”

The arms holding him aloft wavered slightly. She wouldn’t have time to get this tar off before he collapsed.

“A girl laughs at you and you get all stiff and offended. I call that vanity. If you suffer vanity, then you are vain. Simple.”

His arms trembled, then stilled. “If I’m stiff anywhere, Constant, love, it’s because I’m a failure at self-control at the moment. It most certainly is na’ because I am vain. Trust me.”

“If I were a man . . . and I looked like you . . .” She ran her hand along the tar she was going to scrape off next. Her voice lowered as she spoke. “I would be vain. Very much so.”

He started shaking again. Since she had her head wedged against his abdomen, she felt every tremor.

“You need to move out, Constant. I am coming down. Now.” The words came through what sounded like clenched teeth.

She scooted out, and a moment later he was again stretched out on the straw, his head resting on the log as he considered her.

“Your Thomas fellow is an ass. A full-fledged, mule-headed ass. I vow, when I’ve regained my strength and movement, I am going to search him out and knock it into his thick skull, too.”

Constant gaped.

“And I will need more covering afore you take one more touch anywhere on me. Anywhere. You ken?”

Her brows rose. Her eyes widened.

“Good. You do understand. Did you bring me anything more to wear?”

She’d been avoiding that problem. She’d been debating using the length of homespun she’d woven back when she was too small to be of help with fields and farm animals and chopping wood. The material was coarse, but maybe he wouldn’t notice how rough and amateurish it looked. She could use it to fashion him a pair of breeches, when she found the time. And desire. She hadn’t had the inclination, because he had fine, strong thighs, a back with muscle everywhere, and shoulders twice the size of any she’d ever envisioned. She didn’t want any of that covered over just yet. Besides, she told herself, she still had to drizzle honey-herb mixture over the burned skin on his legs. She couldn’t do that if he wore clothing.

“No,” she replied.

“Give up that apron, then. I’m na’ moving without something.”

“I can’t.” It wasn’t even hers. It was one of Charity’s best. Constant had borrowed it from her sister’s bureau. Charity certainly wasn’t in any need of an apron at the moment. She’d also chosen this one because it was beautifully stitched and lacy. Constant blushed.

“Well, you’re going to have to do something, or we have finished for the evening.”

“But we’re almost done,” she argued.

“Oh, you are more than done, love.”

His low tone sent gooseflesh rippling over her shoulders, down both arms, centering in the tips of her breasts. Constant nearly covered herself as she watched his glance flick to her bosom before returning to her face. He had a tight look about his lips when he did, too. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t think she had a voice anymore.

He licked his lips and then swiveled his head away, looking over at the slanted wood of the barn roof rather than at her.

“Perhaps I had best start my feast,” he said finally. “I need a break from your attentions. What did you bring me, again?”

“You can have my pantaloons,” she replied.

“
What?
”

The word was choked out as he moved his head back toward her, the white-blond mane of hair brushing his shoulders. Constant wasn’t just blushing, she was probably purple. She had to be, if the heat behind her own eyes was any indication. “I wear pantaloons. They’re drawers. We girls—”

“I ken what pantaloons are,” he growled. “Unlike you, I most certainty am na’ a virgin. I can barely recall a time when I was, actually.”

“You’re a fornicator?”

“Full-fledged,” he responded. “Although ’tis na’ entirely my fault.”

“How can fornication not be a man’s fault?”

“Ah. Churchgoers. Got to love them. They’re always so sanctimonious. Self-righteous. A congregation of pious busybodies. I’ll tell you how. What if women are the instigators? Answer me that. Well? How am I to blame if they hand me invitations to their chambers? With full directions. I would say if they do so, then they invite it, and consequently, I canna’ be totally at fault, now can I?”

“Women . . . invite—” Her voice choked off.

“Aye. They do. Continually.”

“To . . . their chambers?”

“Aye.”

“Did they know? What you . . . uh, you—had in mind?”

He was probably trying not to laugh. “They had a verra good idea,” he responded finally.

“You ravished them?”

The eyes he turned on her were lidded to the point his eyelashes shadowed the gold color to black. “If anyone was ravished, darling, it was me. That’s what inviting a single man to a married lady’s bedchamber is for.”

“Married? Heavens! England is as sinful as they say.” Constant was shocked. It sounded in every syllable.

“It’s nae different than other places. You hear of the French court? In the Bourbon dynasty, they take sin to a whole new level. Trust me. Or watch the ancient regime yourself. When they allow you to visit again.”

“Allow? What do you speak of now? I know my history. France is friendly to us. We can visit anytime we like.”

“Only because of British troops.”

“What makes you say such a falsehood?”

“If a Frenchman welcomes colonists, it’s because Britain helped you ungrateful colonists win the Indian wars a decade or so ago. What do you think the additional taxes are levied for?”

“Supporting the wicked lifestyles of the rich and titled. You just described some of it. I am not stupid.”

“I would never call you such, Constant. You are miserably misinformed, however.”

“My beau works at the press. My father writes a column for it. I’m well-read. I am not misinformed.”