by Jackie Ivie
Constant returned to the kitchen and ladled gravy over Kameron’s feast of turkey pot pie and wondered if what she’d been feeling all day was lust. If it was, it was obvious why lust was such a problem. Her body felt different, especially her breasts, and she’d just grown into the size of them. She knew their purpose; breasts were to feed her as-yet-unborn children—although Charity didn’t look like she was enjoying the chore both times that Constant had interrupted her.
That is the only purpose, isn’t it?
She was still mulling it as she made her way to the barn and rolled her skirts beneath her apron tie in preparation for the climb into the loft, a pail of water in her free hand. Tonight was a cloud-filled night, promising a hint of snow. It was colder in the loft than she remembered, too. Constant eyed the open window with a frown before opening her apron and putting the pail down. She should have had the sense to bring horse blankets up with her. She couldn’t keep purloining from the linen cabinet, especially since it was closing in on winter and every blanket was in use, but there were good, stout horse blankets right below her. One would be sure to fit across the open window. Constant shook her head and climbed back down to fetch one.
It was a good thing she hadn’t taken all the tar and feathers from him yet, because it was probably helping to keep him warm. Constant climbed back to the loft and put the blanket against the window and shoved horseshoe nails into the upper corners, pushing them into the window frame with ease. It covered the opening, but didn’t let in much light. She’d just knelt to light her oil lamp when she heard his groan. Her hand stopped.
“Kameron?” she whispered.
“Here.”
His voice sounded strange. Rough. Her hand trembled and she had trouble with the wick. She let it flare brightly for a bit, catching fire, before winding the wick back down into the oil, dimming it. It was strange: here she was prolonging the moment that she’d been rushing toward all day. Constant swiveled her head and narrowed her eyes to find him, and then went to her knees with a jolt beside him.
There was a tint of blood on his honey-encrusted back and it had reached the apron, staining it a brownish color.
“Sweet heaven, what happened to you?”
He groaned again in reply. He was leaning over his log, exactly as she’d left him, except the blanket she’d given him was down around his lower legs.
“Did someone find you?”
“Nae,” he replied.
“Then . . . what?”
“I turned over.” His voice was deeper than usual, and he still spoke into the straw.
Constant stared for a moment, then clucked her tongue. “Why would you do such a fool thing as that?”
“I promised I’d put some weight on my back.”
“You promised to try.”
“Well, I tried. I failed.”
Constant frowned. If the honey-herb salve had been working, he might have undone it. She pulled the pail over and dipped a rag.
“This might hurt, I’m afraid,” she said before putting the dampened cloth on his back.
He flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You’ve undone all my work. I only hope it doesn’t scar.”
The packed honey brought some scabbing with it. She watched fresh blood fill the stripes on his back. She was afraid he could hear the sympathetic tears in her voice.
“It was already going to scar, Constant, love.” His voice was gentle.
“Not if I can help it,” she replied, and set her jaw.
“Why?” He swiveled his head, using his shoulders, which made the blood seepage worse. Constant put the cloth onto him and held it there.
“You’ve got to lie still. I can’t stop the bleeding otherwise. Whatever possessed you to do such a thing without my help?”
She had to look away from his face if she wanted to keep her voice steady. Lines of pain were etched on his forehead and cheeks.
“I should na’ be here. I’m causing undue trouble for you. I’ve put you in a dangerous position. Compromising. If it’s discovered that you’ve harbored a young, unmarried gent, it will na’ go well. I ken how strict you colonists are. I ken the rules. By having you attend me . . . without anyone else present . . . I’ve placed you at risk. I canna’ stay here much longer. And that’s why I tried.”
“It’s been three days, Kameron. You can’t rush Mother Nature,” she replied softly.
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And . . . I wanted you to be proud of me.”
Constant’s hands trembled atop his back. She had all the honey mixture wiped off and just sat there, holding the cloth in place. She was afraid she’d heard him wrong, yet knew that she hadn’t.
“I don’t . . . know how to answer to such a thing,” she finally answered, feeling as tongue-tied and awkward as before.
“With as much reserve as possible, I suppose. Damn me! I should na’ have been so lax! I should have seen this coming. I should have done a hundred things different.”
“Nobody can heal in three days.”
“Nae. Having this done to me in the first place. I’m nae a spring pup, still wet behind the ears. I should have seen it coming and avoided it.”
“Oh, that.”
Constant lifted the cloth. The damage might not be as bad as she’d thought. The wounds from his lashing had been knitting well. There was a puckering of pink skin about the edges, although he’d disturbed scabs by moving about as he had. She tipped the honey jar and drizzled honey across the skin again.
“So . . . did you think about me today?” he asked without looking her way.
Her fingers lost feeling and she nearly dropped the jar on him. The same sensitivity was happening to her breasts again, too. Constant caught her lower lip in her teeth and sucked on it.
“A bit,” she finally answered.
“I thought about you continuously. That is na’ a good thing.”
If daydreaming about him had put her in an untouchable realm of fantasy, finding out he’d been doing the same jolted her into the present with a rush. Suddenly the loft was very defined and focused, no matter where she put her gaze. Constant didn’t have a prayer of holding on to the jar, and watched with unblinking eyes as it thudded onto the straw beside her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
The apron was filthy with dried blood, and Constant looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. “I’m going to have to get you something different to wear,” she said finally.
“True enough. That would be an excellent place to start.”
“Start what?”
“Saving us from this tomfoolery.”
“What tomfoolery?” she questioned.
“You look in a mirror yet?” he asked.
“No, but I did look in the side of a tankard.”
He shook his head. She watched the white-blond, lanky strands of hair graze his shoulders. “Na’ good enough. ’Tis distorted and confusing. You need to look in a real mirror. Then you would na’ have to ask questions a simpleton could answer.”
“You’re being very rude for someone who still needs tar and feathers removed, I would say,” she replied.
“Good. That’s an improvement.”
“To what?”
She didn’t understand one thing. Constant rocked back onto her heels and considered him.
“About this covering for me. You have access to material? A hank of cloth? It does na’ even have to be trousers. I’ll fashion a feileadh-breacan.”
“A what?”
“Highland wear. It’ll be hell to don properly, but it should suffice, even if I do shock every colonist I run across.”
“How will you get to your garrison if you do that?”
“Bright lass. As always. You have trousers then?”
“I’m afraid not. Even my father is smaller than I,” she replied.
“Oh. I’m certain that’s enormous.”
There was a strangely snide tone in his voice. Sh
e stared.
“Not . . . exactly enormous. But I am large. One of the reasons Thomas doesn’t offer for me is because I’m bigger than he is.”
“The fellow’s a dwarf.”
“He is not! He simply hasn’t finished growing yet.”
“Well, at least you still defend him. That’s more than I dared hope.”
“I don’t understand you at all, Kameron.”
“I have no excuse to offer, Constant,” he replied. “Other than the obvious. I’m used to a certain amount of feminine attention, I’m locked in a loft with a verra pretty girl, and I’m still verra much a male. With the cursed needs that accompany all of that. You’ll have to pardon me, I’m afraid. Either that, or hit me with something.”
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.
Chapter Eight
“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 w
orse. 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.