Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

  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.”

  Her hands shook. The one balancing his tray made the bowl of spiced apples clank against the platter. He wants to hurt me, she reminded herself.

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  She reached the top rung, put the tray down, dumped the blankets, and moved about on her knees, finding the oil lamp by feel. She delayed answering him until she got the flint sparked and the lamp lit. She felt his eyes on her the moment it was done. When she glanced his way, she wasn’t surprised to find it to be true, although he had them narrowed thoughtfully. Unfortunately, all that did was make him more dramatic and intense-looking. And dangerous.

  Constant looked down.

  “What has been done to you now, lass?”

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “That is such a bald lie I’m surprised you’d try it on me. Now, speak up. What’s been done to you?”

  Constant’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but more came to take their place. “You—you want to hurt me,” she whispered brokenly.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Never. As God is my witness, I’ll never harm you, Constant, love. Ever. I swear to it.”

  She looked up at him, although moisture blurred the view. “But . . . every man wants to hurt. That’s what they want. That’s what you want.”

  “Who on earth have you been talking to? Wait a minute. You have na’ been talking about me, have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “You certain you’ve na’ said a word about me?”

  She looked down at her entwined fingers. “Not . . . directly,” she whispered.

  “Verra well. What have you been saying indirectly?”

  “I asked . . . uh—what it meant—uh . . .” She couldn’t finish it.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  Constant’s face was flaming. “I’d better go. I’ve got to fetch something. I’ve an idea.”

  “You asked . . . what?”

  Constant tried not to look at him but failed. He was the most handsome, immense, virile-looking male she’d ever seen, let alone envisioned, and he wanted to fornicate with her. He wanted to put that male weapon part of himself in her, even
knowing it would hurt. Her face probably showed every bit of her line of thinking. He had his eyebrows raised as he waited. Constant backed to the ladder, displacing straw as she went. She only wished she could tear her gaze from his. She shook her head.

  “Constant—” He said her name in a threatening fashion.

  She ignored him, ducked her head, and pushed a foot over the side and onto a rung of the ladder. She was down three of them before she heard his reaction. The thumping of her heartbeat had been drowning him out.

  “You are na’ leaving me, are you? But why, love? What did I do? What does it mean—I’d hurt you? Oh, lass, doona’ go. If my presence here has caused you harm, I’ll crawl as far as I can from you. I swear that, too. Constant, wait! Please?”

  The sound of shuffling made her look back. Her eyes went wide and every thought flew right out the top of her head. She was actually grateful she had the smooth wooden sides of the ladder in both hands for balance. She couldn’t do a thing about the drop of her jaw, however.

  Kameron was much more mobile than she’d given him credit for. He was lunging toward her with awkward-looking motions, using his outstretched hands to drag himself toward her across the loft floor. He stopped an arm’s length away and just stayed there, his chest heaving with effort. He’d pulled his white-blond hair back, using what appeared to be the ribbon waist-tie from her pantaloons. There wasn’t a speck of hair on that perfectly molded face or body to temper any of his impact.

  “Constant?”

  His position put him slightly above her. If he wasn’t still moving with each breath, she’d think herself in the company of a marble statue like the ones she’d been told existed in faraway places like Rome and Greece. Constant forced her eyes to close, then open. She blinked again. Nothing changed. All she could think of was how amazing it would be when he could stand beside her, and how much she wanted that very thing.

  “Constant?” he said again, and this time his breath feathered across her nose and cheekbones.

  Her reply was more a croak than a word. “Yes?”