by Jackie Ivie
“I doona’ think it a good idea if I answer that.”
“Why?” she repeated, wrinkling her forehead.
“Perhaps you’d best na’ ask that, either.”
“But, why?”
“Because I am na’ the one you need, and I’m doing my best to ignore it,” he said finally.
“You mean . . . you didn’t want to?”
She regretted the words the moment she said them. Especially as he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed with such emotion, it moved her. Then he opened his eyes and met her gaze. He didn’t look as stunned or pleased as he had before. He wasn’t smiling, either.
“Constant, you’ve got such trusting turquoise eyes, they frighten me. You’ve got very lush, tempting lips. I was afraid of how they’d taste, and I was na’ far wrong. You are every inch a woman—in every sense—and you’re still in my arms, reminding me of it. I’m just a man who sees and kens what a desirable woman you are. And it’s a mistake for me to tell you all this.”
He finished, and the buzzing noise in her ears stopped at the same moment. There was nothing but absolute silence. Then they heard a snort from a horse below them. She let her pent-up breath out.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
He groaned, and the sound came from the depths of the chest she was being held against. She felt it reverberate through her. Then he stole whatever else she might have said, catching it with lips that weren’t interested in being gentle, or loving, or tender, or anything other than possessive and passionate and intense. It didn’t frighten her at all. It had quite the opposite effect.
She was the one clinging to him. Then she was moving her hands, running her palms over him. Her touch produced hard nubs where his nipples were, and the groans coming from him deepened. His lips weren’t remotely feminine. They were hard and demanding, alternately sucking and then nibbling on hers. Then he opened her lips with his tongue and explored.
Constant’s gasp helped him. She instinctively arched her neck to allow him greater access. Her will wasn’t her own anymore. His wasn’t, either. They were in the control of something so basic and undeniable and all-encompassing, she wasn’t capable of fighting it.
Then his hands were at the back of her head, holding her in place. The moan that surged from her seemed to inflame him further. She felt him pull the mobcap away, entwining the fingers of one hand through her coiled braids while the other started threading down each and every hook at her back, releasing her dress and then caressing skin barely covered by her chemise.
Constant’s entire being whirled with too many sensations from too many places at once. He created a vortex of pleasure with his lips and tongue. He was starting a wellspring of want where his hand rotated in an ever tighter circle at her back, and his fingers at the base of her neck created rivulets of shivers that didn’t stop until they reached the bottoms of her toes in the bottoms of her boots.
“Oh, dearest God . . . oh, Constant. Oh, love.”
She thought she heard his mumbled words as he moved his head, sending the kiss deeper. Constant helped him. She reached with one arm to encircle his neck, pulling herself up so their mouths were level.
In the far reaches of her mind she sensed his hand delving lower, sliding beneath the restriction of her waistband to mold around her buttocks, cupping first one, then the other, and then he was using a kneading motion to move her, shifting her up and back down along a large, hard, and incredibly strange part of himself.
“Oh, Constant . . . oh, dearest—”
He released his lips from hers, and then he was sliding them along her cheek to her ear. Constant cried aloud as he reached her neck, just before she tipped her head to give him greater access.
Shivers raced everywhere: her head to her belly, her throat to her breasts, her buttocks to the backs of her knees. From somewhere she registered that if what he was doing was going to hurt her, it was going to be the most pleasurable pain imaginable.
“Oh . . . my God. Oh, Constant. Oh, love! Constant . . . wait! We must cease . . . damn everything. We have to stop. Oh . . . Constant. Love.”
Kam continued mumbling, but it was a garbled litany of words that alternately cursed and adored. She instinctively began sliding her loins against where she was pressed, curving until the pressure was exactly where she needed it. That strange, hard part of him responded, seeming to have its own will, not remotely interested in ceasing.
Constant hooked one leg about his waist as they lay side by side. She knew what she needed. She knew where she needed it. She only wished there weren’t three layers of clothing separating them.
“Oh . . . sweet—Constant, you must stop! We canna’—I was na’ thinking! We must—”
In answer to the plea she moved, instinct guiding her, and the resulting chaos of delight at her very core frightened and excited her. Constant latched herself to him, rocking her apex against his loins. Harder. Faster. Keening a cry into the air as the amazement hit, then crested, and then waned. Her actions started a shuddering within him so severe it moved them along the loft floor.
“You must stop! You must! Oh, Constant, nae! Na’ there! Dear God, na’ there! Not—”
Constant had moved her hand down, across the rippled muscles of his abdomen. He might be mouthing words of denial, but the rest of him didn’t agree. His hips were lunging up to meet her.
“Oh, Christ . . . nae! Doona’—ah!”
His last word was a cry, deep in its intensity. It throbbed through the space, emboldening her. Daring her. Mystifying her. She wrapped her hand around where the pantaloons were completely pulled awry. It was hard. Rigid. Throbbing. She’d felt its movement, and now she experienced it. Her hand wound around the top of his lace- and-linen-covered rod, adjusting to the size of him. The shape. Strength. Thickness. Kameron had tensed at the first touch, locking every muscle until he really did resemble a statue, and even that didn’t stop her.
She’d just completed a downward motion with her hand, experiencing the full extent of him, when the muted jingle of a harness came through the blanketed window. It was followed by muffled voices.
Constant and Kameron both lifted their heads, locking gazes. For an instant she wasn’t capable of saying or thinking a single thing. All she was aware of was the thunderstruck look on his face. She knew hers mirrored it. Then it was gone.
“The light!” he whispered.
Constant was already there, leaping over the saddle to land flat on her front, pulling the wick into the oil so fast it made a hissing noise, as if it shushed her.
Chapter Twelve
The barn door slid open, easily lighting the interior. Constant saw why immediately. It was snowing, the reflected light filling the interior with an iridescent glow.
“I’ll be but a moment, gentlemen. I’ve only to find my lantern and light the wick. Now . . . this is odd.”
Constant’s father’s voice faded as he searched for and found the hook beside the door where the lantern always hung. Except now. The lantern was still at her fingertips.
“I’ll need to speak with my daughter, it seems. Gentlemen? Bring the horses in out of the elements.”
There was more said, then the sounds of horses being unsaddled. Creaking noises. More voices. Constant didn’t comprehend much of it. She still felt like she was aglow, every nerve ending tormenting her. She could swear she felt every piece of straw prickling her, even through her clothing. Her fingers still held to the ornate key in the lantern, and it felt hard, thick, erotic, and chilled against them.
Constant swallowed. Erotic? Where had she come up with that word? It probably described the arch in her back as she’d clung to Kameron. It was probably very like the feel of his hard frame against hers, and the way he’d slid his palm along her lower back before holding her buttocks to pull her against him.
She swallowed again.
“The turncoat should’ve gone back to his barracks. That’s what any sane man would have done.”
That voice belonged to
Thomas Esterbrook. Constant caught her breath at the realization.
“He couldn’t have moved that far, Master Esterbrook. You should know. ’Twas your rifle butt breaking his legs.”
There was a bit of mumbling Constant took as agreement. The sound was cautionary. The impression illicit. She had to concentrate to make sense of it.
“. . . is what’s done. We’re facing arrest should it become known. Come along, men. If I’m not mistaken, we’ve the remnants of a pork sup to dine on.”
“Sounds good. Smells better.” That was probably Charity’s husband, but Constant couldn’t be certain.
“Which is fairly odd, if I think on it.”
That was definitely John Becon, she decided as he spoke again.
“What is, Friend Becon?” Constant’s father asked.
“Smelling pork . . . in your stable.”
Constant’s entire body went stiff. Cold. Frightened.
“You see spies behind every bush, Friend Becon. Every single one. Of course it smells of pork. My wife had one roasting all day, and every outbuilding smells of it. Come. I’ve rooms aplenty with beds. Real beds. We need our rest, and dry clothing.”
“We’ll catch him, won’t we?”
A voice Constant couldn’t place spoke that question. She eased her breath out.
“We’ve no choice now. We have to get to him first. Blast the man for not taking his horse back to his garrison, where we could’ve found him! Anyone else would have.”
That was Prudence’s husband. Constant recognized the voice, but not the tone. She’d never heard such disgust and spite.
“He’s probably dead. Exposure will have done what his wounds failed to. Not that we’ll cease searching. We’ve too much at stake. Master Ridgely? You promise us a pork repast? Lead the way, old friend. I’m in dire need of a filling.”
“Aye. We know. We’ve been listening to your belly for miles.”
That was the surgeon and her father again. There was a bit of chuckling, and then Thomas spoke again.
“You think he’s dead? Truly? That’s a shame.”
“You thinking it better if he lives to tell about it? That would be worse for us all. Dead men tell no tales, you know.”
“I was only thinking as how it would be a pure shame if he was already dead, and I didn’t have a hand in it.”
Constant felt horror invading her body. Replacing the warm ecstasy of moments earlier with such a cold feeling, she thought for a moment she was going to lose control of the bile churning warningly in her belly. She put a hand over her mouth.
“You already had a part in it, young Master Esterbrook. He wasn’t walking when last I saw him.”
“I didn’t do it very well, then. You heard. He’s still missing, and there’s a sizable sum being offered by the British for his return. A reward for a blasted turncoat! Should have minded his own business.”
“Well, he didn’t, and we reacted. And now we’re all responsible. All of which means we’d better find him first. We all agreed?”
There were murmurs of assent. Constant was trembling. She didn’t realize how badly until one of the men below her spoke up.
“What’s that?”
Instant silence greeted the question. Constant bit on her fingers to still any further sound and forced her body to still.
“That rustling? I have rats. What barn doesn’t?”
“We should still check. No harm in checking, is there?”
The lower steps of the ladder creaked. Constant swore they’d hear her heartbeat. It was deafening to her.
“John Becon? You hear whispers in the wind and now spies in the lofts. Cease this, and get down.”
“Yes. Come. We’ve a tasty sup, warm beds, and a newborn to see. I understand your daughter is a healthy child. You’re to be congratulated.”
There were sounds of laughter again.
“Cease mocking me! I’ll not accept good wishes for a girl child. Save them for when I gain a son.”
“You married a Ridgely, Becon.” Prudence’s husband was laughing through the words. “They cannot birth sons. Trust me. I know. I’ve three daughters of my own.”
“I would force your pardon if I wasn’t exhausted, Master Hallowell. You think to call my son, Henry, a girl? He’s every bit a lad. Probably to blame for stealing the lantern, too. Master Esterbrook?”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
“Don’t tarry overlong. We’ve a feast to eat, and you’ve rest to get. Don’t forget, you have something to speak with my daughter about on the morrow.”
“I’ve little chance of forgetting that, with you holding it over my head.”
“Someone’s got to make up your mind for you, boy. You were taking too long.”
There was more laughter at that. Constant had been lectured long ago about eavesdropping. One always hears what one least wants to; knowing her father was somehow forcing Thomas to ask for her hand proved it. Perfectly.
“Well . . . maybe I want sons,” Thomas said beneath his breath.
Constant heard him, but the others were leaving the barn and must not be listening. She shut her eyes. She heard the sounds of movement as Thomas must have followed them, and then the barn door slid closed, plunging the interior back into darkness. She waited, listening as each heartbeat slowed back to normal. She was actually amazed her eyes were dry.
She knew everything Kam had told her was true. The menfolk she’d always looked up to had formed a mob of some kind and tortured a man without even a trial. They were compounding their injustice by seeking him out in order to finish the death sentence, to avoid prosecution. Kameron must have done something terrible to deserve such a fate. She wondered anew what it was.
“Constant?”
The barest breath of air came with the sound of her name. She turned her head.
“I know you can hear me.”
“Yes?”
Kam eased his bulk into the space in front of her. She couldn’t see him but she didn’t have to. He was warming the air all about them. It was strange that he hadn’t made a sound when he moved. She waited.
“You’re to tell him no. You hear? I doona’ care what he offers. I doona’ care how he offers it. You’re to tell him no.”
After hearing the fate planned for him, he worried over her marriage proposal? Under different circumstances she would have found it amusing.
“You listening to me? I will na’ allow you to give him a smile, let alone a kiss.”
“Kam—” she began.
“I’m serious, lass.”
His whisper certainly sounded it. Constant opened her eyes. But for his white-blond hair, she wouldn’t have seen him. She looked at the darker shadow where his face should be and grimaced at it.
“They were talking about you,” she said finally.
“Give me your word you will na’ accept him.”
Constant snorted.
“It is na’ amusing, Constant Ridgely. Promise me you will na’ accept that whelp’s lukewarm suit.”
“How do you know it will be lukewarm?”
“I doona’ care if he’s as passionate as a sailor newly arrived at port. I want your promise, Constant, and I want it now.”
It’s amazing the amount of emphasis he can put on whispered words. She sighed.
“Don’t you sigh at me. He’ll put out pretty words and maybe a look or two, and you’re na’ to listen. You hear me?”
“Kameron, they were talking about harming you.”
“I’m going to do the same to that pip if he does na’ watch his back. Give me your word you’ll refuse him.”
“They want you dead.”
“Constant! I will shake you next. You’re na’ to accept him. You ken? Under any circumstances.”
“We have worse troubles. What if they come back? What if they find you?”
He didn’t answer for a spell. She heard how angry he was though. It was in the power of each breath.
“You’re a rare lass, Constant. Y
ou’ve kept me intrigued for days now with just how rare. You’re a prize. You ken? That lad does na’ deserve you.”
“What are we going to do?”
The low rumble sounded as if it was launched through clenched teeth. “For the love of—I want your promise, Constant. Right now. He’s na’ worthy to be in the same country as you, let alone by your side in wedlock.”
“Can we worry about that later? I’ve got four more sets of eyes and ears to fool. How am I to do that?”
“There are six, and they came on five mounts, and you’re evading my question.”
“Six?”
“One dinna’ speak. He was riding double with the blacksmith. Looks a bit like him, too.”
“That would be his brother.”
“I assumed it was na’ his son.”
If he could have seen her look, he’d not have used such sarcasm. “He is married to one of my sisters. You heard him. They have three daughters.”
“The smithy is your brother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“’Twas his hand branding my feet.”
“I know. I recognized it.”
“I see. This does explain your earlier reaction. But it strays far from the subject. You’re na’ to accept that pip. Give me your promise, Constant. Afore we run out of time.”
“We have the rest of the night. You heard them.”
He swore, and then a hand wrapped about her arm and pulled, bringing her directly against him to nuzzle the skin beneath her jaw. That was followed by huffs of breath that teased and tickled.
He whispered, “One returns. My guess is it’s the smithy’s brother, or your lackluster suitor, Esterbrook. Regardless, I have little time, and I have to make certain you listen to me.”
She was listening. She couldn’t hear anything else; then his lips touched her neck.
“Will you give me your word you won’t entertain that fellow’s suit? Nae matter how he asks?”
His words were accompanied by his tongue. It was leaving a trail of fire-ice along her jawbone.
“Kam—”
“Softly, love. One returns. He’s just outside.”