by Jackie Ivie
Constant had simply gone up to the kind-faced, plump woman who’d been wringing her hands, and asked if she could prepare an evening supper to help out. And she’d found her avocation.
That had taken care of room and board. Nothing could be done about her severe heartache, though, not until she realized she was carrying Kameron’s baby. That was what kept her from finding solace beneath the ocean waves she could see and smell from the boardinghouse steps.
There came a knock on her door. “Widow Ballan?”
Constant turned from the contemplation of her babies. Abigail had found the spot she usually occupied, spooned against her sleeping brother. It wouldn’t be long before Abigail joined him in slumber. That was helpful, since their mother was their only source of food, and she wasn’t going to be available to them for at least two hours.
Two hours? What had possessed her to think she could be away from them for any amount of time, let alone two hours?
“I’ve come to watch the babes. Master Dimple waits below.”
Constant checked her image in the mirror. What Kameron had considered turquoise was a stormy blue color today and her weeping had given her eyelashes a spiked look. Constant brushed at them. She smoothed down the skirts of her Sunday best dress. It wasn’t Sunday, but she owned only three dresses. The other two were serviceable and plain and not at all what one should wear when a man came courting.
Her heart quailed as she reached for the doorknob. She almost turned back. A man was courting her. Her? As if she had value? Constant caught the agony before it became a sob, picked up her shawl, and opened the door. She smiled at Martha, one of Madame Hutchinson’s maids.
She could cry later, when there wasn’t anyone to witness it except her babies.
“You look lovely, Widow Ballan.” Martha bobbed in greeting. “That Master Dimple is a lucky fellow, I would say.”
“Thank you. They’ve been fed and changed. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Those two are never trouble, mistress. They’re a joy. Why, one has only to look at such beautiful babes to know what angels look like.”
Of course Kameron’s offspring would be beautiful enough to make everyone, from the fruit vendors to Madame Hutchinson’s society guests, gape with surprise. It was obvious, too, that they’d inherited such beauty from their sire. It certainly hadn’t come from the wren-like looks of their mother. Any fool could see that much, although Adam Dimple’s reaction when they’d met last week gave Constant pause. That’s why she’d actually agreed to accompany him on a stroll this afternoon. He’d looked at her with such a thunderstruck expression that more than one diner in Madame Hutchinson’s boardinghouse had remarked on it.
Then there was her cooking. That talent had left him speechless, according to Madame Hutchinson.
Constant tried to smooth the front of her gown. It didn’t help much. Her figure had always been ample. Now that she was feeding twins, it was impossible to hide the size of her bosom. She crossed the shawl in front of her bodice and slouched forward a bit. Kameron had once told her to find a farmer to wed. He’d advised her to look for a big, strong, strapping fellow.
Well, Adam was big. He was strapping. He was a farmer.
Constant stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down. Adam Dimple had a large physique, although he wasn’t as tall as she suspected Kameron was. Adam was muscled, too. He wasn’t as handsome as Kameron, but it would be an impossibility of nature to contrive for more than one male with such attributes to enter her sphere. Adam had nice, gray eyes, and owned a bit of prime acreage. He was also pleasant to look at. Madame Hutchinson had literally cooed at him when she introduced them.
Constant started down the steps. Adam Dimple was also attired in his Sunday best, if the shine to the threads at his shoulders was any indication. That suit had seen a lot of wear. It was serviceable, fit him well, and had a few good years left, by her estimation. The man knew quality when he saw it and didn’t mind paying the price. Both were excellent traits in a husband.
Her skirts swished out with every step, curving and shadowing the hues from light green to a deep forest color. Constant had fallen in love with the beautiful fabric the moment she saw it at the mercantile shop. She hadn’t minded paying the price.
She reached the bottom of the steps and moved toward her caller.
“Good day to you, Master Dimple.”
She held out her hand to him and put a welcoming smile in place as he swiveled toward her. She’d forgotten about the errant lock of light brown hair that fell across his forehead occasionally. She watched as he brushed it back atop his head. Then his eyes widened and she watched him take several deep breaths. She wondered what was wrong with him.
“You look . . . uh . . . words fail me, Widow Ballan.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Constant replied, reaching his side and smiling up at him.
She watched his gray eyes drop to her mouth, then to her bodice, and then back to her eyes. He licked his lips.
“You’re very . . . uh . . . I’ve never seen you—beautiful,” he stammered.
Constant smiled. Beautiful? Her? The man had been out in the sun too long. “Why, thank you, Master Dimple. You are looking very fine yourself.”
“Please. Can I get you to call me Adam?”
“Why, Master Dimple, we barely know—”
“Forgive me. I was rushing you.”
He looked away. Constant caught her smile. He reminded her a bit of her brother, Henry, whenever he was caught in some mischief.
“I’ll be proud to call you Adam,” she said, “and you must call me Constance.”
“Your name is Constance? That’s uh . . . beautiful, too.”
Constant put her hand on his upper arm for a moment and then lifted it away. The touch didn’t feel right. She looked at her own fingers with surprise. Touching the fabric on another man’s suit didn’t feel right? That wasn’t a fortuitous sign.
She looked back up at him. Adam cleared his throat.
“Perhaps we’d best begin. Which way do you wish to proceed?”
He walked across Madame Hutchinson’s lower parlor in six steps, reaching the door to hold it open for her. The outdoors beckoned to her. Toyed. Teased. She hadn’t stepped beyond the boardinghouse property for almost a year. It was safer that way. With sentiment running as heavily as it did against the British, and with the two newspaper articles that Thomas Esterbrook had published about a colonial miss and her illicit turncoat lover, it had simply been safer to stay inside and keep busy with the twins and her cooking.
Adam Dimple held out his arm. Constant swallowed before reaching out to place her hand in the crook of his arm. It still didn’t feel right. She wondered if that would ever change.
The air was breezy and crisp. Well below them Constant could see a myriad of ships clogging the harbor. The wooden sidewalk beneath them echoed with Adam’s steps. Constant was pleased to note that her footsteps made little sound, which she attributed to losing weight after the birth of her twins.
There were loud voices coming from the end of the street. Adam swiveled them around and started back up the other side.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A bit of unpleasantness. There’s always a bit of it whenever the locals get a pint too many in them. Pay them no mind.”
“But those were . . . English soldiers,” Constant continued.
“Of course. Nothing riles up our boys more than the sight of a redcoat. That’s all there is to it. A few tavern boys exchanging words with a small regiment. Ever since the massacre two years back, we’re more careful. Our boys aren’t stupid. The redcoats carry bayonets and muskets and have full authority to use them. And when they do, we already know they suffer no consequences.”
“What if someone gets hurt again?”
“I asked you to pay it no mind. Come. The view from the hill is extraordinary this time of year. You can see all of Boston Harbor. You’re lucky to live in such a prime
piece of real estate.”
“I don’t have much of a view from the kitchens, Adam,” Constant replied.
“Well, we should do something about that. A woman with your beauty should have large windows.”
Constant blushed. She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right.
“We probably shouldn’t walk far. I’ve got bread rising, and you know how I feel about my bread.”
“I know. I heard talk of it before I met you. It’s said a man truly can live on Widow Ballan’s bread alone. I heard it. I just didn’t believe it until I tasted it.”
Constant’s blush deepened. They were approaching the boardinghouse again. Mistress Hutchinson had had it painted over the summer, in a pale, sunny yellow color. It made it look even more expansive and pleasant.
“One more street?” Adam asked.
“Very well.”
Constant had barely got the words out when three coaches turned onto the street, and a fourth one blocked that end. Although they were a nondescript black, there was no disguising the richness of them, or the outlandish looks of the outriders. Her heart started beating quicker.
“Well, it appears someone on Twelfth Street is going to have visitors. I hope they don’t intend to rent rooms with Madame Hutchinson. That would be most unpleasant, wouldn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?” Constant asked.
“Because she doesn’t abide anything British anymore, just as it should be. No good patriot woman should.”
“Could we speak of something else?” Constant asked quietly.
He straightened beside her. “Oh. Forgive me. Do you have royalist leanings, Miss Constance?”
“It’s not that. I find all this talk of sedition and fighting unsettling. I’ve got young babies to care for and a supper to put on. I don’t have any leanings further than . . .”
Her voice dribbled to a stop. There wasn’t anything she could do about it. Two of the coaches had stopped in front of the yellow boardinghouse on Twelfth Street, and Adam and Constant watched as the last one drove past them to turn at this end of the street, blocking it as well.
“This is starting to look positively dastardly, Constance. Come. Madame Hutchinson may need our assist.”
A man stepped from the coach, sending a shock through her entire system. Constant turned her face quickly.
It is Kameron. Please, God . . . no. But even as she prayed, she knew it wouldn’t change anything. It couldn’t be anyone else. His height and his white-blond hair were unmistakable.
“Those fellows don’t look English. Still, it doesn’t look good. I hope Madame Hutchinson isn’t in some sort of trouble.”
Constant was trembling. She couldn’t take one step, let alone reach the house. She tightened every muscle under her control. She checked her breathing. She did anything she could to avert the shudders that were overtaking her.
Kameron is here.
“Come along, Constance. We’d best reach Mistress Hutchinson. This doesn’t look like a social call. Hurry.”
Constant was amazed her feet actually obeyed and started moving with him. Adam wasn’t strolling sedately anymore. He held her hand against his side and strode purposefully toward the boardinghouse. Constant skipped along beside him to keep up with his long strides.
Madame Hutchinson met them in the front foyer. She had her arms crossed and a stern look on her face. It wasn’t directed at Adam. Constant swallowed.
“Widow Ballan? There are some gentlemen here to see you. I have placed them in my private parlor. You may attend them there. And when you have concluded your business, I will be speaking with you.”
Constant dipped her head. “Yes, madame,” she answered.
Constant had been in Madame Hutchinson’s private parlor on several occasions, but the hall she had to traverse to get there had never looked longer. Nor had it ever looked so crowded. She felt like the eagerly awaited object of an executioner’s ax, walking past the twelve, very large, strangely dressed men lined up on one side of the hall. They were all attired in tightly fitted black jackets that sported large, embossed, golden buttons, while gold piping trimmed the sleeves and epaulets. A sash of red, white, and black plaid material was worn crosswise over each of their jackets, clasped with a large brooch at the shoulder. And beneath that, they wore what looked like short skirts. Not knee breeches. Not trousers. Skirts. They’d been fashioned from material in the same red, white, and black plaid pattern, and every man had a round, fringed, purselike object draped about his hips so it hung to his groin area.
Not one of them looked remotely feminine, however. They were massive, masculine, and rather uncivilized-looking. Every man had a long sword strapped to one side, and a plethora of wicked-looking knives tucked under his belt. Constant didn’t need to be told what these men were. She knew what she was looking at. Highlanders. From that part of Britain called Scotland.
Kam had told her a Highlander wasn’t remotely English-looking, but he hadn’t described how outlandish and impressive they appeared. Each man exuded strength and purpose. Altogether—without one sound uttered among them—the impression was one of solidity. Barely leashed might. Power. It was vaguely threatening. Intimidating. They wore large, feathered hats that further increased the impression of height and power. They all appeared nearly as tall as Kameron.
One of the men reached forward and knocked on Madame Hutchinson’s parlor door.
The door was opened inward by a man who appeared to be a servant fellow. He was dressed like the gentlemen in the hall, but he was smaller. Thinner. He was hatless and didn’t carry a sword. He bowed and gestured her in.
There were more men inside, making the ladies’ parlor look frilly, feminine, and worse than overcrowded. Constant forced her eyes to move slowly about the room, observing and noting each person. Six more men, nearly identical in size and attire as those in the hall, were backed against opposite walls, facing each other.
She got the significance. The large fellows were guards. All these men. They were there for protection and security. For Kameron.
Her eyes shifted to two older, bewigged gentlemen sitting in the center of the room in Madame Hutchinson’s finest chairs. One was immense. The other was quite thin. They both wore Highland attire in the same pattern and color as everyone else, but on these two men, it looked less masculine, and a lot less intimidating. A large portmanteau sat on the floor between them. It was open. Another servant fellow stood beside the window, looking at her with absolutely no expression. A man was silhouetted in the window.
That man was Kameron.
The instant Constant saw him the others might as well have been invisible. Kam had his back to her while he looked out the window at the harbor. He was wearing the same outfit as his guards, only on him the jacket seemed fashioned to highlight his trim waist and broad shoulders.
Kam didn’t have a sword strapped to his left side. He didn’t look to have any knives tucked in his belt, either. But he wore the skirt. Only his was entirely too revealing. Or something. It draped over his buttocks, showcasing the powerful muscles.
She couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. The skirt led her eye downward. She’d been right about his scars. He had several wide bands of darker-toned flesh striping both lower legs. If his leg had been broken it had set well, though. It looked fully healed. Healthy. And just as long and muscled as the other one. He wasn’t wearing the feathered hat. His hair was pulled back in a queue, the color contrasting sharply with his attire.
Constant moved her gaze upward to where he topped the window casement by a good half foot. She’d been mistaken earlier. There wasn’t a man anywhere in the boardinghouse to match him. He was just as immense and stirring and eye-catching as she’d guessed he’d be once he stood erect.
“Is she here?” he asked the window.
“Yes, my lord.”
The door shut behind her. Constant didn’t notice. She hadn’t even blinked since setting eyes on Kam. She watched him sigh, his shoulders and back ris
ing, then falling. And then, he turned.
Golden-brown eyes devoured her. Constant’s eyes widened as the sensations she remembered hit every portion of her body. Then she was moving toward him without conscious volition. Kameron took two steps toward her, too, before they were both halted by the bewigged, portly man in the chair.
“Lord Ballanclaire!” the man said sharply.
Kameron stopped, Constant a second after him. She watched as he scrunched his eyes shut and swiveled back the way he’d come. Two steps took him back to the window.
“I canna’ say any of it,” Kameron said.
“No need. Torquil? Make yourself useful. Bring a chair for the lady, so we can converse civilly.”
Constant watched as the fellow who’d opened the door moved a chair out for her. She was grateful she only had to take three faltering steps before she could fall into it. She couldn’t move her eyes from Kameron’s back.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the barrister Iain Blair. Beside me is the barrister Clayton MacVale. We are the Duke of Ballanclaire’s representatives. We handle all the duke’s affairs. We are here today on a rather delicate matter, between yourself and the duke’s heir, Lord Kameron Geoffrey Gannett William Alistair Bennion Ballan of Clan Ballanclaire. Miss?”
Constant realized the large man had been speaking. She hadn’t heard much, however. She dropped her gaze to her lap and listened as there was a stir of reaction in the room.
“Well, I believe we can all attest we’ve reached the proper party, even without Lord Ballanclaire’s testimony to the fact. Are we agreed, Sir MacVale?”
The other gentleman spoke up. “Most assuredly, although it makes our chore this afternoon a bit more difficult.”
“Yes. Well . . .” The fat man cleared his throat. “There is nae better way than to be blunt about our business. We’ve been sent on behalf of the crowned head of the United Kingdom, India, and the American Colonies, King George the Third; at the request of the Duke and Laird of Clan Ballanclaire; and with the interest of the royal family of the country of Spain, to plead for an annulment of your marriage to Kameron Ballan.”