Laird of Ballanclaire

by Jackie Ivie

Genres: Historical Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

Rebellion Kameron Ballan, heir to the Laird of Ballanclaire, has no respect for his father's titles and treaties. They've gotten him naught but trouble--and a betrothal to a sickly Spanish princess. So when his latest peccadillo gets him transported to America to subdue the restless colonies, he's ready to prove his worth as a man, not a figurehead. Seduction Constant Ridgely, seventh daughter of an upright patriot family, discovers Kam beaten senseless by a crowd of colonists. She must hide him or watch him die, but the strange, brawny Scotsman inflames passions she's never guessed at. . . Deception Under Constant's ministrations, Kam discovers a lovely, innocent woman whose hands stir his desires. But much is at stake and there is much to lose, and their happiness depends on a risk so great only the truly lost would dare..."Raises the bar. . . A romance of depth and passion." -- RT Book Reviews, 4 ½ stars on A Perfect Knight for Love "Sizzling sexual tension and great repartee." -- RT Book Reviews on Knight Everlasting

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

She was going to have to think of a better punishment, because denial wasn’t working.

Constant shoved the butter paddle, mumbling and keeping rhythm the entire time. “One, two, three, four! I hate my name. I hate my name. One, two, three, four! Hate, hate, hate it! And he knows it! One, two, three . . . oh! The little runt will be lucky to get fresh bread, let alone butter!”

She looked up to spear her tormentor with a glare. He was nearly out of sight. Already. Constant grimaced and turned to her sister Prudence’s youngest daughter.

“Hester? Be a dear and go and see what he’s up to.” Constant wiped at the moisture beneath her cap before swiping it on her skirt. Despite the chill in the air, Constant had worked up a sweat. Wasn’t that grand?

“No!”

The little girl leaped from the porch, her petticoat bright in contrast to the dark skirt she wore.

“No? Why, you little—!” Constant dropped the paddle and grabbed at her skirts.

“Oh . . . let her go. She only speaks so to get you chasing. Besides . . . she’s checking on Henry. And isn’t that what you wanted?”

Constant bit back a reply and watched the little girl’s progress from the edge of the porch. It was just like her next-older sister to interfere.

“Have I asked for your assist, Charity?” Constant turned back to the churn.

“Don’t get all uppity with me, Constant Ridgely. Is it my fault I cannot be of help?”

Oh, how she longed to answer with the proper words! Constant’s inner turmoil transferred to the churn. Of course it wasn’t Charity’s fault that she could hardly negotiate stairs over her bulk. Nor was it anyone’s fault her baby was overdue. Constant stopped her motions and cupped a hand to her forehead to scan the yard.

“You see? Now I’ve lost both of them.” Constant sighed and put both hands on her ample hips. If she were expecting a child, it would have been birthed by now.

“How far can they go? You know they won’t miss sup, although we’ll be fortunate if anyone eats, at this rate.”

“If I don’t finish my chores, we might starve? Is that what you’re saying?” Constant bent back to the butter churn.

“I didn’t say that,” Charity replied.

“Did too. You spend every waking moment speaking of my laziness!”

“I do not!” Charity replied.

“Do so!”

Constant pounded at the churn, feeling the resistance in the cream. Her last strokes had been angrily delivered, quickening it to butter.

“Girls! Cease this bickering! It’s upsetting to the babe. Any change, Charity?”

Their mother stepped from the steamy warmth of the house, the sharpness of her voice belying her worried expression.

“None. But I’d have a better time of it if I had more peace,” Charity replied. “I can’t even sit on the porch without being disturbed.”

Constant barely had time to look innocent before Mother turned.

“Of course you would. As for you, Constant . . . I’m ashamed at your actions. Whatever possessed you?”

“Constant only thinks of herself, Mother. She doesn’t care for anyone else. It must chafe that Thomas Esterbrook hasn’t declared—”

“You leave Thomas out of this!” Constant cried, goaded into revealing how unrepentant she really was.

“Constant!” Mother stepped in front of Charity. “I can think of more chores today, young woman . . . chores your father has put off. Do you take my meaning?”

Of course she did. Until Henry was of an age where he could help, Constant had most of the chores. No wonder she was big and strong! She hefted the ax, chopped and carried wood, cleaned out stables, handled the livestock . . . she ought to feel lucky she looked feminine at all.

“Apologize, and then go hunt down Henry. You know better than to let him run free. Honestly, Constant! I don’t know what . . .”

Constant watched the dirt sift through the floorboard at her feet while her mother continued admonishing her. She should’ve kept her tongue.

“We’re waiting, Constant.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry I spoke as I did, Charity.” Charity? The woman hasn’t a charitable bone in her frame.

“Thank you, Constant. That was prettily said. Now fetch Henry before your father hears of this. You’re in luck he’s hunting. And what of Hester? What have you done with her? Prudence will be back from shopping in Boston on the morrow and you’ve lost her daughter, too?”

“She sent Hester running after Henry. I just hope nothing happens to them.”

Charity had best stay hidden behind their mother if she wished to escape with those words.

“You couldn’t! You didn’t! Of all the thoughtless . . . reckless—”

Mother said more. Constant didn’t stay to hear about her laziness, her misguided judgment, her lack of decorum, her thoughtlessness—she’d heard it all so many times.

It wasn’t that Thomas Esterbrook wasn’t going to offer for her, either. They’d been promised to each other since they could talk. They’d grown up together, and until she’d grown taller than Thomas, they’d been inseparable. Then she started outweighing him, but that couldn’t be the reason he didn’t come courting . . . could it? Of course not. Charity was just jealous. Thomas was so much better-looking than all the other boys. Boys? Why had she thought that? He was already eighteen.

Constant shoved the toe of her boot into the dry dirt of the lane as she walked, her thoughts delaying her. Thomas was just caught up in his work with his family print shop. That’s why she rarely saw him anymore.

“Henry! Hester!” She scanned the trees lining the lane. Falling leaves left the limbs near-naked, but there was still enough concealment for two impish children.

“I—I think he’s dead, Henry!”

Constant could just make out two heads of red hair in a leaf-choked gully. Henry knew better than this! There was always danger of flash flooding, and he’d been told time and again to stay away.

“He doesn’t move . . . watch!”

Hester squealed as Henry must be putting motion to his words. Stupid children! If they were playing with an animal, Mother would harangue Constant for hours.

“He’s not dead. See?”

Constant stumbled through the leaves, her passage so loud she was amazed the children didn’t hear. Henry’s head disappeared. Fear caused Constant to trip, sliding over the edge of the wash, coming to rest beside what felt like a very large, disembodied, stiff feathered object. And then she saw the dried blood mixed through the down.

“Get help . . . lad!” Words wheezed from the feather-covered form that held on to Henry with one arm.

“Constant! Don’t just sit there! Make him let me go! Help me! Constant!” Henry’s terror made his voice squeak.

“Con . . . stant?”

Whatever strength he had must’ve been spent. The man’s arm dropped. Constant’s brother fell. She’d never seen a man tarred and feathered before, but she instantly knew what had happened. She also guessed why. The only ones earning this kind of punishment were tax revenue agents who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Help me . . . please?”

He licked his lips, looked into her eyes, and Constant’s heart skipped a beat. Raggedly. She hadn’t been around men much. And she’d never been needed by one. She should grab the children and leave. Report him to her mother. She shouldn’t get involved. She was a dutiful daughter . . . and then a tremor ran through him, his eyes narrowing in what could be pain.

“I beg you, lass . . .”

Constant hushed him with a finger to his lips. A spark shot through her lower arm, tingling and enervating. Surprising. He was frowning as if he’d felt it, too. And that’s what decided her.

“Who is he?” Hester asked.

Constant looked at her coconspirators. “Help me get him to an out-shed so we can find out. Can you keep a secret?”

Henry and Hester beamed and nodded rapidly. Constant squatted beside the man, gripped his arm in one of hers, lifted his chest so she could maneuver beneath him, and tried to stand. He was much heavier than she expected. Constant’s legs trembled and then collapsed, dropping him. His grunt held pain. Bleary, red-rimmed eyes showed how much.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. “I promise.”

She pushed from him and scrambled to her feet, the children at her heels. “Come, children! We’ve got to steal a quilt from the line! Henry! Scout ahead. Don’t let anyone see us!”

Within the hour they had the man not only rolled into a quilt but inside a shed, too. But then she didn’t know what to do. She had an injured man on her hands, two five-year-olds for help, and a houseful of gossipy, backstabbing women. The only good news looked to be that the men, gone hunting, weren’t expected until the end of the week. That gave her four days. Worse, she still had to finish her chores and get supper, all the while pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

The evening was as worrisome as she’d anticipated. She expected either Henry or Hester to blurt something at any moment. That they kept each other company made it easier. Their whispering looked normal, as was their inability to sit still. But the real reason nobody noticed was that Charity finally went into labor.

As an unwed daughter, Constant wasn’t required to assist with childbirth. She got every other chore instead. Without supervision, she tossed dishes from wash water to rinse, flung the drying cloth about them, and clattered them into cabinets with haste. Night had fallen as she placed the remainder of sup in the cooling house, folded sheets, stoked the fire, pumped buckets and more buckets of water for heating, told any within hearing that she was going out to feed animals with Henry and Hester, and then she was out.

Her hands were shaking as she turned the hasp on the padlock. She fully expected he’d be dead. She warned the children to stay out long enough for her to check, and then she crept in.

They’d put him in the shed for drying hides. It had an unpalatable odor that wasn’t conducive to a sick ward, but she hadn’t many options. She didn’t know what the punishment for harboring a revenue agent was. She might be tarred and feathered, too. Or . . . at the very least, be put in the stocks.

The mound of quilt hadn’t moved. Constant knelt beside it, touched the man’s cheek, and then put her palm beneath his nose. Warm breath made her own restart. She hadn’t even realized she’d held it.

“It’s all right, Henry and Hester. You can come in. Bring the lard.”

“Lard?” The feather-covered form spoke.

“I don’t know about removing tar. I thought we’d try lard.”

He chuckled, then stilled with a quick intake of breath.

“I’m going to try it on your shoulder.”

There was blood oozing between some of the feathers coating him. Constant swallowed any reaction and slid fingers full of grease onto his shoulder. Feathers came off while the black, leatherlike sheath over his skin appeared to soften.

“Does . . . it work?” he asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Did you bring . . . water?”

“Water won’t work,” she replied.

“To . . . drink.”

“Oh. Henry? Pull a bucket from the well. Can you do that for me?”

Henry dashed off before she finished. Constant put another layer of grease on the featherless portion of the man’s shoulder before she picked up a cheesecloth and wiped at it again. All that happened was the grease came off. The tar was immobile.

“Well?” he asked.

She sighed and dropped the cheesecloth in her lap. “It doesn’t work.”

“Peel it. It makes horrid scars . . . but it comes off.”

“Won’t that hurt?”

“You think . . . it does na’ . . . already?”

“Oh.”

He had an odd accent she couldn’t place. Nor should she try. Constant looked at the softened ridge of tar covering his shoulder. From that small portion she could tell how strong he was. This was a fully grown male. Virile. Mature. Muscled. Extremely muscled. And he was right at her fingertips. That was a new experience. Heady. Exciting. Illicit. Scary.

“Go on, lass. You can do it.”

“Are you a handsome sort?”

He choked, and caught it with another intake of breath. “To some,” he finally answered.

“It would be a shame to damage you, then. Let me see . . .” She eased a fingernail beneath a crack in the tar. Then she lifted it. He stiffened the moment she tried.

“Jesu’!”

The curse came through gritted teeth and Hester put her hands to her ears. Constant removed her fingernail. She bent closer to lift the tar piece just slightly. She could see a layer of fine hair between the tar and his skin.

“I have an idea. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

“Doona’ move, she says . . . when I’m tarred . . . into position. You’re a strange angel of mercy, my love.”

My love? Her ears heard it as she squatted next to him. She had to clear her throat to get Hester’s attention.

“Come with me, Hester.”

“Doona’ leave me alone . . . with the lad.”

“I won’t. Look. Here’s Henry. He’s got some water. You’d best not drink too much, sir. Uh . . . until we have some of this off . . . uh . . .”

“The parts I’ll be needing. I ken.”

Constant’s face reddened so much it burned. Henry dipped a cup and handed it to her.

“I’m going to ease my arm under your head and lift you. Ready?”

He stiffened when she did it. She guessed the black mass on him was pulling and tearing with each movement. She only hoped when she had it off, there wouldn’t be too many open wounds to deal with. If she got it off.

He drained the cup she held to his lips. His light brown eyes thanked her, although they were still so red-rimmed, the color was hard to decipher. One thing was clear, though. If his eyes were any indicator, he was definitely a handsome sort.

“Come along, Henry and Hester. We’ve got to feed our patient. We also have to get a paring knife. One of my apple ones. Come on,” she directed as she stood up.

“A knife?” Henry asked.

“I have an idea. It may work. It may not. It’s better than the alternative.”

“Con . . . stant?” The man choked on her name and she bent close to him.

“Yes?”

“Doona’ let the bairns see this.” He fell back with a groan.

Constant frowned slightly. Even said oddly, using an unfamiliar word, she knew what he meant. But she didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t let the children follow her, they’d be telling, and then she’d be in terrible trouble. They were all she had, and that was that. Her frown cleared.

“Come along, you two. We’ve got to steal our man some sup. I fancy a bit of pumpkin bread, a piece of squab pie, and some cider. That might work.” She bent near his ear. “I’ll return. I promise.”

She didn’t hear his reply or even if he gave one.

No one was about when they raided the kitchens and no one noticed that Hester and Henry still weren’t abed, thanks to Charity. Moans filtered through the hall and into the kitchen, masking their activities.

Constant took her smallest knife, a sharpening stone, and a candle with her. If she didn’t miss her guess, it was going to be a long night.

Her patient hadn’t moved. She shut the door, told both children to find a comfortable spot if they wanted to stay, and knelt next to the man.

“I’m here,” she whispered. Then she opened the lamp to light it with her candle. The fright in his eyes startled her. Constant lit the wick and set it beside her knee. “It’s all right. I need it to see.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to try to cut the tar away.”

“Cut?”

The fright was back in his eyes again. Constant had never felt such power. She wasn’t certain she liked it.

“Yes,” she replied finally. “Cut.”

She put her left hand on his shoulder as if it were one big apple, put the blade of her paring knife beneath the edge of the tar she’d greased, and did the best skinning job she could manage. A thin strip of tar came up, curling as it did so, and if she didn’t miss her guess, beneath it was unblemished skin. Constant bent and checked. It was definitely skin, unblemished and slightly pink, but otherwise undamaged. She did it again, scraping another swath that left just a trace of rawness.

“It works,” she cried. “Sweet heaven, it works!”

“You should start with . . . my back.”

“Why?”

He swiveled his head to look at her. “To prevent black rot. ’Tis likely a mass of dried blood by now.”

Constant gulped, met his eyes, and gulped again. “Blood?”

“I dinna’ stand still while this was done to me, lass. I fought. Took a few lashes with a whip or two. Mayhap three. I was na’ counting at the time.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll also need . . . a support.”

“Support?”

“I’ll need to roll onto my belly. I doona’ wish . . . a broken rib puncturing anything.”

“They broke your ribs?” Her voice carried shock and horror. She couldn’t prevent it.

“I’m . . . na’ entirely certain. My chest is afire when I breathe. And my lungs gurgle. Both bad signs. I’m probably lucky. They meant . . . a lot worse.”

His lungs gurgled? She shouldn’t even have him here. He should be at a surgeon. She was playing in God’s territory. “I don’t think I should do this,” she told him.

“Please, lass? There’s nae one else. And . . . I can pay.”

“I don’t want your silver. I’m more worried over failure. I’ve set broken bones before and handled cuts and scrapes, but for this . . . you need a doctor.”

“Please?”

Constant stood. Looked him over for a bit. And then she sighed. He was right. There wasn’t anyone else. Even if she sent for Doctor Thatcher, it would take days. He was out with the hunting party.

“Children? Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him move.”

His response was probably a laugh, but it ended up as a cough that did sound as though it contained liquid.

Constant ran, checked the barn, and then the woodpile. The best she could manage was a halved log. With the flat edge on the ground, it should support him. She was going to need hot water, too. Luck was still her ally. Nobody was about when she filched a bucket from the hearth. All of which took longer than she expected. He hadn’t moved. The children had, though. They were both crouched near his head.

“Henry! Hester!”

“His name’s Kam,” they said in unison.

Constant frowned. Kam? What sort of name was that? And what parent would put such a name on their offspring?

“She’s back?” the man asked.

“I’ve brought a log. It’s the best I can do. Back away, children, so he can roll onto it.”

“If . . . I can.”

“I’ll help. Here.”

Constant put the log next to him, took his right hand, and pulled so hard she fell on her backside, much to Henry and Hester’s amusement. The man rocked amid a medley of groans and half-spoken curses. He was huffing, his eyes were scrunched shut, and some of the tar had flaked off the skin around them. Then he opened them, surprising her with the sheen of moisture on the golden-brown color. And that caused her heart to give another odd flutter.

“You’re going to have to help me. I can’t do it alone. You’re too heavy.”

“Try . . . pushing.” He wheezed the words.

Constant went to the other side of him and pushed. He rocked, grunted, and called out several unsavory things that had Hester openmouthed. Constant crawled to the wall beside him, braced her back against it, put both boots on his closest shoulder and heaved. He actually rolled, amidst a great deal more cursing and feathers flicking about. And that’s where he stayed, in a slightly bowed position as he lay facedown over the log to keep his ribs from contact with the floor.

“You all right?” Constant asked.

“I think . . . I’m about to be ill,” he muttered.

“I’ll get a bucket.”

“Just get your skean . . . and start your carving.”

“Skean?”

“Begging pardon, lass. I keep forgetting. A skean is a knife. Get your knife.”

It wasn’t dried blood seeping from the feathered mess on his back. It was wet. Constant watched her hands tremble. She had to breathe slowly and deeply. She wouldn’t be any good to him if she couldn’t hold a steady knife. She went to her knees, steadied her left hand on the skin she’d already revealed, and started paring. It didn’t work. The tar wouldn’t peel. The knife blade skidded along, grabbing at chunks, and the more she scraped, the more he stiffened. The more times he stiffened and groaned, the worse he shook beneath her, and all that happened was her knife got slippery with blood.

“I can’t do this! I’m sorry.” Constant lifted her hands and put the knife aside, swiping at the blood with a piece of cheesecloth. She was afraid every bit of her tears sounded in her voice.

“You canna’ stop now,” he said. “Please? I’m begging you.”

“But I don’t know what’s wrong. It won’t come up anymore.”

“You dinna’ . . . grease it up.”

“Of course. The lard.” Constant turned to her niece. “Hester? Do we still have the lard tub? Bring it here, please.”

“Grease is verra good for a burn, anyway, Constant, love. It’ll be all right,” he informed her.

“Burn?”

“Cold tar does na’ stick verra well.”

“Oh, sweet Lord, now I think I’ll be ill.”

He chuckled, but it turned into another cough, this one sounding wetter than before. Constant scooped a gob of lard and spread it on a small area with her left hand. She couldn’t afford to get her right hand slicked up again. It had to wield the knife.

And it worked.

Thank the Lord! Constant settled into place and went to work in earnest. She concentrated on greasing up feathers, wiping them off, and then peeling tar, doing her best to avoid noticing the sections of raw flesh. Constant gulped more than once to steady her stomach. It was laborious and onerous, and it was well past midnight before she had the tar on his back removed to his waist. And that just highlighted a myriad of stripes from a whipping.

She’d lost her audience hours earlier. Both children were asleep, snuggled together for warmth near the man’s feet. Constant had been so occupied she hadn’t noticed the feeling of frost in the air. She didn’t think the man had either. She didn’t even think he was conscious anymore.

Constant unbent stiff limbs and frowned at the water bucket. It had been hot hours ago. Not anymore. She was going to have to go for another one. She got to her knees.

“Doona’ . . . leave me,” he whispered.

“I have to leave. I have to get warm water. You need washing and bandaging. Actually, you need a doctor. I should have gone for him the moment we found you.”

“This doctor . . . of yours? His name Thatcher?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.”

“Then you’re observing a bit of his handiwork. Fetching him will na’ help me.”

“Doctor Thatcher helped tar you? Mercy! Why? What did you do?”

“If I tell you, will you leave?”

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Na’ to some,” he replied.

“You’re not a revenue agent?”

“Nae,” he answered.

“Then, why?”

“Thatcher . . . has a verra lovely young wife. She offered.”

Constant went stiff everywhere. She held her breath. She let it out and then pulled in another one. “You—you’re an adulterer? I’m risking severe punishment and worse—for an adulterer?”

“I dinna’ say I took her up on the offer, Constant, love.”

“I’ve got to wash your back now. I’m going to use cold water. I was worried about how it would hurt. I’m surprised at myself. I truly am. I want you to know this beforehand.”

He didn’t answer. She dunked a clean piece of cheesecloth into the bucket and wrung it out. She got her emotions under control before swabbing at the outside edge of his wound. Part of her emotion was due to the way he jerked from the first touch, part was because he was injured and she didn’t want to hurt him, and part of it was because if she didn’t finish this, he wasn’t going to get well. And then he wouldn’t leave.

Before she was finished washing his shoulder, she realized his injuries were just as bad as they looked. His back was a mass of bruising and a crooked latticework of open wounds that needed cleaning, medicating, and bandaging if they were going to heal properly. Whoever had whipped him made certain to break skin. Each time she dipped the rag the water darkened, until finally it was unusable.

She would have explained that she was leaving to get a fresh bucketful, but she was never speaking to him again.

There was nobody about in the kitchen, and there was hot water bubbling in every bucket on the hearth. Constant put her empty bucket down and stole a fresh one. Somewhere in the house she heard Charity moaning. Constant didn’t stay around to verify anything. She had to get the man named Kam better. She had to get him out of the shed, and she had to get him off her mind.

The door to the shed creaked a bit when she got back. Hester and Henry were still sleeping, and the man was still stretched out, his shoulders elevated atop the log, his head hanging to the floor.

“You . . . came back,” he said.

“Of course. I’ve little choice now.”

Constant knelt beside him and dipped her rag. She had one side of his back washed, and started on the other one. She’d been right earlier. He was muscular. And large. His back was immense, covered with more muscle than she’d ever seen. Of course, she only had her sisters’ husbands for contrast; as well as their father, who was smaller than Constant; and Thomas Esterbrook, who was fairly thin, although most young men at the age of eighteen were. Then again, she’d never seen a man lying stretched out before her. Maybe in that position any man appeared extraordinarily large.

“Is it . . . bad?” he asked.

Constant dipped her rag and washed the area where a belt should be holding his pants up. He didn’t have any spare flesh there, either, only a thick ridge of muscle.

“Well?”

“I am not speaking to you ever again, sir,” she answered.

He snorted. “Doona’ call me that. My name is Kameron. ’Tis a family name. Auld Gaelic. But I’d like it if you’d call me Kam.”

“I don’t want to know your name,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because I was stupid.”

He stiffened as she cleaned. Constant lightened her touch.

“You’re na’ stupid. I am. I lied, too.”

Constant narrowed her eyes. “An adulterer . . . and a liar?”

“I dinna’ commit adultery with anyone, Constant.”

“You should call me Mistress Ridgely. That would be right and proper.”

“Right . . . and proper? Now?” He wheezed out a breath that sounded like a laugh. “I really think you should call me Kam.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

“Why?” she repeated.

“Because . . . we’ll be getting verra familiar with each other fairly soon, and I’d feel much better about it if you’d call me by my name. Fair?”

Constant narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“They took my clothing, lass. All of it.”

Her hands halted, her eyes widened, and she forgot to breathe for a moment. She concentrated on dipping the rag, wringing it out, and then finishing her chore. She forced her mind to a complete blank and then ordered her own throat to swallow.

“Dinna’ you hear me?” he asked quietly.

“I already told you I’m not speaking to you ever again. I don’t understand why you didn’t hear it the first time . . . sir.”

“Well, at least I know why they call you Constant.”

“They call me that because it’s my name,” she replied.

“What kind of name is that?”

“Mine. I just told you.”

“Who would name a child that? And why?”

“Punishment,” she replied. “I am going to bandage you now. I brought more cheesecloth and a bedsheet. It shouldn’t be missed, especially since I do all the laundry anymore.”

“Punishment? What sort of sin requires naming a daughter Constant?”

“My parents have eight daughters. I’m one of them.”

“Eight? Good . . . Lord.”

The third word was higher-toned because she’d started layering the bandaging on his back. It must pain something terrible. It also wasn’t going to be easy to get the tar from his chest. She wondered if he knew.

“We should have done your chest first,” she said.

“Nae doubt . . . but my back hurt worse. I’m thankful to you, Constant. When this is all over, I’ll prove it to you.”

“No. When this is all over, I want you to disappear. I am going to forget that I was stupid enough to feel mercy toward a man like you. I will forget I ever met you, or helped you. That will be thanks enough . . . sir.”

“Are you finished bandaging?” he asked when she’d finished her speech.

“I can’t secure it until we have your chest peeled. I would think that much is obvious.”

“Fair enough.” He coughed again.

Constant waited. “Well?” she finally asked.

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to turn over for me, or do you want me to shove at you again?”

He groaned. “I doona’ think I can. Please?”

“I can’t get the tar from your chest if you’re on it.”

“I ken as much.”

Constant sat on her heels and looked over her handiwork. He needed to stay off his back for at least a day to give it time to start healing. She looked over at the two little cousins. They were absolute angels when asleep. She looked at the bucket of pink-stained water. She looked at the massive back and shoulders of the man at her knees. She loo