Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie

she finished gathering clean clothing in the laundry.
    It wasn’t so much the child’s gender they were worrying over, nor was it Charity’s husband John Becon’s reaction when he found out. The women in the house were more upset that Charity wasn’t recovering well. She might not be able to bear more children. That was upsetting everyone except Charity and Constant, but for different reasons. Charity was said to be relieved at never having to go through such agony again. Constant was less vocal, but she was relieved, too. There was enough of John Becon and his insufferable arrogance already in the world. She thought it might be a blessing.
    Constant finished the supper dishes, dragged out the laundry tub, and started filling it with heated water for an impromptu bath. She was alone. Everyone was asleep, exhausted over the vigil at Charity’s bedside. Henry didn’t argue when he was sent to bed, either. That was odd, if she thought of it. He always argued over having to do things he didn’t want to do, and going to bed was definitely one of them.
    Constant pulled down her best working gown. It was a hand-me-down, as were all her clothes, but it hadn’t one patch on it, and the pinkish color Charity had dyed into it still clung to each fiber. It also had a frilled apron. Constant blushed as she tossed that atop her pile, recalling where her other apron was.
    It wasn’t much later that she was climbing up the rungs to the loft, a blanket looped atop one shoulder, her wet hair braided and wrapped about her head beneath her cap, her apron tied around a bundle of supper for him, and another bucket of warm water in her hand. It was going to be a chore to get the honey-dried bandages from him, but it was one she actually looked forward to.
    She set her bundles down and lit the wick on her lamp, noticing for the first time how much frost was in the air. That wasn’t good, because she hadn’t seen to her patient. He hadn’t much to wear. Then again, she reassured herself, he slept in a hayloft full of straw. If he got cold, he should know what to do about it.
    She knew where to find him this time. Constant smiled slightly. He was asleep and he hadn’t any straw atop him. He probably needed it. He was propped up on the log, although he’d pulled some of the quilt beneath him and onto the wood, making it more comfortable. He had her apron tucked around him. His arms were just as muscled and strong-looking as she’d seen last night. It was especially noticeable now that he hadn’t any hair on them.
    Her smile got bigger. The tar on his arms had come up easily, but he’d been complaining the entire time of how much body hair she was removing with every motion of her knife. He seemed to think she removed it closer to his skin than she had to. On purpose. She hadn’t known men worried over that sort of thing, and she didn’t have anyone to ask. She went for her bucket and started unrolling another hank of cheesecloth as she considered him.
    The bandage on his back was crusty with her honey mixture, but there wasn’t any sign of blood. Constant knelt at his side and dipped a bit of cloth to dampen the bandage on his back. She had to push his hair out of the way first, and then she held the soaked cloth to his bandage to soften it. His hair wasn’t brown as she’d suspected it would be. It was greasy-looking, but looked to be a white-blond shade. It looked thick and long, too. It probably reached the middle of his back when he had it properly tied back. She lifted the rag and put it into the bucket to soak up more water.
    She was almost to his back again when he turned his neck and smiled up at her. Constant’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and her body started ringing with alarm. He hadn’t a speck of tar on his face or in the hair she’d been admiring, and he was worse than handsome. He was beautiful.
    “Hello, Constant,” he said with a quirk to those lips.
    She dropped the rag and put both hands over her