Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie Page A

mouth. It didn’t help, but at least it hid some of her reaction. “Oh, sweet heaven,” she replied.
    “I hope your reaction has a bit to do with my appearance.”
    “I-I,” she stammered, and then her throat closed off.
    “If so . . . then every bit of bother today would be worth it.”
    He was still grinning, and on the man that had been revealed, it was incredible. The tar hadn’t scarred one bit of his face. It wouldn’t have dared. Constant looked at the lushly lashed brown eyes she’d already noticed, the cleft chin at the juncture of a perfectly chiseled jawline, the lightly tanned skin, the full lips, and despite his claim of being twenty-eight years old, there wasn’t one hint of a line anywhere.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    She was feeling the shock evaporate, replaced by unreasonable anger. She felt as though some massive joke had been played out at her expense and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
    “Nothing,” she replied stiffly and moved her hands from her face. She still had to get the rest of the feathers and tar from him. She had to soak the bandages off and put honey-herb mixture back on him. She’d yet to handle the most embarrassing task of her life: getting the tar-feather mixture from his masculine area, unless he felt capable to do it himself.
    He’d damn well better be capable!
    She was amazed at her sudden thought. She had been taught better. She never cursed, even to herself. Now she had to repent. And it was all his fault! He wasn’t supposed to be so striking he made her entire insides feel like mixed-up jam! Damn it! She swore to herself again. This time on purpose. If she had to repent for using unfit language, she might as well get some in. She had her jaw clenched as she soaked the bandage on his back.
    “A little more gentleness, if you please,” he said, stiffening a bit.
    “What?”
    “I said . . . ouch!”
    She lifted her hands from him the moment he jerked. She was being ridiculous and she knew it. She had to sit back, look at the vaulted ceiling of the barn, and take gulping breaths. And that didn’t even work. Nothing did.
    “I’m sorry, lass,” he said.
    “For what?”
    “Surprising you. I thought you’d be pleased.”
    He wasn’t looking her way, but she didn’t look to verify it. She knew it by the way his shoulders moved.
    “Oh, it is a surprise,” she said. “A rather horrid one.”
    “If you’re na’ pleased, just say so.”
    “I already called you the most handsome man I’d ever seen. It appears I was mistaken.”
    “A simple ‘I’m na’ pleased’ would be sufficient,” he replied.
    “But no,” she continued, watching her own hands quiver above his bandaged back. “You’re not only the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, you’re probably one of the most handsome ever born. What a horrible surprise.”
    She didn’t dare look anywhere but at his back. Tears of mortification were stinging her lids and making every breath burn.
    “The way I look is a horrible surprise? I doona’ believe I’ve ever heard it said that way afore. You’re named Constant because you’re constantly surprising. That’s the true reason, is na’ it?”
    “I am going to try to peel off the rest of your tar and feathers now, Kameron. I’m going to finish my chore and then I’m going to wash my hands of you and hope we never meet again.”
    “Damn. You really are na’ pleased.”
    “I am not pleased,” she retorted.
    “Why ever na’?”
    “Because an English soldier is supposed to be ugly.”
    He snorted but caught the sound before it turned into a full laugh. “Good thing I’m na’ English, then. Oh . . . Christ! That hurts. Uh . . . apologies. I mean, by heaven that hurts.”
    “I haven’t touched you,” she replied.
    “’Tis . . . my ribs. I keep forgetting.”
    “Oh.” It was all she could think of.
    “You can start soaking the bandage now. I will na’ move. I promise.”
    “I don’t think I can,” she