Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie Page B

answered.
    “What? Why?”
    “Because of what you’ve done.”
    “What have I done? I shaved everything from my face. I cut tar out of my hair. I rubbed myself with your lard, plucked feathers, and made everything in my chest ache. That’s what I did. On second thought, it was na’ worth it for me, either.”
    He was stiff with anger. That was a better reason than pain. Constant looked over the entire length of him. It didn’t help. She returned her gaze to her own lap.
    “You’ve made my work harder,” she whispered.
    He looked at her again. She knew, because the hard ridge of muscle at his waist pulled a bit at the motion. She didn’t move her eyes from her own entwined hands.
    “How?”
    “I’m the seventh of eight girls. I have never before seen a—a man. Not this close, and definitely not this . . . intimately. I was not even allowed into the upstairs rooms while Charity was in labor.” Her voice was drying up. She looked over at him and her heart did a dive into the pit of her stomach. She swallowed.
    “And?” he prompted.
    “I still have to get the rest of this tar and feather mixture from you. It wasn’t easy. I proved that last night.” She couldn’t control the blush, but he wasn’t as angry anymore.
    “And?” he asked again.
    “It’s harder now that I know.”
    “Now that you know what?”
    “That you’re this . . .” she began, and her voice just stopped.
    “Handsome? Or, would it be striking? Large? Perhaps more toward overpowering? Brawny? Maybe just strong? Manly? It could be that, too. Which?”
    “All . . . of that.” She whispered the words, but he heard them.
    He was openly grinning now. Constant couldn’t keep eye contact. She dropped her gaze back to her lap.
    “I see now, lass. You’re pleased. You just doona’ ken how to show it. You’ve na’ had much contact with men, and I surprised you. I could apologize for startling you with my appearance, but I will na’ bother. Most women find me attractive. In fact, now that I think on it— all of them do.”
    “I can leave you like this,” she replied.
    He sighed hugely, and then caught his breath with what was probably pain. “Oh . . . verra well. I’ll be a good patient and keep my mouth shut and try to pretend that I’m an ugly auld soldier. I want you to ken in advance that it’s na’ going to be easy.”
    “Kameron?”
    “Aye?”
    “I’m going to need you to be quiet now.”
    He sighed again, softer this time. “Verra well. Begin. Do your worst. I’ll attempt to ignore how much it pains, with my own imagination for company.”
    Constant reached for the cloth. Despite the chill in the air and the dampness of the material in her hands, she felt absolutely scorched, and only because she’d had been in contact with his bandage! She sighed and dropped the cloth into the bucket. Her hands weren’t cooperating. She picked up the rag and held it limply above the bucket and tried narrowing her eyes. That didn’t work, either. All that happened was the man at her knees shimmered with the lamplight.
    She moved to soak the honey-encrusted bandage off and a strange buzzing sensation seemed to be affecting her palms. No matter how often she touched him, the vibration came again, and with it her fingers tingled, her wrists warmed, and her entire body flushed. It was terrible and odd, and thrilling and frightening at the same time. And she didn’t know what she was supposed to do about it.
    The bandage came up, most of the honey-herb mixture with it. Constant peered at him for a bit. She didn’t know if the salve had helped. She reached for the jar and dribbled some more over him, following the latticework of wounds across his back.
    “Connie?” he asked.
    She folded four layers of cheesecloth together to put over his back and had it in place before she answered. It was a lot of cloth, but she was doing the laundry. She could simply wash it and hang it out. She was already debating if she’d have time in the