Laird of Ballanclaire Read online

  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.

  Chapter Two

  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 looked at the yellow feather-covered mass of his lower body. She gulped.

  “You ken what needs doing, Constant.”

  “I’m thinking,” she replied.

  “Think faster. It’ll be morn soon, and you’ve got to get me hidden afore then.”

  “I don’t have to do anything of the sort.”

  “You have to find a better spot to hide me. You ken that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because young bairns canna’ keep big secrets.”

  She glanced at the sleeping duo again. “Can’t you just leave? Find some other naïve girl to assist you?”

  “I canna’ walk. If you saw my legs
you’d ken the reason.”

  “What happened to your legs?”

  “Finish taking this off and see for yourself.”

  Constant narrowed her eyes. “We don’t have time for word games. I have to get you hidden, remember?”

  “Good lass,” he answered. “Thank you.”

  “I am doing this for self-preservation, sir, and no other reason. I want you to know that.”

  “Constant, if you will get me hidden and help me get well, I will more than disappear. I’ll forget directions to your hamlet. I swear.”

  “You do more than your share of swearing already, sir.”

  “Kam,” he said, softly.

  “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

  He huffed a breath in what might have been amusement. “You ask the strangest thing. Does it look as if I can move?”

  She stood and looked him over. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not. I’ll devise something. I’ll return.”

  It was dawn before she managed to move him to his new home, rolling him in the quilt and using their plowhorse, Eustace, for help. Kam was grunting and swearing through most of it. He had no room to complain. At least he’d get to sleep the day away. Constant was going to be at the beck and call of the entire household while guarding her own tongue. She had to keep her brother and her niece from guessing her patient’s new location, and she was going to have to pretend that she’d gotten a good night’s sleep as well.

  She eased the wooden platform over the hayloft, clicking her tongue to Eustace, to back him. Kameron dangled above the fresh hay for a span before he dropped. Then all she had to do was unhook Eustace, put the wagon back against the barn wall, and run back to the shed. She regretted having anything to do with the tarred man. Back when she’d thought he was just an English revenue agent, she’d had second thoughts about helping him. Now that she’d talked to him and seen some of him, she had third and fourth ones. She should’ve run home and told her mother what the children found.

  She certainly wasn’t keeping him secret so she could have him all to herself. That kind of idea was for wicked young women with nothing else to occupy them. Constant was helping him because she was a God-fearing, churchgoing human being, who had a charitable and merciful side. That’s why she was helping him.