Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie Read Free Book Online Page A

stitches into quilts. That way everyone gets new quilts each year, and it’s quicker than sewing them by yourself.”
    “Boring,” he replied.
    Constant stopped slicing. It wasn’t because of his remark; it was the leg beneath her. The ropes were cutting into swollen, tight flesh, and there wasn’t a speck of his leg that wasn’t a mottled purple color. She’d sprained an ankle before. She knew what they felt and looked like. He’d be lucky if it was broken.
    “Oh, Kameron,” she whispered. “How do you manage to talk as if—”
    “When are you going to call me Kam?” he interrupted.
    “That’s too . . . informal.”
    “You have seen my naked arse, Constant Ridgely, and you’re talking formality?”
    Her lips tightened. “I don’t think you’re amusing,” she replied.
    “Good. Use that emotion to get this over with, then. Doona’ stop and quail on me now, Connie, love.”
    “But . . . it has to pain. I may hurt it worse no matter what I do.”
    “Go on then. Finish. Assess the damage later. It could be worse. You could have left me there.”
    “I’ll try to be gentle.”
    “I ken. You’re a verra gentle person. The man who claims you will be gaining a treasure. I’ll help you find him, too. I promise. Oh. You want me to disappear. I forgot. Go on, love. Take up your knife and cut away. I doona’ offer such a thing to many lasses. There would be too many takers.”
    “You’ve got a strange sense of humor,” she said.
    “Always did. And worry does na’ change anything. Naught will. So . . . if I have to live without my lower legs, it will be my own fault, now will na’ it?”
    “What did you do?” she asked.
    “I was dense. Extremely so, now that I ponder it.”
    “Dense?”
    “Aye. I recall entering one of your little sedition-minded, treason-filled and populated drinking establishments, and I remember wearing my uniform.”
    “Were you drinking?”
    “I was na’ just drinking, I was well into a good drunk.”
    “Oh, dear God.”
    “There’s naught ungodly about drinking, Constant.”
    “If you hadn’t been drinking, would this have happened to you?” she asked.
    “You have me there. Bright lass, as I’ve made mention. I suppose my answer will have to be that it might have happened, but I’d have given better than I received. At least one of them would be wearing feathers, too. So tell me, Constant, my love, how bad is it?”
    She had the last of the tar off and didn’t know how he’d guessed. He was bound from above the knees to his ankles, and one leg was blackish purple and twice the size of the other. The healthy one looked all right. More than all right, it looked as well muscled and strong as the rest of him, but she couldn’t tell him any of that .
    “Well?” he prompted.
    “I think . . . one leg is fine.”
    “Is the injured one setting straight?”
    “How am I supposed to tell?”
    “Ankles. Are they together? Side by side?”
    She surveyed them. “Yes.”
    “I might just be in luck.”
    “I should go for the surgeon. I should, really.”
    He swiveled his head to look at her. “And I already told you. Thatcher was there.”
    Constant shook her head. “He doesn’t drink.”
    “He may na’, but he had few qualms about joining a mob. Trust me.”
    “We can’t just leave it, though. What if it doesn’t set straight?”
    “Are you that worried about me?” he asked.
    Constant looked at those golden-brown eyes and blurted out the truth. “It would be a pure shame, I think,” she whispered.
    “A shame?”
    “To have damage done to any part of you.”
    “What?” He sounded strange.
    “You may be the most handsome man . . . I’ve ever seen, Kameron. To have any part of you damaged is more than I can contemplate. I have to make certain it isn’t so.”
    She shouldn’t have said it. Her entire body felt hot. He flushed, too. At least, there was a pink tint to his shoulders, his chin, and neck.
    “With such sugared words, Constant, love, it’s