Laird of Ballanclaire Read Free

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