Laird of Ballanclaire Read Free Page 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