Free Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie

also promise that I’ll do naught to harm or frighten you. How could I do such to my own angel of mercy?”
    “I’m not an angel,” she replied.
    “You are. I just have to get that blind Thomas fellow to see it.”
    “He’s not blind,” she replied. “He’s as sharp-eyed as they come. He takes the marksman prize every season.”
    “You defend him. That’s good. He may be a first-class marksman, but he’s woefully inept at seeing what he’s looking at.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because any man with sense kens the proper traits to look for in a future wife. They look for compassion, warmth, charm, a frame that will birth bairns well—doona’ quail on me now, Constant—where was I? Oh, yes. They should look for good health, a good disposition, and add in a heavy dose of culinary skills. It’s also nice to find skills with needle and thread, spindle and wool-comb. Nae man likes to go threadbare. This is what a man should look for. And this is what our lad, Thomas, is na’ seeing.”
    It was chilly in the loft, but Constant wasn’t aware of it. She was overheated from the reaction of her own body. But his words about needle and thread jogged her memory. She cleared her throat.
    “That reminds me. I brought a blanket for you. I forgot it last night. I wasn’t thinking.”
    He let out a long breath and then he shrugged. At least, she thought he did, because it came with an accompanying groan and a mumbled curse followed by an apology.
    “Are you cold?” he asked, finally.
    She shook her head.
    “I’m na’ either. Why is that, you think?”
    She looked up, locked gazes with him for the barest moment, and looked away again. Then she shrugged.
    “It’s the autumn season. It’s the middle of the night. We’re in a loft with an open window, and if you huff a breath out, you can see it. Yet, we’re na’ cold?”
    “You’re half covered with tar still,” she offered.
    “True, but it’s on the side I’m lying on. Which does mean there’s na’ much on this side of me. I’m verra nearly naked, love.”
    She choked on the reply and moved backward so rapidly, she fell from her folded knees onto her backside, her farm boots landing right next to him. Constant rocked back to face him, holding her skirts in place. He was chuckling.
    “I—” she began.
    “Doona’ leave me.” He put a hand out to hold on to her ankle. Constant looked from his hand, up his shaved expanse of arm where muscles were flexing as if for her benefit, and right into very amused golden eyes. “Please?” he asked.
    She lifted her chin. “You reminded me on purpose.”
    “True enough. It worked well, too. Dinna’ it?”
    “I don’t know,” she answered. It was true. She didn’t.
    “I was bringing you back to the subject at hand, and you are a verra astute student. That will also bode well.”
    “Also?” she asked.
    “Along with the romantic nature you’ve been keeping hidden. Verra well hidden, I might add.”
    “Romantic?”
    “That’s what I said. And that’s exactly what I meant. You are a romantic, my dear.”
    “I am not. I till and harvest fields, and work from dawn to dusk at my chores. I haven’t time for anything remotely romantic.”
    “You probably daydream through most of it, too,” he answered. “Tell the truth now.”
    Her ankle was warm where his hand was still attached. That was especially strange since she had boots on, and he was holding on to leather.
    “What makes . . . you say so?” she asked.
    “You called my eyes amber. Verra romantic word for a dull color, amber. You were na’ even aware of the word as you used it. That made it something you did subconsciously, without thinking. You probably apply romantic descriptions to menial things all through every day of your existence. Tell me I’m wrong. I’d like to argue the point with you.”
    She was staring. “How do you know?” she finally asked.
    Her answer was a swift grin, and then he winked. Her body responded all the