Free Laird of Ballanclaire by Jackie Ivie Page B

sleep.”
    He released her foot. “I’m stealing your food, your goodwill, and your sleep. I am na’ a very pleasant patient, am I?”
    “No.”
    He grinned. “It’s a good thing I’m pleasant to look at then, is na’ it?”
    Constant’s eyes widened and she gaped. She couldn’t think of one thing to reply. Not one.
    “Come, Constant, confess. You wanted me to look like this, dinna’ you?”
    “It never crossed my mind,” she answered, as evenly as possible.
    “You’re na’ a verra convincing liar, Connie, love. I would na’ take it up as a profession, if I were you.”
    Constant wrinkled her brow again. “Lying isn’t a profession.”
    “Oh yes, it is. Some people doona’ even ken when they’ve chosen it as one. You would probably know a few if I described them.”
    “Who?”
    “Oh, I doona’ go by names. I use types. There’s your snobbish types that wed for security or wealth, or perhaps both, but they do it without emotion. You ken any of them?”
    Charity , was her instant thought. She nodded.
    “You think they doona’ lie with each and every caress? Each and every kiss? Every intimate gesture they receive and then force themselves to return?”
    Constant’s eyes flew wide. Charity caressed John Becon . . . intimately? She hadn’t ever thought about it. Everything that Kam had pegged as a romantic in her was shuddering. She nearly gagged. John Becon was older than their father, fat, pompous, had horrible teeth, worse breath, smelled . . . and that was with his clothes on.
    “How about the type that goes about pretending to be brave, when they long to run and hide? They’re verra good at that, too. They put on a good front, especially if they are well fortified with spirits. I imagine some of my mob friends fit that category. You ken any of them, Constant?”
    She nodded.
    “They’re pretty good at lying, would na’ you say? You could actually say they’ve chosen lying as a profession. I bet half doona’ even realize it, because they’re lying to themselves, too.”
    “How do you know this?”
    “It’s my talent. I can usually spot a liar the moment I meet them, which is why I told you what a terrible one you are. Those turquoise eyes doona’ hide a thing.”
    “My eyes are not turquoise,” she replied, although her voice didn’t sound like her.
    “What color are they, then? In your opinion, of course.”
    “I don’t know . . . blue?”
    He tilted his head slightly and considered her. Without once blinking. Constant couldn’t take that much of his undivided attention without it showing somewhere on her body for him to read. She looked down at the boot he was no longer holding.
    “You forgot the darker, bluish-green streaks in them,” he said softly.
    Her eyes widened. She didn’t dare look up.
    “They’re also perfectly clear and honest, and impossible to hide a thing behind.”
    Her face was beet red. It had to be if the heat behind her eyes and nose was an indication.
    “You should look in the mirror more, love.”
    “You shouldn’t use such endearments,” she whispered.
    “Probably na’, but it’s too late to change, and I want to give you something to daydream about while you work tomorrow.”
    She twisted her hands together to hide the trembling. “Are you dallying with me?” she asked her entwined fingers.
    “Na’ yet. But I was definitely considering it.”
    “What?” Surprise choked the word. And something else. Something she was avoiding. She couldn’t fancy herself feeling anything for a tarred-and-feathered soldier named Kameron. It was against everything loyal in her. It was dangerous. There wasn’t a soul who knew she was alone all night with a very handsome, very virile, and very exposed man. It was also thrilling. Exciting. Tantalizing. She trembled. Stilled. “But . . . why?” she asked.
    “I’m beginning to suspect the reason behind this fellow’s obstinacy in na’ snatching you up the moment you were old enough. I’m hoping to