You ken?”
Her brows rose. Her eyes widened.
“Good. You do understand. Did you bring me anything more to wear?”
She’d been avoiding that problem. She’d been debating using the length of homespun she’d woven back when she was too small to be of help with fields and farm animals and chopping wood. The material was coarse, but maybe he wouldn’t notice how rough and amateurish it looked. She could use it to fashion him a pair of breeches, when she found the time. And desire. She hadn’t had the inclination, because he had fine, strong thighs, a back with muscle everywhere, and shoulders twice the size of any she’d ever envisioned. She didn’t want any of that covered over just yet. Besides, she told herself, she still had to drizzle honey-herb mixture over the burned skin on his legs. She couldn’t do that if he wore clothing.
“No,” she replied.
“Give up that apron, then. I’m na’ moving without something.”
“I can’t.” It wasn’t even hers. It was one of Charity’s best. Constant had borrowed it from her sister’s bureau. Charity certainly wasn’t in any need of an apron at the moment. She’d also chosen this one because it was beautifully stitched and lacy. Constant blushed.
“Well, you’re going to have to do something, or we have finished for the evening.”
“But we’re almost done,” she argued.
“Oh, you are more than done, love.”
His low tone sent gooseflesh rippling over her shoulders, down both arms, centering in the tips of her breasts. Constant nearly covered herself as she watched his glance flick to her bosom before returning to her face. He had a tight look about his lips when he did, too. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t think she had a voice anymore.
He licked his lips and then swiveled his head away, looking over at the slanted wood of the barn roof rather than at her.
“Perhaps I had best start my feast,” he said finally. “I need a break from your attentions. What did you bring me, again?”
“You can have my pantaloons,” she replied.
“ What? ”
The word was choked out as he moved his head back toward her, the white-blond mane of hair brushing his shoulders. Constant wasn’t just blushing, she was probably purple. She had to be, if the heat behind her own eyes was any indication. “I wear pantaloons. They’re drawers. We girls—”
“I ken what pantaloons are,” he growled. “Unlike you, I most certainty am na’ a virgin. I can barely recall a time when I was, actually.”
“You’re a fornicator?”
“Full-fledged,” he responded. “Although ’tis na’ entirely my fault.”
“How can fornication not be a man’s fault?”
“Ah. Churchgoers. Got to love them. They’re always so sanctimonious. Self-righteous. A congregation of pious busybodies. I’ll tell you how. What if women are the instigators? Answer me that. Well? How am I to blame if they hand me invitations to their chambers? With full directions. I would say if they do so, then they invite it, and consequently, I canna’ be totally at fault, now can I?”
“Women . . . invite—” Her voice choked off.
“Aye. They do. Continually.”
“To . . . their chambers?”
“Aye.”
“Did they know? What you . . . uh, you—had in mind?”
He was probably trying not to laugh. “They had a verra good idea,” he responded finally.
“You ravished them?”
The eyes he turned on her were lidded to the point his eyelashes shadowed the gold color to black. “If anyone was ravished, darling, it was me. That’s what inviting a single man to a married lady’s bedchamber is for.”
“Married? Heavens! England is as sinful as they say.” Constant was shocked. It sounded in every syllable.
“It’s nae different than other places. You hear of the French court? In the Bourbon dynasty, they take sin to a whole new level. Trust me. Or watch the ancient regime yourself. When they allow you to visit again.”
“Allow? What do you speak of now? I know
Her brows rose. Her eyes widened.
“Good. You do understand. Did you bring me anything more to wear?”
She’d been avoiding that problem. She’d been debating using the length of homespun she’d woven back when she was too small to be of help with fields and farm animals and chopping wood. The material was coarse, but maybe he wouldn’t notice how rough and amateurish it looked. She could use it to fashion him a pair of breeches, when she found the time. And desire. She hadn’t had the inclination, because he had fine, strong thighs, a back with muscle everywhere, and shoulders twice the size of any she’d ever envisioned. She didn’t want any of that covered over just yet. Besides, she told herself, she still had to drizzle honey-herb mixture over the burned skin on his legs. She couldn’t do that if he wore clothing.
“No,” she replied.
“Give up that apron, then. I’m na’ moving without something.”
“I can’t.” It wasn’t even hers. It was one of Charity’s best. Constant had borrowed it from her sister’s bureau. Charity certainly wasn’t in any need of an apron at the moment. She’d also chosen this one because it was beautifully stitched and lacy. Constant blushed.
“Well, you’re going to have to do something, or we have finished for the evening.”
“But we’re almost done,” she argued.
“Oh, you are more than done, love.”
His low tone sent gooseflesh rippling over her shoulders, down both arms, centering in the tips of her breasts. Constant nearly covered herself as she watched his glance flick to her bosom before returning to her face. He had a tight look about his lips when he did, too. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t think she had a voice anymore.
He licked his lips and then swiveled his head away, looking over at the slanted wood of the barn roof rather than at her.
“Perhaps I had best start my feast,” he said finally. “I need a break from your attentions. What did you bring me, again?”
“You can have my pantaloons,” she replied.
“ What? ”
The word was choked out as he moved his head back toward her, the white-blond mane of hair brushing his shoulders. Constant wasn’t just blushing, she was probably purple. She had to be, if the heat behind her own eyes was any indication. “I wear pantaloons. They’re drawers. We girls—”
“I ken what pantaloons are,” he growled. “Unlike you, I most certainty am na’ a virgin. I can barely recall a time when I was, actually.”
“You’re a fornicator?”
“Full-fledged,” he responded. “Although ’tis na’ entirely my fault.”
“How can fornication not be a man’s fault?”
“Ah. Churchgoers. Got to love them. They’re always so sanctimonious. Self-righteous. A congregation of pious busybodies. I’ll tell you how. What if women are the instigators? Answer me that. Well? How am I to blame if they hand me invitations to their chambers? With full directions. I would say if they do so, then they invite it, and consequently, I canna’ be totally at fault, now can I?”
“Women . . . invite—” Her voice choked off.
“Aye. They do. Continually.”
“To . . . their chambers?”
“Aye.”
“Did they know? What you . . . uh, you—had in mind?”
He was probably trying not to laugh. “They had a verra good idea,” he responded finally.
“You ravished them?”
The eyes he turned on her were lidded to the point his eyelashes shadowed the gold color to black. “If anyone was ravished, darling, it was me. That’s what inviting a single man to a married lady’s bedchamber is for.”
“Married? Heavens! England is as sinful as they say.” Constant was shocked. It sounded in every syllable.
“It’s nae different than other places. You hear of the French court? In the Bourbon dynasty, they take sin to a whole new level. Trust me. Or watch the ancient regime yourself. When they allow you to visit again.”
“Allow? What do you speak of now? I know
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