Page 11 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

“Only the best for our future laird,” Ced told him, but he, too, sounded a touch disingenuous, and Si couldn’t decide if it was a jab at him or an acknowledgment of Bram’s birthright.

“She must really be something,” Blair said. “I was beginning to think we might never lure you back from the charms of Aberdeen.”

Si knew better than to take the bait. His academic side was only too happy to let go all manner of sins that Blair seemed to imply. But the whole point of this charade was to convince the clan he was what they wanted and needed—at least for the next six years or so. Would the future laird just let the barb lie?

He took a breath, drawing himself up to his full height so he towered over Blair. “I certainly preferred the company of learned men in Aberdeen over a wee ankle biter like yourself,” he said good-naturedly, and Cedrick roared with laughter. “And as for the lady, aye, she’s special indeed, as I’m sure her cousin will attest. Flawless, like a rare gem, I think you’ll find.”

“Blair,” a stern voice called from the direction of the alehouse. All five men turned to see Norval MacKenzie standing in the doorway. The steward doffed his hat and bowed his head deferentially at Si, who lifted a hand in recognition.

“Excuse me,” Si said, tipping his own head, before making his way towards the smithy without looking back to see Blair’s reaction. The tiny hairs on his neck told him Blair kept watching him all the way across the green.

“Madainn mhath, milord,” the blacksmith said, glancing up from his hammering when Si entered and jerking his head at a young woman working the bellows, who made an awkward curtsy and scampered out of sight.

“Silas, please,” Si said, though obviously his reputation had preceded him.

“Sam. MacPherson,” the smith replied, offering his hand.

“The fellow who worked this forge when I was a lad had some talent with stones and lighter metals.” Si mumbled, though looking around he saw naught but iron horseshoes, hinges, and farming equipment.

MacPherson shrugged as if to say the smith of his youth was long gone.

From his sporran, Si offered the mottled red stone.

“Jasper?” Sam asked, holding it close to one eye and then slowly extending it an arm’s length away, scrutinizing the stone in a way that made Si feel inadequate. “For protection and passion.”

“Aye. Can you set it in a ring?”

Sam eyed him. “Signet?”

“No. A band. Delicate enough for a lady.”

Sam twisted the stone between strong fingers. “Silver?”

“If you like.”

“You’ll have it in time for the day.” He weighed the stone in his palm. “There’ll be a lot left over. Could put it in the hilt of a sgian dubh. Matched set? Every lady ought to have a wee knife. My lass Greer keeps one in each boot. I’ve no fear for her safety around the village lads.”

Si wasn’t sure about the effectiveness of a knife without proper instruction, but what harm could it really do? “Why not?” he agreed.

Sam nodded and turned back to his forge, their business apparently concluded.

“Right. Mòran taing,” Si muttered, wondering what had become of the smith he’d known as a lad, the one who had accompanied his father into battle at Glen Shiel. He truly had been away far too long.

* * *

“Stand still, mo nighean,” Ellen’s mother chided for approximately the thirty-seventh time. And she was trying to, she truly was, but she was plagued by such a restless energy. She hadn’t slept at all, replaying her mother’s words about the wedding night—You mustn’t cry—and then Jory’s. There are many ways to enjoy the bedroom, she had said, grinning over Ellen’s shoulder at her husband.

Her cousin’s words had dissolved into restless dreams of the MacKenzie bathing her, of all things, in a luxurious copper tub. She hadn’t felt right since waking, as if it had been real and this was the dream.

Heat threatened to overtake her, and Ellen shifted her weight to the other foot, then jumped into her mother with a squeak as a sharp pain pricked her hip.

Maggie grinned sheepishly up at her with a mouthful of pins. “I don’t understand why we can’t just tie it back with ribbons,” she whined around them. “We’ll have to take out all these stitches again when it’s my turn.”

Mother smoothed out the shoulders of the old dress fondly. “Hush, Maggie. You’ll get your turn soon enough. Lennox has been looking your way.”

Though fond of her cousin in a familial sort of way, Maggie groaned as though she wanted to scream into a pillow. Ellen knew the feeling well.

“Better yet,” Maggie said when she’d recovered, “let the MacKenzie buy you a new one like he offered.”