Page 12 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

“Did he?” Mother asked, her eyes alight with warmth.

Ellen nodded.

“This morning,” Maggie answered for her.

“How very gallant,” her mother crooned. “But there’s hardly time for all that. You’ll look lovely in my dress, Wee Ellen.”

Ellen turned toward the glass, trying to imagine herself looking as beautiful as she’d always pictured her mother. She turned the silver brooch in her hand, running her thumb along the soft, smooth surface and pressing the sharp points of the hearts into her palm.

Here, he had said, shoving it through the fence as though someone stood behind him, prodding him in the back, but it had sparkled in the morning sunlight, and Ellen had never seen anything more lovely. She wanted to dislike the man—had in fact resolved to despise him from the very moment her father had broken the news of her betrothal.

Disliking him would make it easier to leave. But there was something about the uncertainty in his countenance that was like looking in a mirror. After years of being overlooked, it was almost comforting to watch the big man try in vain to fade into the background, when his broad shoulders and imposing height took up one’s entire field of vision. It was almost endearing to think anything could make a man like him the least bit discomfited.

She wouldn’t say she liked him exactly. She didn’t know him. But she was drawn to the depths of his whisky-colored eyes. And she didn’t hate the way he swallowed the beginnings of his words, like he had to physically force them from his mouth. When he said her name, it sounded like ’Lady ’Len—someone strange and mysterious and bold. Someone Ellen might imagine she could be.

Lady Len wouldn’t swoon because each pin in the dress closed in like one more bar on a tiny cage. Lady Len would revel in the lustrous fabric and the freedom it might afford. But Ellen was not Lady Len.

Another pin went in, too close to Ellen’s ribs. The soft woosh of pierced fabric was followed by further constriction around her middle as she tried in vain to inhale.

“I’m going to faint,” she whispered, but no one heard her or moved to help, so she stumbled toward the windowsill for a bit of air. Then she crumpled to her knees.

Such squealing and squawking followed as Ellen floated outside herself, pricked by a thousand tiny claws, pushed and pulled, until she finally found herself more or less seated in a chair.

Then Maggie squeaked and shoved a wadded handkerchief in her face, almost smothering her. “You’ve ruined it! You’ve ruined Mam’s dress,” her sister cried.

“Nothing’s ruined,” Mother scolded. “Let’s get her out of it quickly.”

“I suppose now I shall have to have a new one,” Maggie whispered triumphantly.

Ellen was lifted up and tugged at until she wore only her shift, head tilted back to stop the bloody nose. It seemed a terrible omen, blood on the wedding frock.

“Have your hives returned?” her mother asked, prodding the shoulder of her shift to get a better look at the red, blotchy skin beneath, but Ellen yanked away, pressing the sharp points of the brooch deeper into her palm, seeking strength from the pain, as well as from the former owner.

Eventually this would all have to end. Except what kind of relief was to be found when at the end there would be expectations?

She curled down to put her head between her knees before she could collapse again.

“What’s all this?” Jory peeked inside with another woman, and just like that, calm settled over the room like a blanket.

Ellen’s nostril was packed with yarrow, her dress whisked away for cleaning, and the sisters were shooed outside under orders to collect sun, fresh air, and white heather for the bridal bouquet.

“Only not too much sun, you’re already beginning to freckle,” her mother warned, but Jory shushed her aunt and handed Ellen a wide-brimmed bonnet with a wink.

“Do you really not wish to marry him even a little?” Maggie asked a few minutes later, as they strolled arm in arm through a field overgrown with thistles and wildflowers.

Ellen considered the question, less sure of the answer than she probably ought to have been. She’d never longed to wed the way her younger sister did, feasting on the idea like it was air. But since first meeting the MacKenzie, with his quiet, solid presence, and the way he had defended her, brooking no opposition even from her father, he had begun to intrude on her every thought. Even more surprising, she found herself wanting to know him, as she’d never cared to know anyone before.

“Is it because of the beard? I suppose one could grow used to it in time, though I imagine it’ll scratch awfully when he kisses you.”

Ellen’s step faltered, and she stared at her sister. Maggie was far too fanciful for her own good, imagining what it would be like kissing strange men, particularly her soon-to-be brother-in-law. Holy Mary protect them all. Who would keep the child out of trouble back in Inverness?

“Och, I’m sorry, Wee Ellen, I only meant it might be, but it might not,” her sister spluttered, misinterpreting Ellen’s frown.

Quite the opposite in fact. Last night, when she was finally alone except for Maggie’s blissful snores, Ellen had imagined the MacKenzie’s whiskers to be quite soft, like a kitten. She was consumed with a desire to reach out and stroke his cheek to see for herself, and in her dream—in the bath—she’d finally abandoned restraint. In her dream she must have ceased to be Ellen and become the mighty Lady Len.

Face burning at the memory, she plucked some heather. It was purple rather than the white Jory’s friend Mrs. Leask had insisted they find, but she wove the ends together into a crown, placing it atop her sister’s tangled chestnut curls.

Maggie grinned, setting her own leafy crown upon Ellen’s head, and then took off running across the field.