Page 18 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

She recognized them, of course, and her eyes shot back to his, brimming with unshed tears. Lord. He’d gone and made the lass cry on her wedding day, and they weren’t even wed yet. That had to be some kind of record.

Father Sinclair appeared, stepping between them to enter the kirk, severing the magic spell that had surrounded them. He motioned for the bride and groom to join him just outside the door, and there, in the shade-dappled sunshine, he spoke priestly words about the purpose of marriage that brought Si back to earth—a reminder of the transaction taking place and expectation of fruitful multiplying, rather than pretty words of devotion and endless blue eyes.

And then it was time.

“Silas Michael Wolfrick Alisdair MacKenzie, will you take Ellen Elizabeth Brìghde Mackintosh, here present, to be your lawful wife according to the Rite of the Holy Mother Church?”

Elizabeth Brìghde. Had he known she had two middle names to his three?

“I will,” he said. Behind his bride, young Maggie sighed.

“And Ellen Elizabeth Brìghde Mackintosh, will you take Silas Michael Wolfrick Alisdair MacKenzie, here present, to be your lawful husband according to the Rite of the Holy Mother Church?”

The lass hadn’t taken her eyes off Si since he’d given her those thistles, but she licked her lips and opened her mouth.

Not a sound came out.

“Miss?” Father Sinclair urged.

She exhaled a breath, but still no words. Tears sprang to her wide, petrified eyes once more. She swallowed and glanced around in panic. This was all sorts of wrong. She didn’t wish to wed and couldn’t bring herself to lie.

Nearby, her father cleared his throat impatiently, and Cousin Logan looked ready to pounce.

Si took her free hand in his, rubbing his thumb lightly across her knuckles, trying to tell her not to be afraid, trying to give her the strength to offer whatever answer she would, even if her answer was no.

She licked her lips again and then they moved to form the words on another exhale of breath, and Si thought he almost heard a whispered, “I will.” Or was it just his own longing to hear it playing tricks on his ears?

“Good enough,” Father Sinclair murmured. “I believe you have a ring?”

Si’s mind went blank. He’d forgotten to return to the smithy to collect the jasper inlaid band, distracted as he’d been by his flight to Inverness before the dawn. If she’d been unsure before, she’d despise him now. What a dolt he was. She’d be humiliated here before God and her entire family, she—

Finn Shaw stepped forward, and on his outstretched palm lay the sparkling silver ring. Finn smirked at his surprise, and Si nodded his thanks. Best man, indeed.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” He repeated the priest’s words, slipping the ring on her finger, and for the first time since they’d met at the stairs, she tore her eyes from his and studied the ring with a hint of a smile on her lips.

Then she moved her lips in the shape of words once more, and they followed Father Sinclair inside the church, hand in hand. The only sound Si could hear was the thumping of his own heart deep within his ears.

* * *

Ellen couldn’t count the number of times she had reminded herself to breathe this morning, from the moment she opened her eyes in the bed next to a softly snoring Maggie—where instant panic snatched her breath and turned her stomach—to the claustrophobic buttoning of her bodice, to the announcement that the big grey horse was nearing the inn carrying its big, bearded rider. She couldn’t possibly remember how many times, but she kept trying to count them as though that would somehow drive the point home.

She had caught Logan’s eye as she walked to the kirk, his brothers flanking him on both sides. Logan had tried to offer a sympathetic and encouraging smile, but he couldn’t hide his forlorn look quickly enough.

Just get through the day, and then find a way to go to France had been her mantra, until the moment she stood alongside Silas MacKenzie on the kirk stairs. It was then she realized she might not want to go to France at all, a terrifying thought in its own right which seemed wicked after so much yearning and promising to God.

She hadn’t heard a word the priest had spoken. She was far too attuned to the overwhelming everything of the man before her. He had trimmed his dark brown beard, taming it into a tidy shape, and he smelled of a bewitching combination of moss and pine that transported Ellen to a forest cave where one could be completely safe and undisturbed. His whisky eyes by turns burned with fire hot enough to sear her skin and a moment later, softened like warm honey fresh from the comb. When the heat turned down enough to really look at them full on, there was a captivating blue tinge around the edges, almost like they were reflecting her gown back to her.

And oh, the dress. He pretended not to notice, but she could still make out the telltale stains where her blood had forever merged with the fabric. Someone had done their best, a remarkable job, truly, considering the mess Ellen had made. But she saw in Maggie’s downcast face and pouting lips that she’d noticed. Bad enough they’d have to take out all the stitching for her taller and more top-heavy little sister. Ellen had to go and stain the thing too.

How childish and embarrassing she must seem to a man like Silas, a worldly academic who had traveled and studied and really lived, while she had sat cloistered in her father’s house, dreaming of other cloisters on other shores—a strange bird whose fondest idea of freedom was a different cage, even one of her own choosing.

Could Ellen ever possibly become an adequate wife for a laird if she had a thousand lifetimes to practice and prepare? She couldn’t work out why a man such as he, who could easily command the attention of any lass he wanted, would agree to the match. She wasn’t plain, but beyond her looks there was little to recommend her. She didn’t play music or sing. She wasn’t useful like Jory, and though her embroidery was passable, that seemed a paltry reason. Perhaps she didn’t matter at all, and it was only about the Chattan alliance.

But then he’d given her Inverness thistles, symbols of bravery and luck and devotion. Had he ridden all the way to her former home and back this morning just to provide a selection so fresh for her bouquet? Just so she might have a piece of home with her, even as she left the place behind forever? Surely he wouldn’t have gone to such trouble if his only concern was the alliance.

She couldn’t rectify the image of the man who stood before her with the one she’d expected to find, and it left her reeling.

“You’re doing very well, ’Lady ’Len,” he murmured when they turned to follow the priest inside the church, swallowing his syllables as before. It reminded her to step inside the persona of Lady Len, who rode horses and swung from trees, and could swim across Loch Ness in the stark, with nary a fear of fainting.