Page 26 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

She wound the knot like he’d shown her, though Lady Len most certainly would have forgotten the latch and invited him in to stay. But she was not Lady Len, no matter how much she liked hearing him say it. She was a meek Mackintosh mouse, unfit for either a man or the Church.

Chapter Eight

Silas MacKenzie was eight years old when he first learned the truth about his mother. He had snuck down to the kitchen to pilfer bannocks when he was meant to be sitting a Latin examination, and he overheard his tutor lamenting his tacit nature and poor elocution.

“I don’t understand it,” the young man had grumbled around spoonfuls of Mrs. Kynoch’s fresh haggis. “His father speaks as clear as a bell. Was his mother a mumbler? You know, it’s usually the case that when something’s wrong with the pup it’s to do with the bitch.”

Si had flinched as Mrs. Kynoch slammed a dish down on her worktable. “I’ll thank you not to speak ill of the dead, sir,” she said shortly. “Iona MacKenzie was as fine a woman as ever walked the earth, no more so than when she gave her life bringing that poor wee lad into it. And there’s nothing the matter with him.”

A strained silence followed, and Si’s ears burned, for, though he could read the numbers on the moss-covered stone in the kirkyard, no one had ever admitted to him outright that he’d caused his mother’s death.

“What’s that look?” Mrs. Kynoch had demanded.

The tutor made a noncommittal sound in reply, but then decided to elaborate after all. “Can’t exactly describe him as wee, though, can you?”

The cook huffed.

“The size of him, it’s no wonder his mother—”

Another slammed dish, and Mrs. Kynoch’s voice grew as low and steely as Si had ever heard it before or since. “I’ll ask you to keep such learned opinions out of my kitchen, sir.”

Si didn’t stick around to hear anymore. He slipped out the cellar door and raced down to the stable to sort out his feelings on the back of a half-ton horse. He never did finish the Latin exam. From that day to this, he never told anyone what he’d overheard, and Latin still made his stomach turn.

That day, Si learned that big babies killed their mothers, and he’d spent enough time around the stables to know where babies came from.

For eight-year-old Si, it was a small thing to vow never to become a father. He’d no interest in the fairer sex. His Uncle William was laird and on the prowl, everyone said, for a lass to wed. He needed someone who could handle him, along with the rest of the rough-and-tumble clan, a Lady Kintail to provide them all with an heir. What matter was any of it to Si?

It would be a dozen years before his vow of celibacy became any kind of burden, and when it did, Si had only to think of his mother dying in the throes of labor for his grapes to wither along with the vine.

When he’d made his intentions—or rather, lack thereof—clear to his new bride, her face had fairly crumpled. It took every ounce of resolve in every muscle of his body not to lean her back onto the bed and spend the rest of the night apologizing.

Ellen’s disappointment surprised him. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted her fear. Perhaps he should have worked out a proper plan to avoid an unwanted bride in the first place, rather than simply Keep your hands to yourself and Stay away. When her cousin had as good as told him she wasn’t ready for the marriage bed, he’d supposed it was some Divine Providence. It had been a relief, since he’d no intention of lying with her as man and wife, whatever else they might find to get up to.

Stop thinking about it.

It had been a long while since he’d taken himself in hand. Though he ached with need, he dared not break his fast, lest it only whet his appetite for more. Enough. He wasn’t a predatory beast to be controlled by instinct.

A rustling on the other side of the wall drew him back to the door, and he ran his hand over it as if it were some magical barrier that really could keep him out. Like every other part of this god-forsaken castle, there was a crack in the wood.

He’d first noticed the dilapidation while giving the lass a tour of the place. Since returning home, he’d been aware something was off, like a shadow chilling every corner. He’d assumed it was just himself—being back after so much time, thirteen inches taller and sixteen years removed from the boy he’d left behind—not to mention the laird’s illness and all the expectation hovering around Si like a swarm of bees. But seeing Leod tonight through her eyes, he realized just exactly how run down and dingy it had grown in his and his father’s absence, and he burned with shame.

More rustling on the other side of that door. Without stopping to consider, Si put his eye to the crack, not to spy, only to make sure the lass was all right.

She was twisting around to undo the very many buttons that lined the back of her frock, a duty that should have been his, particularly this dress on this night. A gentleman would have offered to help instead of running away to hide in his library like a coward.

He tore his eye away, and raked a hand through his hair, but the rustling continued. What if she couldn’t get it off? Would she ask for his help, or sleep in the thing?

He peeked through the crack a second time, and now she was out of the dress and working at the ribbons of her stays.

Si watched, hardly breathing, as her nimble fingers untied those ribbons and tossed the corset aside so she was down to her shift. He meant to turn away, but she whipped the garment over her head before he had a chance to move, and suddenly he was seeing all of her. Long golden hair obscured the creamy skin of her back until it ended at the curve of her bottom.

Si’s cock jerked at the sight, and he finally whirled away as though he’d been caught looking. He strode to his desk to drown himself in ledgers and whisky, but the figures swam before his eyes, row after row not making any sense, though Si had always been good with numbers before now.

Turning to face the window, he was greeted by a row of six tiny potted plants along the sill. He breathed deeply, before recording the growth of each little sprout. The crofters had complained their crops weren’t producing, and it was most likely due to nutrient depletion in the soil from over-sowing barley. They needed more variety, but introducing crop rotation wouldn’t be easy. It would take some convincing, and if they were going to adopt any of his newfangled university ideas, then there would have to be excellent results the very first season.

To ensure success, he was performing a small, controlled experiment. Each pot contained soil from a different prior crop: winter wheat, oats, barley, beans. It was too soon to make a recommendation, but so far, Si’s bet—the beans—were winning. Next, he would plant a variety of beans in depleted barley soil to see which of those demonstrated the best growth, too.

Studying his plants, taking down his notes, orderly and predictable, soothed him.