Page 36 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

The pacing stopped, but a rustling continued.

Scarcely breathing, and careful not to make a sound that would give her away, Ellen peered through the knothole.

The MacKenzie had cast aside his sark, and his back muscles rippled as he unbuckled his belt. Then his kilt dropped away, revealing only buttocks so chiseled it made Ellen ache. A moment later, his plaid unfurled, and he wrapped the whole thing around himself like a blanket and settled into his chair.

Ellen wriggled into her own shift, the freshest of the nettles still providing a little sting, as she chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to go to sleep. Instead, she lay awake, shocked by what she’d seen—or rather, by what it did to her. She’d seen Logan and his brothers splash naked in Loch Moy at all stages, but she’d never known such a thrill in her stomach or such a desire to reach out and touch.

Was this what Maggie experienced every time she spoke so openly of lads? Blessed Mother preserve her if she was becoming more like her brash little sister every day.

Chapter Eleven

Knowing him as you do, would he consider sending me away? A week after first reading them, the words the lass had written to Si’s alter ego remained seared into the backs of his eyelids. There was no escaping them. She either wished to leave or feared he wished for her to go. Somehow, he wanted both and longed for neither.

He tried to push the letters aside, to focus instead on the accounts. Rents were often left unpaid and coffers were low. Norval MacKenzie had done his best in the laird’s absence, but the fields wouldn’t produce. And if Si’s gamble on the crop rotation didn’t pay off, there might not be much of a clan left to lead.

No wonder the people grew restless, while Si had been in Aberdeen avoiding his inheritance like an ungrateful wean. It was shameful. His father had been naive to think a bride would help the situation. And now that same bride wished to be rid of him as surely as his own people did.

Si pushed aside the ledgers and picked up her next missive, dreading its contents. In response to her concerns about being sent away, he, as Mac, had railed against himself as a brute, begging Ellen to confess her hopes and dreams so he might find a way to please her.

He should have known better than to ask questions he might not like the answers to. He should have asked her in person, whispered words across a shared pillow, but he was a coward.

She hadn’t written back immediately, but when she did, Si understood everything and nothing at all. His marriage was just one additional catastrophe he couldn’t fathom how to mend.

My dear and noble Mac,

It’s not him, I assure you. It is only me. You asked what I dream: mere foolishness. A childhood fancy. My soul ambition was to take holy orders in a cloister on some far-flung shore.

Even her homophonic mistake was charming, making Si smile before he frowned. She wished to be a nun. His wife, whom he would not—could not—bed, wished to be a bride of Christ, untouched and alone. It could not be more perfect. It could not be a greater disaster.

It has long been my suspicion that the Church alone can be my solace and reprieve. Alas, I fear it’s not to be. You say that Silas

How far gone was he, that he liked the shape of his name when she wrote it, and traced the letters with a finger even now?

cannot rule the MacKenzies without me by his side, but what good am I? I, who have nothing to offer any of you? I’m not even worthy to be a nun. I know that to be true, and I strive to accept it, but nor have I the mettle to be Lady of Leod, so what is left for me? Perhaps the former is at least something I could endeavor to deserve in time.

You say that you’re my friend. As a friend, please tell me the truth—will I cause more harm by staying than if I go?

Si didn’t know how to respond, either as himself or as her anonymous friend. He only knew that he didn’t want her to leave, that he most fervently wished her to remain.

There was a knock at his door, and he looked up blearily. Was it still the middle of the night? “Come.”

Finn Shaw entered, nodding deferentially, although their present stations were the same, both heirs to a laird unless another could be produced. Si had forgotten the Shaws were due to visit before their journey south to Edinburgh.

He rose, and Finn took in the state of the room: candles burned to nubs, empty whisky glasses, the armchair he’d very obviously been sleeping in, and the wrinkled clothes and unkempt hair which screamed that he hadn’t slept at all.

“I would ask how it’s going, mo bhràthair, but I fear ye wouldnae wish to answer.”

The familiar way Finn spoke to him stoked a kinship he didn’t wish to acknowledge at present. He didn’t deserve kindness, and he shoved it away, choosing anger instead.

“My clan may soon starve, and my wife wishes to be a nun. That is how it’s going.”

The open concern fled the shorter man’s face, replaced by something else. Guilt? Si didn’t know him well enough to say.

“She told you, then?”

“You knew?”

Finn did him the courtesy of not protesting with a pretty lie. “Many young ladies wish for a different outcome than what is presented to them.”