Page 44 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

Needing a fresh coat of paint? That was a generous description of the chapel indeed. Si was gratified that she wouldn’t reveal the true depth of Leod’s disrepair to a stranger, though, soon, the entire clan would see what she was seeing—not only the chapel, but the whole of Castle Leod, as desperately tumbledown as its ailing master. If the state of the place didn’t prove Si’s unfitness, perhaps nothing would. A new coat of paint? Sure, and that would make the crops begin to grow.

He couldn’t deny the chapel was in need of repair, but she meant to single-handedly take on the project? To what end?

Some cruel twist of logic had put the notion in her head that she wasn’t worthy to become a bride of Christ. Ridiculous, of course, because she was perfect, worthy of any damn thing her heart desired. Was this project, then, some misguided form of penance by which she believed she might make herself acceptable? And then what? She’d work herself to the bone and then expect him to just let her go? He could sooner rearrange the stars in the sky.

Si had hoped that after the hot spring she might have relinquished her dreams of the convent, content to be cloistered here at Leod with him. What a fool he was. Perhaps she truly did know enough of the marital bed to realize they hadn’t officially consummated their union. But if Si had to sabotage her progress every day, he would ensure the project was never complete if that was what it would take to stop her leaving. It should be easy for him, who broke everything he touched.

Before anything else, though, he knew he must come clean about his identity so that once forgiven, he might return to her bed in the Greek way, without lies hanging over him.

Taking up his pen, he wrote back without giving himself time to overthink it.

Lady Len,

It is time we should meet. I will be there during the Gathering. Please allow me to beg an audience.

Yours in service,

Mac

Clear. Concise. Direct. She couldn’t possibly refuse him. Indeed, she’d probably be delighted to make his acquaintance.

Si crumpled up the invitation and cast it into the fire.

He tapped his quill on the desk until the point snapped. What he needed was to make her fall in love with him—something which a few weeks ago he could not have imagined himself wanting.

The very great problem was that without meaning to, without even wanting to, he seemed to have formed an attachment to his wife. To hell with cordial friendship. He burned with desire that might never be slaked. Based on her cousin’s parting words, Ellen might not completely abhor his attentions, but she wouldn’t fall in love with him. Especially upon learning the truth.

But… two years back, a Frenchman named LeBeau gave a series of lectures in Aberdeen on all things chemical: love potions, and poisons, and other dark sciences.

Si had listened, half amused but captivated by the man’s ability to hold his audience in thrall. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to the content of LeBeau’s lectures. It had seemed nonsense at the time, but perhaps this Frenchman would have advice on Si’s domestic quandaries. Because even if he managed to make her fall in love with him, then there was the matter of what came next.

He’d read about sheaths made from the bellies of sheep, but even he was skeptical of their effectiveness. And would she agree to such prevention? She was a woman, after all, and women longed for children, didn’t they? Hadn’t he seen her with Dorrie that very first night, as natural as any mother could ever be?

Perhaps LeBeau could advise him on other measures that might be taken, and on his father’s symptoms, as well. If there was poison involved as Jory seemed to suggest, the Frenchman would surely recognize it.

Tossing away another half-written love note, he jotted off a quick missive and addressed it to the Frenchman in Aberdeen.

Letter written, Si needed to walk, to move, to break free from the confines of this room at least. Without express intent, he found himself pacing the corridor outside his father’s chamber, torn between seeing the old man in his present condition and remembering him as he was.

“Come in before you wear a hole through the floor,” Alex called.

Si leaned in the doorway as instructed. His father looked a bit better, rested and with a lively spark in his eye.

“Is everything in order for the ceremony?” Alex asked. Sickness had certainly made him eager to cut to the center of every conversation.

“Mrs. Kynoch has everything under control.”

The laird laughed. “I’ve no doubt. That woman could run a whole army with clockwork precision and brook not a single complaint.”

“Aye. Perhaps she should be laird.” Si said it like a joke, and his father laughed appreciatively, but they both knew he was more than half serious.

“I’ve been thinking. Perhaps Bram should stand alongside me for the oaths, and then when he’s of age—”

“This again?” his father growled.

“Then when he’s of age, I can pass the whole thing back to its rightful heir,” Si finished.

“It doesnae work that way, Silas. You are the rightful heir, whether ye like it or not.”