Page 46 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

It never seemed too great a loss when, after Boyd Gordon’s brother attacked Jory in the stables, Ellen’s voice had fled the way its cowardly owner had failed to do.

But now she was on her own, without Jory or Maggie, without anyone who knew her well enough to speak for her, though it sometimes seemed like Si MacKenzie could hear her voice in a way no one else ever had.

She shivered at the memory of his lips on her, trailing sweet kisses all over her body. He hadn’t returned to her bed since that afternoon, though perhaps… Could it be, he was waiting for her to find the words to invite him?

Or perhaps he stayed away out of some greater disappointment. Should she have resisted his advances? Remained still as her mother had suggested? Not cried out when she came apart? Indeed, not come apart so wantonly at all? Or was her error in not returning the favor, not putting her lips to his staff as she was now so very anxious to do, as Lady Len would certainly have done? Shouldn’t the Lady Kintail do as much for her laird? Could she ever be bold enough to ask the mysterious Mac how to please a man in the bedchamber?

Ellen meant what she’d told her pen friend. She would fix up the chapel, so that Si would no longer feel like his mother’s shame surrounded him there, and then he’d see that she might someday be the wife a leader like him needed her to be. She needed to prove it to herself as much as to him.

The first step was to order a new stained glass window. Heaven knew what had become of the old one, before the space was boarded up.

Taking a length of ribbon, Ellen tied knots for length and width and sketched the semi-circular shape of the top on a piece of stationary, jotting down instructions and dimensions as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the raised voices next door arguing about young Bram.

Then, in a burst of bravery, she walked down to the stable where she found the horse, Buttercup. Gawyn was nowhere in sight. They eyed each other warily, she and the horse, and then she slipped a bridle over its head as she’d seen the old groom do and walked Buttercup out of the stable and down the path towards the village, after leaving a hastily penciled note explaining the mare’s absence.

With no intention of riding, she merely wished to prove she wasn’t completely terrified, and more than that, it was a comfort to have a companion. Quiet she might be, but Ellen wasn’t accustomed to spending so much time in solitude, and even a mute companion was preferable to none at all.

Every time Buttercup made an unexpected movement, Ellen jumped, but the horse followed her willingly enough. Maybe in time they would get used to each other and she could persuade herself to try again with the riding.

The smithy was situated on the edge of the village green, and the tall, dark-haired man barely looked up when he offered a gruff, “Help you?”

Ellen swallowed. Perhaps this had all been a foolish errand, but she summoned her last ounce of courage to step closer and hand him her note.

He took it in one sooty hand and studied it, then studied her and the knotted ribbon she held out. For a moment she wondered if he might be the Mac.

“I’m sorry, milady. I don’t have the time.”

Ellen frowned. She hadn’t prepared herself for a rejection. Was he even allowed to refuse? Would he have turned down Silas or the laird?

The blacksmith handed the note back to her and resumed hammering whatever piece of iron he’d just withdrawn from his forge.

Dejected, Ellen turned to go back home.

She had carefully tied up Buttercup before entering the smithy, and now she struggled to undo her knot, her disappointed fingers fumbling helplessly.

“D’ye like the ring, milady?” a girl’s voice asked. Behind Ellen stood a young woman that looked every bit Jory’s miniature, wearing a shirt tucked into breeches, face streaked with soot and grime, her hair piled into a thick brown braid.

The girl, a few years younger than Maggie, smiled a toothy grin and nodded at Ellen’s wedding band. “I helped my da make it. From Mr. Silas’s own stone.” She reached out as if to touch Ellen’s hand and then stopped. “Some of our best work, I think. What did ye ask him for?” She nodded towards the smithy.

Intrigued by the girl and her brash demeanor, Ellen handed her the note.

“Is it a window?” the girl asked, holding it first upside down and then right side up. “Only he can’t read, milady,” the girl whispered. “Neither of us can.”

Ellen’s heart sank. How thoughtless of her to not consider that her own education had been a rare privilege not enjoyed by all members of the clan.

“It’s all right, milady,” the girl assured her. “You’re not the one who calls it a waste of time.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m Greer. What kind of window is it?”

Ellen opened her mouth to explain, but no words came out.

“Cat got your tongue?” the girl teased.

Ellen nodded, took a breath, and whispered, “Stained glass.”

Greer smiled and nodded. “You don’t do things by halves, do ye, milady? Tell you what. I’ll make your window in exchange for reading lessons.”

Ellen glanced back towards the smithy.

“Don’t worry. I have time. What do you say?”