Page 49 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

He scoffed. “Aye, so leave it home when you travel. You must know how to fight.”

“Like you do?” the lad sneered in a tone only an adolescent boy could master.

“I certainly learned the art,” Si returned. “And practice when I can.”

Bram shook his head, turning back to the plants. “I’m not interested in fighting.”

“And when has that ever meant the difference between two and four? I’ll go easy on you, but a lad your age should learn. You can’t predict what the future will bring.”

“I’m statistically much less likely to die in battle if I dinnae join one. And I’m busy.”

“Looking at flowers?”

“No! I’m…”

His cousin cast around for an answer that he might deem adequate, and suddenly Si had become every bit his father, whom he’d considered quite unreasonable at Bram’s age.

“I’m helping Milady Ellen,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Si, knowing he’d already won. Si would never interfere in the service of his lady.

“Doing what?”

Bram rolled his eyes dramatically. “Whatever she needs.”

“She has need of St. John’s Wort?”

Staring at him defiantly, refusing to look away, Bram said simply, “Aye.”

“Go on, then. Don’t keep her waiting,” Si dared, and the cheeky lad picked a handful and took it inside.

Silas sighed. His father expected the whole of Clan MacKenzie to fall into line, and he couldn’t even command his cook or his twelve-year-old nephew.

The village was abuzz with as much anticipation for the Gathering as it had been for Si and Ellen’s wedding. Extended families who hadn’t seen each other in far too long were reconnecting, and the tavern was in danger of running out of ale.

But the undercurrent of discontent flowed louder and more freely than it had a few weeks ago, as new faces and distant relations arrived by the cartload.

It was nothing new to Si. Farms weren’t producing adequately and rents were too high, though judging by the ledgers, Norval had been more than generous in writing off debt. The village appeared to be thriving well enough, but off the backs of the crofters who could barely afford to buy seed. They kept planting barley season after season, except the few who repeatedly sewed oats. The yield returned smaller every year. They should be alternating wheat and field beans to restore the soil.

It was the whole point of his experiments, and the plants growing along his windowsill would help him explain it all to his father and the steward. The Kintail might be skeptical, but he was fair. He’d listen. And more importantly, he’d see with his own two eyes. And though he hadn’t spoken to Norval MacKenzie about it, Si allowed himself to hope the shrewd and worldly advisor would take his side.

The steward held sway among the clan. He could take Si’s ideas back to the crofts, because otherwise it would be Si himself doing all the talking.

The neck of his sark grew tight and itchy just thinking about it: weeks of bluster and swagger, of so much talk he’d be sick of the sound of the thoughts inside his head, of acting more confident than he felt even when he knew that he was right.

“Honeymoon over so soon?” a teasing voice called.

Si turned away from the barley field he’d been staring across to see Norval’s son, Blair, along with his ever-present companion Rabbie Stewart, and Angus MacKenzie, the taciturn lad from the wedding, all striding towards him. A smug smile graced Blair’s striking face, counterbalancing the cool disinterest of his companions.

“Tell me the bride hasn’t cast you out already,” Blair teased, offering a falsely sympathetic pout.

“Alas. Some business won’t wait,” Si replied.

Blair roared with laughter, clapping Si hard on the shoulder. “A euphemism for the lady being not yet paced if ever I heard one.” He leaned in close, though if he’d had a single ounce of self-preservation, he’d have stepped far away. “Milord, if she’s built too small, there’s only one way to fix it. Or is it you that’s too small?”

Blair looked around himself like he was holding court, though it was just the four of them, and only Rabbie was laughing.

“Lads, when I was but six years old, my father would take me round the castle to play with Silas. Hide and seek—it was always hide and seek.” He turned to Si, mystified. “You’d think we’d have learned to choose a different game.”

Blair shook his head and turned back to Rabbie, sweeping an arm grandly.