Page 50 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

“If I wanted the game to be the slightest bit sporting, I had to at least pretend I couldn’t see this big hulking lad trying to squeeze himself behind the furniture.”

Rabbie guffawed and, goal complete, Blair turned to Angus with a solemn expression. “Amazing to learn his prick’s too small to fill its new hiding place.”

Snarling, Si meant to shove the young upstart into the nearest wall by his throat, but Angus grabbed Blair by the collar and slung him away to safety, and Rabbie stepped in between them like some kind of bodyguard.

“You’ll have to excuse him, milord. Too deep in his cups, though it’s only afternoon. Eejit cannae hold his drink.”

Silas grunted an acknowledgment and allowed the two to drag Blair away, but he watched them out of sight, counting backwards from one hundred to still his temper.

Blair was four years his junior and though he’d followed Si about as close as a shadow, he’d always known how to get Si on his back foot, too, like it was his born mission to take the laird’s big son down a peg. It galled him as much now as it had when he was ten years old. Or was it just that he danced too close to the truth? Or half of the truth, at least. Si’s prick would certainly have no trouble being found.

* * *

By bracing her back against a stack of crates and pushing with her feet, Ellen managed to shift a few of the heavier ones out of the chapel. Once they were in the corridor, however, she realized she had no idea what to do with them next.

Undeterred, she added to the pile lighter bits of broken furniture and old, moth-eaten tapestries, even a tiny bellows, whose use she couldn’t make out. Finally, the chapel could breathe, and she smiled, inhaling right along with it.

Straightening up and stretching her back, she surveyed her progress. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and she’d done it by herself. That was a novel feeling, worth the effort. Most astounding of all, though she’d come prepared with a ratty old handkerchief, her nose had not bled a drop.

Someone cleared their throat, and she spun around to see the boy, Bram, her new cousin-in-law, offering a fistful of St. John’s Wort.

“Need anything, milady?” He surveyed the mess she’d made in the corridor. “I could haul all this away for ye.”

Ellen studied him skeptically for a moment. He was still a lad, and one could already see that he’d be tall, though he would never boast the stature his cousin did. But then she had done this much herself, so why not let the boy be useful if he wanted? She smiled and nodded, and he nodded back at her, handing her the bouquet and rolling up his sleeves to get to work.

All of the seat cushions needed replacing, but the wooden benches themselves were in fine condition, much like the bones of the old chapel. It was rough around the edges, but completely salvageable, and with Bram’s help, it was soon stripped to the essentials and ready for scrubbing.

“What’s next?” he asked, as if reading her mind, as she thought through her remaining tasks: scrubbing the floors, whitewashing the walls, polishing the benches. So many things were next.

She reached in her pocket, scraping her palm along the sharp edges of the Luckenbooth brooch and took a breath. “Supplies,” she finally forced herself to say, and Bram’s face lit up like he was eager to get out in the sunshine.

“Can I fetch them for ye?”

Ellen took her list from her pocket, and then paused. “Can you read?”

“Course,” he scoffed.

Of course he could read. He was the nephew of the laird. What a ridiculous mistake to even question it. She handed him the parchment, and he took off without a backward glance.

Once he left, she looked around again, paralyzed over which task to begin next. She could scrub the floor, but Bram would soon return with whitewash, and after painting the walls, wouldn’t the floor require scrubbing all over again?

A crack along the base of the wall drew her attention, where chunks of stone had tumbled out, and a small lead pipe protruded from the hole. She reached out to touch it, and gooseflesh raced down her arms, so she snatched her hand away.

Crouching, Ellen peered through the pipe. She could just make out the flicker of candlelight on the other side, in the laird’s chamber. Perhaps this was how he smelled the incense that was lit inside the chapel.

A shuffle of feet in the corridor snapped her attention, and she looked up to see the laird’s steward, Norval MacKenzie, watching her curiously. Ellen scrambled to her feet, dusting her palms on her apron. “Milord,” she mumbled with a slight curtsy, and his brows shot up in surprise, because she, foolish girl, outranked him now.

He nodded at her and continued into the Kintail’s chamber, closing the door behind him.

Why Ellen had bothered to open her mouth today, she wasn’t sure. Her efforts at communicating led to one blunder after another. She really should go back to silence. Silence was easy. Still, she took herself down to the kitchen to see about a bucket of water and a hearthstone, because in for a penny, in for a pound, but even her feigned confidence wavered as the angry voice of Mrs. Kynoch carried into the Hall.

“What did I tell ye? I told ye keep yer fingers out of it, now look what ye’ve gone and done,” she bellowed.

Ellen paused long enough that little Dorrie darted out of the kitchen and behind her skirt. Mrs. Kynoch followed with a spoon in her hand, moving faster than Ellen would’ve imagined possible for a woman her age. “Get back here, missy, or you’ll get worse than a smack.”

Spotting Ellen, the normally unflappable cook stopped and tucked her braid behind her shoulder. “Milady. Did ye need something?”

Ellen nodded, and Mrs. Kynoch waited, impatient to return to her work.