Page 52 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

He offered her list back, but then stopped and stared at it. “I…” He looked back at the massive bolt of fabric. “Is that twelve or twenty-one? I thought… but…”

“It’s the perfect amount,” she said again, running her hand fondly over the bolt of fabric.

He nodded, but said, “I’ve got chores,” and skulked off, whitewash forgotten.

Ellen watched him go, wondering what troubled him. Had he simply read the line too quickly? Mistakenly inverted the twelve to twenty-one? Judging by his reaction, it wasn’t the first time. Perhaps she’d have three students at lunch tomorrow instead of two. Perhaps she’d found her purpose here at Leod, along with her voice, even if it only came out in whispers.

Chapter Fifteen

When Si looked in on his father before dinner, the chapel next door caught his eye. It was… empty. All of the erstwhile debris had been removed. He was honestly surprised by how much progress the lass had made. Perhaps in the interest of slowing her down, he should’ve forbidden Bram from helping.

Now a ridiculous notion took hold of him, and he carried all the pews two at a time downstairs to a storage room behind the larder. No benches—no finished chapel—no runaway wife. He spread bed linens over them to keep them out of sight, acknowledging that he’d never behaved more childishly, even as an actual child. What was happening to him?

He hadn’t set eyes on his bride the entire day, and now she was locked in her chamber, dressing for dinner with the clan, and Si supposed he should do the same. He took greater care with his appearance than usual, battling his rather wild hair into submission and trimming up his beard. Tonight there would be feasting, and at the very least, he needed to look the part of laird if, in a few days’ time, he was going to con them all into giving him their oaths.

He tapped on the door that still separated the two of them, and she opened it immediately, looking up at him through long blonde lashes. She was breathtaking in a finely spun blue that set off those Mackintosh eyes. The Borlum line was famous for their sapphire irises. Even her male cousins, Logan and his brothers, could be seen coming for miles. But Len… Si had truly never seen eyes like hers before. A man could wash out to sea and fairly drown in them—and be saved all at the same time.

“Milady Len,” he rasped. “Ready?”

Her head gave the tiniest shake, echoing Si’s own anxiety about the whole event, but he squeezed her arm. “Dinna fash. You’ll be grand.”

Then he offered his elbow and together they made their way down the stairs to the hoard of MacKenzies waiting below.

A raucous cheer went up from the assembly when they descended into the Hall, followed by a bawdy chorus about newlywed bliss that made the lass turn dark red. Si waved them to silence and guided her to a place at the table before he was pulled away by first one, then another well-wisher. It was the wedding feast all over again.

If only his father had been healthy enough to join them, he might have at least provided a buffer between Len and the prying eyes of the clan. He seemed a little better today, but still unable to leave his bed. Soon the lass moved from where Si had seated her near the head of the table to a more secluded spot amongst a group of tradesmen including Sam MacPherson the blacksmith and his daughter.

It wasn’t protocol. Mrs. Kynoch would have kittens if she noticed, but the lass looked much more relaxed, smiling and nodding along with the conversation between her new companions. A pang of jealousy tickled the back of his mind like an itch he could never scratch, and he started to make his way over when an older MacKenzie stopped him.

“They say the laird’s ailing.” It wasn’t a question.

“My father is well,” Si answered with a tight smile. “A little tired perhaps—”

“He’s been a little tired, as ye say, for quite some time, then. It’s what kept him so long in France, they say, too busy to see how poor the soil has been, but he manages to collect his rents on time. Higher each year, though the farm’s not producing.”

“Have you complained to his steward?” Si asked, his mouth growing dry. He glanced around for Norval, but he only spotted young Angus glaring his way.

“Is the steward laird or is Alex?”

Si took a deep breath. “Have you tried rotating your crops?”

The farmer stared at him like he’d suggested planting them on the moon.

“Plant some beans next season instead of barley.”

The farmer shook his head in disgust. “You’ve been away too long, boy. If a cow won’t give milk, ye don’t ask her for whisky.”

The old man’s argument made a sort of sense, even to Si. He was wasting his time playing at farmer. He could plant all the seedlings he wanted, record their growth from now until New Year, but if he showed the men those sprouts, they’d scratch their heads and call it witchcraft, no matter what science had to say about the soil.

Over the old farmer’s head, Si noticed Blair MacKenzie had found a seat for himself next to Ellen, and he held her in rapt attention telling some boastful story, based on his broad gestures and roguish grin.

The lass smiled at Blair and laughed at his teasing. She leaned closer to hear. And the tickle in the back of Si’s head began to burn. He’d assumed he understood the nature of envy ever since the day twelve years ago when he became the heir, but now he knew he’d never experienced true jealousy before in his life. He understood why it was one of Pope Gregory’s seven cardinal sins, for it pushed the carnal part of him towards others on that list, beginning with wrath.

Oh, Blair could be charming sure enough, but would Len suppose he was the Mac who wrote her letters? Worse, would she be disappointed to find out he was not?

In five steps Si reached the table, put his head close enough to hers that her hair tickled his cheek, and whispered, “Milady Len, if you’ve finished your meal, I require your presence.”

She let out a startled little gasp and it stirred a third deadly sin in Si, along with a new mission in life—to elicit that sound from her lips each and every day.