Page 58 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

Si nodded to his father and cast Gawyn a please keep an eye on him look, which he knew the old groom understood.

As he crossed to the back staircase, Cedrick yelled, “Where’s your bride, Si?”

He forced himself to laugh. “She’s had enough of you rowdy lot for one day,” he replied, earning a hearty guffaw in return.

Upstairs, not a sound came from her chamber, so Si took up his quill and hastily scribbled a note, lest she actually believe Blair was the MacKenzie behind his letters.

Dearest Lady Len,

I offer my sincere apologies for being unable to meet with you today. I was unexpectedly called away, but the loss was entirely mine. I only hope you wasted no time in looking for me.

Your humble servant,

Mac

Then, to take his mind off his self-loathing, he measured his sprouts and carefully recorded the changes in each—their size and the vibrancy of color, which he graded on a scale from one to ten. Next, he reviewed the ledgers until his eyes began to cross, trying to make sense of Angus MacKenzie’s accusations, searching for ways to lower the rents which were already so low as to be almost nonexistent. Finally, he gave up and settled into his chair with only a dram and a guilty conscience for company. There was little point in even attempting to sleep, but he drifted in and out of haunted dreams.

His father had seemed better, then worse, then better again. Si was no physician, but he’d never seen the like. Tonight a new symptom plagued him. The old man tried to hide a slight tremor in his hand, but Si caught it. He shouldn’t have retired, he should’ve been a more attentive son, but Alex couldn’t stand him worrying like an old hen, as he liked to say.

Jory Shaw had suggested monitoring what the laird ate and drank, and he’d been lax there, too, for Mrs. Kynoch had final authority over such matters, and she treated both the laird and Si like her own sons. Perhaps more deferentially than her own son, who died at Coille Bhan. For, though she’d threatened to box Si’s ears and withhold his dinner, she’d never taken a birch to keep him in line, and Si well remembered Marcus Kynoch being forever on the receiving end of a swat. Gawyn told him that she had grieved fiercely after he died in the battle which, as heir to the exiled laird, Si should’ve fought shoulder to shoulder in.

A chilly prickle ran down the back of his neck. Surely the cook didn’t hold the Kintail responsible for the deeds of the bloody English?

His grim ruminations were interrupted by screaming. Si’s heart pounded in his throat and in his ears. Had Blair somehow forced his way into Len’s room? But the door off the corridor was barred from the inside, as was the one he reminded her to tie off.

He slammed his shoulder into it once—twice—three times until it gave way and he realized the keening had stopped and the lass was alone.

Si rushed to her window, just to be certain, but it must have been nightmares plaguing her.

Her breaths were coming short and shallow now, and he wasn’t sure how to approach without looming over the bed and frightening her all the more.

“Shh,” he whispered, approaching slowly as he would a skittish horse. “Shh, mo nighean bhàn, ’twas only a dream.”

* * *

The darkness was consuming Ellen, stealing her breaths, threatening to suffocate her. She tried to blink it away, gasped desperately for air, but she was half afraid the darkness was going to win and she’d never see daylight again.

It had been a dream. Nothing more. It was only a dream.

Like always, she had tried to scream, and like always, even in her waking hours, no sounds escaped her throat. Except this time perhaps they had, for Silas sat on the edge of her bed, whispering soothing words to her, and she found herself wishing he would smooth her hair back from her sweaty face.

He must have noticed her fevered flush, because he put a cool hand to her forehead, and then rose and came back with a damp cloth. Gently he wiped her cheeks and neck, pushing away the sticky hair just as she’d wished.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, mo chridhe.”

The cool cloth was like heaven, but she was still restless and unable to settle. After having sat huddled in the corner for an eternity, Ellen had eventually changed into a shift lined with every last bit of nettle she’d pilfered, and now she itched and burned like nothing she’d ever experienced before in her life.

“You’re on fire, mo chridhe. Your shift is soaked through. Let me help you change?”

“No,” she gasped, shaking her head, and he stopped, his hand on her hip, but the damage was already done. He’d noticed the nettles.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Please go, she wanted to say, but she just closed her eyes on his sorrowful, moonlit face, and even the tears that leaked out itched and burned.

“What is it?” he asked, an edge of fear creeping into his voice, and she hated hearing that fear and knowing she alone had caused it.

He was big and brave and strong, and she put fear into his voice.