Page 60 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

All night he had pictured the moment when, caught up in the emotion and the ecstasy, he had chosen not to pull out because he couldn’t bear to be parted from her yet. He consoled himself with the scientific fact that it was an imperfect prevention, little consolation though science was.

With the damage already done, he had swept fear aside and allowed it to happen twice more throughout the night, each time Len had grown restless and needy and reaching, each time tearing deeper at his conscience until only the throes of passion allowed him to ignore it.

She’d been upset and vulnerable, and like a barbarian, he’d taken advantage of her to satisfy his carnal lusts. In the moment, it was nothing short of miraculous, but now… he splayed his fingers over the soft skin of her belly. What if, already, his seed was taking root within her womb? How could one so small possibly survive the child of a Goliath monster of a man, bigger even than his father had once been?

He slid out of bed, snatched up his sark, and stalked back to his empty library. All those years of abstinence and self-control, all for nothing. A whispered, Don’t go, and his common sense fled along with his restraint. A warm hand and urgent, Let me, and his resolve had crumbled into dust.

If anything happened to her because of him, he couldn’t possibly forgive himself. He swore never to return to her bed even as he lay beside her. Let her loathe him if she must, but let her live.

He ordered a bath to be drawn and breakfast sent up alongside the apology letter from Mac, and then he went out to ride—anywhere, it didn’t matter. He just needed to be away.

It was cowardly to run, but he had long since established himself as a coward where she was concerned, and nothing cleared his head like riding. How else could he begin to sort out his emotions—the constant fluttering in his stomach, half ecstasy and half dread at the thought of his bride? The blind jealousy that gripped him in its iron clench, threatening to destroy his self-control? The niggling worry in the back of his mind which refused to be ignored, whispering louder and louder that his father’s time was running out?

Si couldn’t bear to think about any of it, though ignoring it would only cause it to fester. For now, he chose the fester and the back of a horse.

Riding would bring a clarity found nowhere else except perhaps swimming in the ocean, and with no ocean at hand, a horse would have to do.

Before reaching the stable, however, he was approached by young Angus MacKenzie, still looking shame-faced after last night’s dressing down by the laird. For half a moment, he wondered if the lad could have found a way to poison his father, but that was absurd. Si was seeing villains in every shadowed corner.

He didn’t have the energy to hold the lad’s shame alongside his own, so he pretended not to hear him call, but Angus fell into step at his side, the determined whelp.

“I want to apologize, milord.”

“There’s no need.” Si didn’t slow his stride, but the lad was undeterred.

“My sister’s always telling me I cannae hold my ale. Seems she may be right.”

“Och.” Si clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “You didnae say a thing a dozen others weren’t thinking.”

“Still, I… I should’ve addressed such grievances in private.”

Si was intrigued by the man, by his willingness to speak truth to power, even if he now regretted it. The excuse of intoxication was an easy way to smooth over an awkward encounter, though he hadn’t seemed deep in his cups last night to Si.

“Angus, isn’t it?” Si swept one arm towards the stable. “Ride with me?”

Angus squinted, confused, then nodded his agreement.

With Gawyn’s help, they saddled Uinnseann and a darker mount, and under the auspices of checking the Leod boundaries, they set off, Angus watching Si warily as they went, probably aware of the not-so-secret beating he’d given Blair, perhaps fearing the laird’s son would lead him somewhere remote and give him a taste of the same. Start as you mean to go on, his father’s words rang in his ears, and Si winced.

“Be honest,” he said, relieved to have something to focus on besides the woman in his bed. “How bad is it? The plight of the crofters?”

Angus didn’t answer for a moment, considering his words more carefully than he had last night. “It’s bad, milord,” he finally said. “Most of the farms aren’t producing. What they do scrape out of the ground is barely enough for the families to eat. The crofts are crumbling, children are cold and hungry. Some have ambition to try and graze sheep, but they havenae the funds to start. And still the rents climb higher every year.”

It was all as Si had feared, but it was another thing entirely to hear it said. And his father hadn’t raised rents in a decade, though Si couldn’t admit it to Angus.

“Surely the worst debts have been forgiven.”

Angus tilted his head. “They’ve been offered reprieve, milord, with a promise to repay thrice over next year. A few were desperate enough to accept such terms, more fool they. The children wear moth-eaten tatters to pay for Norval’s fine new tog.”

Si’s head snapped up at the mention of the steward and a sour, sinking sensation writhed within his gut.

“You did ask me to speak plainly, milord,” Angus said, frowning.

“I did at that. Thank you for doing so. I trust you’ve held nothing back?”

Angus shook his head, still frowning. He didn’t relish speaking so forthrightly. He was a young man, and keen. Would he be more open to the ideas Si wanted to share?

“What will you do about it?” Angus asked.