Page 62 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

Angus scratched his horse between the ears, considering his answer.

“Well, I’ve never had a problem speaking my mind,” he finally said.

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Aye. But it’s you’ll have to explain to my sister that it wasn’t my idea to reach above my station.”

“Then your first assignment as steward is to help me reconcile what you’ve just said with the story told in my ledgers.”

The younger man’s mouth formed a solid line, realizing the gravity with which Si was treating his accusations against Norval, and he nodded once, grim and determined.

They entered Leod through the kitchen so that Si could pilfer a few bannocks. Mrs. Kynoch was just passing through with an armload of linens. Her face lit up with mischief when she saw him.

“Well. Finally,” she exclaimed, hefting the pile of bedclothes with a wink. “Might actually get some wee bairns around here,” she practically sang, disappearing into the scullery.

The half-chewed bannock stuck in Si’s throat like mud. His conversation with Angus had just about taken his mind off things.

Had there really been so much blood that Mrs. Kynoch had noticed? Had he hurt the lass? Len had seemed wet and wanting last night, so for him to have drawn blood was just further evidence it could never work between them. He had no business going anywhere near her ever again.

Angus clapped a hand on his shoulder. “All right, milord?” he asked without a trace of teasing or lechery.

Si forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Grand,” he lied.

* * *

Jory was right. Last night Ellen had felt a thousand different ways all at once. At first there had been residual fear, brought on by the nightmarish specter that infiltrated her sleep. Then relief, because Si had come to her and chased the dream away. There was shame, too, when he found out her secret with the nettles, and deep uncertainty that she’d be able to honor his request not to punish herself again. Even now the insidious urge reared up, to bear the itching and burning without allowing herself to scratch or wriggle.

Even so, she couldn’t help smiling when she remembered what had come next—the comfort Silas had offered with his salve, the care, and then after… surprisingly those memories held no shame at all, only a heady, urgent desire to do it all again.

Silas had seen a portion of her shame and instead of sitting in judgment, he’d shown her tenderness.

She’d been perplexed to find him gone when she awoke, but then a bath arrived for her, and as Ellen soaked comfortably in the lavender-infused water, she realized such decadence would definitely not be possible in a convent. Would they even have jam for her parritch? Did they eat parritch in France?

Whatever else happened, it was done now. No hiding behind annulments and cloister walls, even if she wanted to. She was married in every sense. It was time to focus on the ways she could help her new clan, like the chapel. There was much to complete. That would be enough.

Though she feared another encounter with Blair MacKenzie, Ellen steeled herself for a journey into the village. Greer had invited her to examine the progress on their window, and she didn’t want to let the girl down. After all, Lady Len wouldn’t be afraid, nor would she let any man hinder her own ambition, so Ellen stood as straight and tall as she could, and made up her mind to go.

In the chapel, Bram had removed the old rotted wood that covered the window, and he knelt on the floor in the sunshine sketching with charcoal on a piece of parchment. He scrambled up to hide his work when Ellen peeked in.

“May I?” she asked.

Hanging his head, the lad stepped aside to reveal a stunning portrait of his cousin. “Don’t tell Si,” he begged.

For a moment, Ellen could only stare at the breathtaking likeness of her husband, frozen in a look of perplexed fondness that she’d seen so many times, so real she could almost lean down and kiss it, knowing the skin would be warm to her touch.

“Tell him what?” she whispered. “That you’ve an immense talent to be nurtured?”

Bram turned scarlet from his throat to his ears. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“Do you want to go away and study?” she asked, kneeling before the parchment and reaching out to stroke Si’s face, stopping herself before she could smudge it.

Bram shrugged, then slouched against the wall.

“You should tell him.”

“He wants me to be laird.”

“You should tell him,” she said again. “May I have this?”