Page 64 of Lady Len and the Mysterious Mac

She should’ve thrown it straight into the fire. She didn’t want to read Blair’s excuses. It would be disloyal to Si to even open it. Especially now.

Having finished the carrot, Buttercup tried to eat the parchment too.

“Oh, all right,” Ellen muttered, snatching it out of reach and opening it to skim the brief message inside.

Relief washed over her to learn that her mysterious Mac was not Blair after all, and then guilt twisted her stomach over her relief—for not wanting the memory of a man she didn’t know to be stained by yesterday’s events, and why? That she might continue to care for him? It was just as well he’d been detained. Silas might easily have beaten him senseless, too.

She resolved not to send any more letters, but a sad uneasiness spread through her. He had become a friend.

Offering Buttercup another piece of carrot, Ellen looked the horse in the eye. “What do you say? Should I give this riding thing another try?”

The horse jerked its head as if nodding to say, Yes, we’re friends now, too.

Taking a deep breath, Ellen put one foot into the stirrup and then dragged herself up onto the horse, with her belly on the saddle and her bottom in the air.

“I may be stuck,” she told Buttercup, but, though the horse nickered, it stood perfectly still.

Ellen rocked herself back and forth until she managed to get the other leg over the animal, and then wriggled into the saddle so she could sit up, both feet in the stirrups, her skirts in great disarray. She hadn’t thought this through.

She looked around from her new height. Even the woodpecker stopped searching for its luncheon to observe her. Ellen trembled, but she tried to tell herself it was merely the shiver of delicious anticipation, and this time, her fright didn’t outweigh the thrill.

Instead of helpless, sitting astride like a man was exhilarating, powerful even. She became every bit the embodiment of Lady Len MacKenzie. Perhaps if she was capable of this one thing, she was capable of anything.

“Walk on, then,” she whispered to Buttercup, pointing the horse’s head towards the village. “I know better than to kick you this time.”

As though in answer, Buttercup ambled off at the same plodding pace as before, and though it had been quite reasonable while walking herself, astride the beast it seemed unbearably slow.

“Well done,” she encouraged the horse. “You may go a tiny bit faster, if you like.”

Buttercup sped up just enough that Ellen began to bounce in the saddle, and it was deliciously painful. Somehow it chafed the same places Si had touched, and she felt a bit warm and a bit naughty. She nudged the horse to go a little faster, making her bounce harder still, imagining it was Si beneath her instead of the saddle, and oh, now she understood the allure of riding.

She was most likely going to Hell either way, but would there be horses in Hell?

Chapter Eighteen

A letter arrived from the Frenchman, LeBeau, whose reply omitted love potions but detailed many signs of potential poisoning. LeBeau described arsenic’s effect on the intestines, as well as arrhythmia and sore throat. He described hemlock induced vomiting, tachycardia, tremors, and paralysis.

If your father has been poisoned, given the waxing and waning symptoms, it is likely some long-term exposure at the lowest possible dose, a few drops, perhaps a vapor, and I would urge you to take the utmost care of yourself as well. Trust no one.

Si remembered the aromatic plasters Mrs. Kynoch insisted on preparing for the laird’s chest, but if they contained nefarious substances, wouldn’t she have grown ill as well, with the exposure of preparing them?

There is one powerful toxin made from the seeds of the otherwise innocuous castor plant, which has been known to cause difficulties in the lungs when inhaled. At a low enough dose, the lucky individual can recover in time. Though the plant isn’t native to Britain, it is, on occasion, imported from India and Africa, where it may be found in abundance.

Si’s head was spinning, but he knew what he must do. It was time to stop fighting his father and put him on a boat back to France with all due haste. There, at least, he’d be safe from potential assassins. In two days, Si would accept the clansmen’s oaths as the Kintail wished, drink a dram, and send him on his way.

As for the other issue, a small dose of pennyroyal and a diet rich in figs if they can be gotten, or Queen Anne’s Lace if they cannot, should fix your lady right up and prevent any unwanted visits from the stork.

Si rubbed his aching temples and tossed the letter onto a pile of half a dozen he’d tried writing to Len.

Pennyroyal and Queen Anne’s Lace? He knew not whether they could be found in his mother’s garden, and what if she ingested the wrong dose? It would all be so unnecessary, if he’d just kept himself to himself as he’d intended. But then she had cried out in terror from her nightmare, and he’d discovered her skin even more damaged than before, ravaged by near constant exposure to Mrs. Kynoch’s missing nettles, and he needed to make everything better.

And then she asked him to stay.

Given her recent history with herbs, it seemed unwise to introduce more plants into their relationship.

And so, coward that he was, he kept his distance from his wife the next two days and nights. Twice she had knocked upon the door that separated them, and twice he held his breath, waiting for her to go away, disappointed when she didn’t burst inside to have it out with him.

He had focused instead on his oats and beanstalks, on how to save the clan. Though his father had made an appearance at dinner the evening of the shinty, it seemed to have come at a great cost. He’d barely risen from his bed since. Clearly skeptical of Si’s choice for steward and plans for the crofts, he brooked no resistance to the scheme, which Si suspected was more about the old man’s health than his confidence in his son.