Chapter 3 #2
Maxwell’s gaze did not waver. “I am thinking of the life she will have if O’Douglas rides through these gates. Even if they ride through me own first, yers will certainly be next.”
Caitlin’s fingers dug harder into Ariella’s arm, as if she could anchor her with sheer force. “We will find another way. There must be another way.”
“Maither, yer hurtin’ me,” Ariella whispered. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, far away.
Maxwell’s eyes dropped briefly to where Caitlin held her. Something shifted in his expression, a fraction.
“Lady McIntosh,” he said, and now there was iron in his tone that had nothing to do with battlefields. “Let go of yer daughter.”
Her mother, however, did not move. “She is me child.”
“She is a grown woman,” Maxwell replied. “Ye will nae shake her about like a rag in front of both our clans.”
The hall went very still.
Frederick flushed a dark, furious red. He bowed his head, just a little. “Aye, all is well,” he said stiffly. “The day has been… charged. Maither.”
Her mother sucked in a breath. For a heartbeat Ariella thought she would argue, would throw his words back and tear the hall apart with maternal fury. Then her shoulders sagged. She released Ariella’s arm, fingers trailing down her sleeve as if loath to let her go.
Ariella’s skin tingled where both grips had been. Her mother’s frantic, clutching hold. Maxwell’s hold from the night before, fingers firm beneath her chin as he turned her face toward his.
She swayed.
Maxwell looked at Frederick. “I would speak with her alone.”
All eyes swung to Ariella again. She wanted to protest, to cling to her brother and mother, but the words would not shape. Everything felt hazy, as if she were walking through the remains of a fever.
Frederick hesitated only a moment. This was laird to laird now, responsibility passing between them like a weight. He inclined his head. “Very well. There is a small alcove off the hall. Ye may have privacy there.”
Maxwell turned to her. “Lady Ariella.”
She could not read his expression. Only his eyes, steady and intent.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She followed him, skirts whispering, veil trailing. The crowd parted around them, a living corridor of breath and doubt. The murmur rose again the instant their backs were turned, as if the hall itself exhaled.
Hazy confusion wrapped itself tighter about her. She was aware of the stone beneath her feet, of the weight of silk on her shoulders, of the distant sound of someone laughing in disbelief. Her heart beat somewhere far away, as if in someone else’s chest.
It struck her then that she had come to this same alcove as a child to hide from duties, to steal a moment of quiet. Now she stood here with a man who had just calmly announced that he would take her as his wife.
“It is quieter here,” Maxwell said. His voice came from very near. She had not realized how close he had moved.
She stared at the tapestry beside her, the faded image of some long dead warrior whose face had worn away with time. Her hands had begun to tremble.
“Ariella.”
He spoke her name with a rough gentleness that tugged her gaze upward before she could resist.
He reached out and tipped her chin with two fingers. The touch was firm, but not unkind. “Look at me.”
She did. His green eyes filled her world.
“They are loud out there,” he said. “Opinions. Fears. None of that matters right now. Only this. Do ye remember what we spoke of last night.”
Her throat worked. The words were there, somewhere beneath the fog. “About O’Douglas.”
“Aye. About yer clan. About mine. About why this match was made at all.”
“For our clans,” she whispered.
The corners of his mouth softened, not quite a smile. “For our clans,” he agreed. “That has nae changed. Hunter has shown his nature. The threat from O’Douglas has nae grown smaller because me braither lacks a spine. The shield we spoke of still needs to be raised.”
“And that shield is me.” The words came out hollow.
“Aye,” he said. “And me. Together we are the shield.”
Something in his tone steadied her more than the words themselves.
He was not coaxing her with pretty speeches.
He was not pretending this was romance or fate or any nonsense from the songs.
He spoke as he would speak to one of his captains, or so she imagined.
Offering a place beside him, not beneath.
Her head cleared a little.
“Ye will nae run again,” he said, half question, half certainty.
She thought of the dark road, the cold wind, her own fear. She thought of the way the clan had looked at her this morning, hopeful and expectant, placing more on her shoulders than jewels and silk.
She thought of her brother, weary and proud, finally admitting that he needed help. She thought of her mother’s hands, wringing and wringing, desperate to keep her safe in a world where safety was a luxury.
“I will nae run,” she said. Her voice still shook, but the words were clear. “If this is what keeps me clan safe, I will do me duty as I was prepared to do this day with yer braither.”
His fingers at her chin tightened the smallest fraction, as if he acknowledged the weight of what she gave. His eyes darkened.
“Good lass,” he murmured.
The quiet praise slid over her skin like a touch. A shiver ran down her spine, unexpected and swift. She felt suddenly, acutely aware of how close he stood. Of the breadth of his shoulders, the heat of him, the faint scent of leather and steel that clung to him.
Confusion swirled with that new awareness. It was too much. Too fast.
He seemed to sense it. His hand fell away from her chin, leaving her skin oddly cold.
“Are ye certain,” he asked. “I will nae have ye say later that ye were forced with nay choice at all.”
“Ye said yerself,” she replied, surprised to find a spark of her usual sharpness surfacing. “There is nay time for niceties. The clans are waiting. The priest is waiting. O’Douglas is waiting. I may as well decide one thing for meself and walk toward it, instead of letting it drag me.”
His gaze held hers a moment longer. Something akin to respect or approval flickered there. Then he inclined his head. “Very well. Let us give them their shield.”
They stepped back into the hall together. In step.
The noise swelled, then faltered as the crowd saw them side by side. Ariella felt their stares like a physical thing. Some pitying. Some curious. Some calculating.
She took her place before the priest. Maxwell stood at her right, close enough that his sleeve brushed the back of her hand. The priest fumbled with his book for a moment, then found his place with visible relief.
The words washed over her.
“Do ye take. Do ye swear. In sickness and in health. For clan and for kin. For hearth and for land.”
She answered when prompted. Her own voice sounded like it came from somewhere else, steady and clear, as if another woman spoke through her.
Maxwell’s responses were quieter, but they rang in her bones. When he vowed to protect, she believed him. When he pledged his name, she felt the weight of it settle over both of them.
A ring, simple and heavy, slid onto her finger. His hand was warm when it held hers. The warmth seeped into her palm, into her veins, calmer than the storm that had raged only moments before.
At last the priest lifted his hands over their joined ones, his voice growing strong and formal in the ancient cadence.
“Before God and clan, before stone and sky, I seal this bond,” he said. He looked from Maxwell to Ariella and back again. “Ye stand now as one. Laird and Lady of McNeill in truth.”
The hall erupted into sound, cheers and murmurs and the scrape of benches. Someone began to weep. Someone else laughed in disbelief.
Ariella heard none of it properly. The words echoed in her head.
Lady of McNeill.
Her life had tilted on its axis with a few quiet sentences and one soft, devastating “Good lass.” There was no going back now. No road behind her. Only the path ahead, beside a man she barely knew, toward a future that might hold safety, or sorrow, or both.
The priest released their hands.
Maxwell did not.
He looked down at her, his green eyes shadowed, his face unreadable to anyone who did not stand as close as she did.
“Welcome to McNeill, Ariella,” he said quietly.
Her heart gave a single, hard thud.
For better or worse, she had just become his.