Chapter 6
“Welcome home, lass,” Maxwell said roughly as McNeill rose out of the rock like it had grown there.
The castle loomed grey and solid on its crag, its walls dark against the pale midday sky. The wind came harder off the hills here, sharper, as if to test whoever approached. Banners snapped along the outer ramparts, the green and blue of his clan stark against old stone.
It was not a pretty place, he knew. It was a fortress. A spine of rock and mortar between his people and whatever the world chose to throw at them.
He glanced sideways at Ariella as they rode through the gate.
Her eyes were wide, taking in the height of the curtain wall, the depth of the inner yard, the bustle of men and women going about their tasks.
She drew her cloak tighter around herself, but she did not shrink.
Her back stayed straight in the saddle, chin lifted in that stubborn way he was learning to recognize.
The yard quieted as they entered. Men straightened. Voices dropped. Children paused in their games, peering from behind skirts or barrels. His men-at-arms formed at the edges, a respectful distance, hands on sword belts but relaxed.
“Laird,” Finley Drummond called from near the stable, striding forward with his easy, rolling gait. “Ye brought the weather home with ye. Bleak and biting.”
“It suits ye, Drummond,” Maxwell said.
His man-at-arms grinned, eyes flicking at once to Ariella. “And ye brought more than weather. Me lady, welcome.”
Ariella blinked, then offered a small, uncertain smile. “Good day.”
Her voice carried more than he had expected in the open yard.
“This is Finley Drummond,” Maxwell said, reigning in beside her. “Me man-at-arms. He thinks he is funnier than he is.”
“Someone must,” Finley said cheerfully. “Else ye would go entirely without laughter.”
Maxwell ignored that. “See to the horses and then meet me inside.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
He swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a waiting stable lad. Ariella hesitated a moment, clearly eyeing the distance between her foot and the ground. Before he could move, Finley was already there, offering a hand.
“Allow me, me lady,” Finley said, all exaggerated gallantry. “I promise nae to drop ye. The laird would never forgive me.”
Ariella flushed but placed her gloved hand in his. Finley lifted her down as if she weighed little more than a feather, then stepped back with an easy bow.
“Welcome to McNeill,” he said.
“Thank ye,” she replied, voice soft but clear.
Maxwell felt a peculiar twist in his chest at the words. Welcome to McNeill. They sounded different with her standing there in the middle of his yard, veil gone, hair braided, cloak snapping in the wind.
His men watched openly now. He saw curiosity in their faces, some approval, some doubt. They had expected a bride for Hunter, not for him.
“Inside,” he said shortly. “The wind cuts deeper up here.”
He led the way across the yard and up the stone steps into the great hall. Ariella’s steps sounded light behind him. The familiar scents of peat smoke and old rushes, iron and wool, wrapped around them as the heavy doors shut out the worst of the wind.
The hall was as it had always been. Dark beams overhead. A long central hearth. Tables stacked along the walls. Tapestries in faded colors depicting old battles and stags in forests. It was clean, his steward saw to that, but spare.
Beside the hearth, a cluster of servants waited.
Mrs. Macrae, his housekeeper, broad and solid as an oaken chest, with iron in her hair and in her eye.
Beside her, a girl of perhaps seventeen years with a round, pleasant face and a neat apron.
At the edge of the group lurked a boy of twelve or so, freckled and wiry, hands shoved in his too short sleeves, eyes bright with mischief.
“Laird,” Mrs. Macrae said, dipping a curtsy that was more a nod with knees. “We heard ye ride in. The rooms are prepared as ye ordered.”
He inclined his head. “Mrs. Macrae, this is Lady Ariella. She will stand as Lady of McNeill.”
The older woman’s gaze flicked to Ariella and sharpened. Then her lined face broke into something nearly like a smile.
“Me lady,” she said. “Ye are welcome under this roof. We have been waiting a long time for the like of ye.”
Ariella’s shoulders eased a fraction. “That is kind of ye to say. I only hope I will be equal to what is needed.”
“We shall see to it together,” Mrs. Macrae said briskly. “This is Isla. She will attend ye.”
The younger girl dropped into a curtsy so low it looked as if she might never rise again. “Me lady. I am that glad ye are here. I mean, we all are. Well, most of us. Ewan said ye might be terrible, but I think ye look very nice already.”
“Isla,” Mrs. Macrae hissed.
The boy snorted. “I only said she might be, since we did nae ken her yet.”
“Ye did nae need to say it in the hall,” Mrs. Macrae snapped.
Ariella’s lips twitched. “I assure ye I have been called worse than terrible. Often by me maither.”
Isla looked up, wide eyed, then giggled. Ewan grinned, all freckles and cheek.
“This is Ewan,” Mrs. Macrae said, eyeing the boy with long suffering. “Runner of messages and breaker of things that were nae meant to be broken.”
“I do more running than breaking,” Ewan protested. “And I do it well.”
“Ye run yer mouth plenty,” Isla said. “That is one.”
“Ye talk twice as much as I do,” Ewan shot back. “That is two.”
“Enough,” Mrs. Macrae said, but there was more exasperation than true anger in her tone.
It was a small thing, their bickering, but Maxwell saw how Ariella’s face changed as she listened. The tightness about her eyes eased. A real smile, unforced, curved her mouth.
He realized, then, that he had not seen that in days. Not since before she tried to flee her own yard.
“Isla will see ye settled,” he said. “If there is aught ye require, speak to her or to Mrs. Macrae.”
Ariella turned to him. For an instant their gazes met. There was tiredness there, and uncertainty, but also that same stubborn light.
“Thank ye,” she said.
He nodded once and stepped back. “Isla. Take her to the solar.”
“Aye, Laird,” the girl chirped. “This way, me lady, mind the step, Ewan tripped on it last week and near landed in the stew pot.”
“It was nae the step,” Ewan said indignantly as they moved off. “It was ye chasing me with a spoon.”
“Do ye see what I mean?” Isla said conspiratorially. “He never stops going.”
Their voices faded as they disappeared along the corridor, Isla’s quick chatter and Ewan’s arguments overlapping. Ariella went with them, head bent as she listened, skirts whispering over the stone.
Maxwell watched them go longer than he intended.
“Looks like they will eat her alive,” Finley murmured as he came up beside him. “Or she will tame the lot of ye. Hard to say which.”
“They will nae eat her,” Maxwell said shortly.
Finley cut him a sideways look, half amused, half thoughtful. “Nay. Ye would nae let them.”
Maxwell did not answer. His gaze had shifted to the walls instead, to the bare stretches of stone between the tapestries, to the slightly smoke stained rafters, to the patched rushes.
He had always valued the keep as it was. Yet suddenly he saw it through different eyes. Through hers.
Too dark. No softness for small hands or weary feet. No color save the banners and the flames.
The thought unsettled him.
Later, when he passed by the solar on his way to the upper floor, he heard laughter. Not the rough, coarse kind that spilled from the barracks, but a lighter sound. Girls’ voices. Ariella’s among them. He slowed despite himself.
Isla’s voice carried through the half open door. “Nay one was surprised when we heard that Mister Hunter ran, me lady. He runs from work in the stables. He runs from training. He would run from his own bath if Mrs. Macrae did nae catch him.”
Ariella laughed, bright as bell metal. “Ye can nae mean that.”
“It is true,” Isla insisted. “Ewan says he runs from his own reflection.”
Ewan’s voice rose in protest. “I only said he dislikes sitting. I did nae say aught about his face.”
“Everyone knew he would nae stay long,” Isla went on. “We were all stunned that the laird wed. That is what had me maither dropping her spoon in the porridge.”
There was a small pause.
Ariella spoke more softly. “Were ye truly?”
“Aye,” Isla said. “Laird Maxwell does nae do anything without reason.”
Maxwell moved on then, jaw clenched, not interested in hearing more of what his household speculated about his choices.
Still, the words stayed with him as he climbed the stair.
Everyone was stunned that the laird wed.
He did not know how he felt about that either.
Ariella had not expected to like McNeill Keep.
She had expected cold stone and sterner faces. There was plenty of both, but there was life too. Children ran across the yard with wooden swords, shrieking in mock death. Women laughed as they hauled baskets. Men called to one another as they stacked peat.
Inside, the castle felt tired.
The hall was sound but somber, with dark panels and smoke stained beams. The solar that Isla showed her had small windows and plain benches, the cushions thin and faded.
The bed in her chamber was sturdy, the linens good, but the curtains that hung around it were a dull, lifeless brown that might once have been some other color.
“This place is in desperate need of a woman’s touch,” she murmured before she could catch herself.
Isla, busy straightening the coverlet, looked up. “Me lady.”
Ariella smiled. “Forgive me. I am used to me maither fussing over every cushion and candle.”
“I think fussing would nae be so bad,” Isla said frankly. “We have plain things here. Strong things, Mrs. Macrae says. But it would nae hurt if they pleased the eye a bit more while they last.”