Chapter 6 #2
“Consider it our first project,” Ariella said. She stepped closer to the window and pressed her fingers to the cold stone of the sill. The view took her breath a little. Hills rolled away into the distance, patched with winter brown and evergreen. Far beyond, a faint gleam of light hinted at water.
“I think I will come to like it here,” she said softly.
“I am glad,” Isla replied. “The laird needs someone to make him look less like the castle and more like a man.”
Ariella bit back a laugh. “What does that mean?”
Isla flushed. “Only that he is… solid. And quiet. And sometimes one feels that if one spoke too loud, the walls might crumble from the shock.”
Ariella did laugh then, the sound surprising her with how easily it came. “I daenae think he will crumble.”
“Nay,” Isla agreed gravely. “He would only stare until ye wished ye had crumbled.”
By the time Isla finished helping her unpack, Ariella knew four of the servants by name, that Isla’s maither, Mairi, ruled the kitchen and Mrs. Macrae the corridor, and that Ewan had once tried to ride one of the laird’s horses bareback and been caught halfway by Finley.
She also knew that Hunter’s flight had not caused the scandal she might have feared.
Isla continued the conversation that had started down in the solar as she folded one of Ariella’s gowns and laid it carefully in the chest. “Mister Hunter does nae like being told what to do. He comes and goes as he pleases.”
“That is nae very responsible,” Ariella said.
“It is nae very anything,” Isla replied. “It is just him.”
Later that afternoon, she began her campaign.
If the keep needed a lady, then it would have one. She might not know yet how to help with treaties or grain accounts, but she knew what made a hall more bearable in winter and what colors cheered a tired eye.
She started with the dreadful curtains.
They hung high in the hall, strips of fabric that might once have been red but now sagged in a tired, brownish gloom. The edges were frayed. One sagged more than the other, making the whole wall seem crooked.
“This is an emergency,” she informed Isla.
Isla frowned. “What sort of emergency?”
“An emergency for the eyes,” Ariella said. “If I stare at that long enough, I will begin to see it in me sleep. Come, we shall find Mrs. Macrae.”
Which was how she found herself, not long after, marching across the hall where Maxwell and Finley stood over a map.
Both men looked up as she approached.
Maxwell’s gaze landed on her first, steady and unreadable. Finley’s mouth tipped into a grin.
“Ah,” Finley said. “The hall grows brighter already.”
Ariella decided she liked Finley very much and that it would be wise not to say so aloud in front of the laird.
“Laird Maxwell,” she said, coming to a halt near the table. “This requires yer attention.”
He did not look impressed. “What does.”
“The curtains,” she said, pointing.
There was a small, incredulous silence.
Finley folded his arms, clearly delighted. “Curtains.”
“Aye,” Ariella said. “They are a menace.”
Maxwell’s brows lowered slightly. “In what way do ye find them menacing.”
“They are falling to pieces,” she said. “They are the color of old mud. They drag the whole hall down like a sad tale. It is an emergency.”
“An emergency,” he repeated.
“For the people’s spirits,” she insisted. “Ye bring guests here to talk of alliances and trade and then ye let them stare at those. It is a cruelty.”
Finley choked on a laugh. Maxwell shot him a look that would have withered lesser men. Finley only grinned wider.
“Is there blood on the floor,” Maxwell asked Ariella. “Has the roof fallen. Are the stores gone.”
“Nay,” she said slowly.
“Then I daenae see how it qualifies as an emergency,” he said.
“It is an emergency of appearance,” she said. “Of what folk must look at every day. Surely that matters a little.”
For the first time she saw something almost like humor flicker in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if against his will. He very nearly smiled.
Then, as if catching himself, he smoothed his expression into a frown again.
“It is nae an emergency,” he said firmly.
“It will be when yer people go blind from dreariness,” she replied.
Finley put a hand to his chest. “Laird, if we must choose between O’Douglas and curtains, I fear the curtains may be the greater foe.”
Maxwell ignored him. Ariella did not. She bit back her own smile.
She had noticed that if she used the word emergency, he could not so easily tell her she had no reason to approach him. If she must not seek him out without cause, then she would label every cause she could find.
Loose flags in the yard. Wobbly stools. Cracks in the plaster.
She knew, somewhere under her own mischief, that she was pushing. That she wanted to see what would finally make him break that cool, distant composure.
He looked at her now, green eyes steady. For a heartbeat she wondered what he would do if she pushed farther. If he would lean across the map, haul her close, and kiss her senseless simply to stop her talking.
The thought sent a hot jolt through her that she did not dare show.
“Laird,” Finley said lightly, tapping the map. “We were speaking of where to start looking for Hunter before ye were called to curtain duty.”
Maxwell’s gaze did not leave Ariella. “We will speak of it in a moment.”
Something in his voice made the hairs rise at the back of her neck. He looked vexed. He also looked as if he were holding himself by sheer will.
Perhaps she had pushed too far this time.