Chapter 8
Maxwell woke before dawn with one thought that had lodged itself firmly in the front of his mind.
She is too unpredictable.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, braced his elbows on his knees, and rubbed a hand hard over his face.
“Fool,” he muttered to himself.
He had kissed her. Worse. He had touched her. Pulled her against him and whispered things no husband should whisper unless he intended to follow through on them. Then he had let her run from him.
And now, the memory of her pressed to him refused to leave him be.
He cursed himself again.
He had no intention of claiming her. No intention of bedding her. No intention of taking her innocence to settle a marriage neither of them planned. Not when an heir was something he would never give her. Not when she deserved a man whose past would not stain her future.
He would not be that man.
And yet he had touched her.
He growled under his breath and stood, dragging on his shirt and boots with more force than needed. Today he would find something to occupy his thoughts. Anything. Repairs. Training. O’Douglas. Hunter. Hell, even Ewan’s antics would be preferable to the memory of Ariella’s mouth soft beneath his.
In the courtyard, men moved about, hauling timber and rope, mending the outer wall before winter storms hardened the mortar.
Maxwell oversaw it, barking orders, correcting measurements, and trying, however unsuccessfully, to not replay the way Ariella’s breath had hitched when he’d put his mouth to her ear.
“Ye look troubled, Max.”
Finley’s voice came from behind him. Maxwell did not turn.
“I am busy,” he said curtly.
“Aye,” Finley said mildly, “and brooding.”
“I am not brooding.”
“Then ye are thinking too hard, which is the same thing, only quieter.”
Maxwell shot him a glare. Finley only grinned. “If I may give ye somethin’ else to think about without ye throwing me over the wall…”
“Nay.”
Finley said it anyway.
“The new Lady McNeill,” he murmured, leaning an elbow on a barrel. “Her gowns are several years out of fashion. But she wears them like a queen.”
Maxwell stiffened.
Her gowns? Of all the damned things to notice.
But he had not. He hadn’t even given it a single thought until now.
He had noticed her eyes, her stubborn chin, her laugh when Ewan called Isla a hen. He had noticed her lips, her blush, the tremble in her breath.
He had not seen her gowns.
“Ye are mistaken,” Maxwell said firmly. “Me wife is nae one to care for frivolities.”
Finley’s smirk said he knew more than he said. “It is nae about frivolities. It is about what it is messaging to outsiders.”
Maxwell frowned.
“If O’Douglas or any of his spies see her wearing outdated attire,” Finley said, quiet now, “they may think ye cannae afford such things. That ye wed a lass who brought nothin’. That ye are desperate enough to ally yerself in haste.”
Maxwell’s jaw flexed.
Finley shrugged. “Appearances matter, Laird. Even if ye daenae care for them.”
A rock formed in Maxwell’s chest.
He did not want to think about it. He wanted, desperately, to ignore it. Her dresses were clean. Mended. Well made. He had seen no fault.
Because he had not been looking.
He had been watching her face instead.
Damn.
Finley clapped him on the shoulder and strolled off, leaving Maxwell with the gnawing realization settling into his bones.
His wife deserved better.
He turned sharply toward the courtyard gates, needing distraction. Anything. But then he saw her.
Across the yard, near the well, Ariella stood laughing with Isla and Mairi. Sunlight caught in her hair, turning the dark strands warm as copper. Her smile lit her entire face. Isla said something, and Ariella threw her head back in a laugh so bright it silenced conversations around her.
And for the first time, he saw exactly what Finley meant.
Her dress was carefully mended but visibly thin. The seams had been reinforced where the fabric had worn. Her shawl was faded, the fringe frayed. Her sleeves hung looser than they should, as if the gown had once fit her better.
She looked beautiful.
She also looked like someone whose clan had not been able to provide more.
A quiet shame twisted in Maxwell’s gut. He should have noticed.
He had noticed how she bit her lip when she was nervous, how she touched the tips of her fingers together when thinking, how she always stood with her weight on one foot like she was ready to run or ready to dance.
But not this.
That night, he told himself it did not matter.
Her gowns did not affect her worth. Or his. Her shawl did not lessen her strength.
But at supper, when she walked into the hall wearing yet another old gown something inside him twisted again with every smile and chuckle she.
She sat beside him, murmuring thanks to the servants. Her hair was neatly braided. Her cheeks flushed from work in the kitchens.
She did not notice him staring.
He approached her.
“Me lady,” he said quietly.
She looked up, but then immediately looked away, flushing.
“Me laird.”
He hated the distance in her voice. Hated that he had caused it.
“We ride to the village on the morrow,” he said.
She blinked. “Why?”
He hesitated, then said the only truth he could.
“A matter of appearance.”
Her eyes snapped up to his.
Ariella’s gaze flicked over him, confusion tightening her brow. A faint blush bloomed high on her cheeks, delicate and unguarded.
“Appearance,” she echoed. “What does that mean?”
He forced the words out evenly. “Ye wanted honesty. I am giving ye honesty.”
She waited, chin lifting slightly.
“Yer gowns,” he said. “They are outdated. Thin. Worn.”
Her blush deepened, blooming down her throat. But her gaze stayed fixed on the table.
“I did not think ye cared for such things,” she murmured.
“I do not,” he said, sharper than he intended.
Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He exhaled slowly. “But others do.”
Silence stretched.
Ariella’s fingers curled around her cup, knuckles pale. She still would not look at him.
Maxwell remembered last night again. Her blush. Her trembling breath. The way she ran from him with her hand pressed to her lips.
Ah. That is why she is nae looking at me.
He cleared his throat. “Ariella.”
She kept staring at the table as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
“Ariella,” he said again.
She finally turned her head his way. “For pointing it out,” she hissed under her breath. “Now ye have made it worse.”
“Made what worse?”
Her blush had spread down to the edge of her collarbone now, warm and soft against her skin.
She pressed her lips together. “Ye ken what.”
He did not know what.
She tried again. “It is because of last night.”
His stomach tightened.
“Last night,” he repeated carefully.
“Aye,” she said in a tiny voice. “Ye kissed me.”
Heat punched through him so hard he had to grip the edge of the table.
“I did,” he said.
“And now,” she muttered, “I cannot look at ye straight without remembering — without thinking — without —”
She made a flustered gesture, losing the thread of her own words.
He stared at her, stunned.
Then, without meaning to, his hand lifted, and his fingers brushed her cheek.
She jolted, breath catching, eyes widening. “Maxwell,” she whispered.
He knew that he should pull away.
But he did not.
“I want to feel the warmth,” he murmured before he could stop himself. “Of that blush.”
The moment stretched taut between them.
Then she swallowed hard and pushed back so abruptly her chair scraped.
“I must go eat,” she blurted. “Before Me supper grows cold.”
She turned and practically fled the hall, the same way she had fled his chambers the night before.
Maxwell remained rooted where he stood, hand still raised uselessly in the air.
He stared at the empty doorway.
Then, barely audibly, he muttered, “Damn.”
He stayed where she left him until Finley approached with a plate in hand and an expression that said he’d seen more than Maxwell wanted him to.
“Ye look like someone hit ye with a beam,” Finley observed.
Maxwell ignored him.
“Ye told her about the gowns, then?” Finley guessed.
Maxwell grunted.
“And she got angry with ye?” Finley nodded sagely.
“Aye.”
“Aye, that sounds right.”
Maxwell turned a warning glare on him.
Finley held up one hand. “I am only saying that ye cannae toss words like that at a woman and expect her nae to take them to heart.”
“It was nae an insult,” Maxwell snapped. “It was truth.”
“Truth is still sharp,” Finley said. “Especially from a man she is newly wed to. She doesnae ken ye or any of us. Might have come better from Isla… or Mairi, even.”
Maxwell stiffened. “Finley.”
Finley grinned. “I am only speaking what I see.”
“Stop seeing,” Maxwell muttered.
But the damage was done.
After the meal, he walked the ramparts alone. Cold wind tore at his plaid, tugged at his hair. The torches burned in golden pools along the wall, guarding the night.
He searched the horizon for threats.
He found only memories of her instead.
Ariella in the courtyard laughing like no one was watching. Ariella in the kitchen with flour on her cheek. Ariella standing in his chambers, angry and trembling. Ariella standing in front of him in the hall, lips parted, eyes soft.
He gripped the stone ledge with both hands.
He should keep his distance.
He should be careful.
She was young. Hopeful. Bright in ways he was not. She wanted things he could not give her.
He could not let her look at him with eyes full of want.
He would break her.
He would break himself.
“Fool,” he muttered into the wind.
The next morning, before dawn, he was already saddled and waiting when she appeared in the courtyard. She moved quietly, eyes lowered, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders.
She did not look at him.
The sight twisted like a blade.
“We ride,” he said roughly.
She nodded once.
For several minutes, they walked their horses through the courtyard in silence. Her jaw was tight. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead. Not on him.
It was frustrating.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Ariella.”
She did not look up. “Aye?”
His jaw ticked. “I… should nae have spoken so sharply last night.”
She blinked, surprised.
He forced the words out. “But the matter stands. We ride to the village. I will nae have O’Douglas thinking ye lack what ye deserve.”
Still she did not look at him.
Her voice was quiet. “I am nae ashamed of what I wear.”
“I ken,” he said.
She hesitated. Then, softly she admitted, “But I am grateful.”
His chest heated.
Then she finally lifted her gaze to him. And the moment she did, heat flooded her cheeks again, racing down her throat.
He inhaled sharply.
She scowled at him. “What is it?”
“Nothin’,” Maxwell said quickly.
“Daenae point that out either,” Ariella demanded sharply, tugging her cloak hood closer around her neck as if to shield herself from his gaze.
“I did nae say anything.”
“Well, ye didnae have to, did ye? It’s obvious that ye get a thrill from embarrassin’ me. Though, I am nae sure what I did to deserve this treatment.”
“Treatment?” he asked, brow rising.
“Aye,” she muttered. “And ye ken it well enough, so just leave it alone. I was just tryin’ to give thanks to yer thoughtfulness and ye are right ruinin’ it.”
She tried to speak again but her voice faltered. She stammered once, twice, then pressed her lips together in mortification.
Maxwell stared at her.
She was acting this way because he kissed her and now she didn’t know what the boundary was or where she stood with him.
He reached out, but she jerked back, instinctively and flustered. “We should eat something.”
Maxwell sat, frozen, hand half raised in the cold morning air.
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered it. “Good idea. There should be a vendor cart just over that hill. We’ll ride quickly and stop there for food.”
She nodded firmly and then urged her horse forward without another word.
At last, he allowed himself the truth.
Me wife is affecting me. More than she should.
And if he was not careful and kept his distance he would want her past reason. Want her enough to forget the reasons he should not touch her.
He clenched his jaw and turned away.
Distance.
He needed distance.
And he needed it now.