Chapter 9
The morning air was crisp, the sky a pale, washed out blue as they continued down the roadway that led away from McNeill and toward the village.
Ariella tried very hard not to stare at Maxwell as they went.
They rode side by side, their horses’ hooves a steady rhythm on the packed earth. The hill rolled gently on either side, spotted with scrub and the occasional cluster of sheep.
On the other side of it, as anticipated, a vendor cart was perched on the side of the road. The scent of warm bread and honey drifted from a small wooden cart by the road. Ariella’s stomach growled greedily.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, pulling her horse to a slow trot until they both slowed at the cart.
“What’ll it be, me lady?” the old man said slowly.
She looked over to Maxwell for his approval, to which he merely shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever ye wish, lass. There will be proper food in the village.”
“How far is the village from us?” she asked.
“A little over an hour,” he said.
“I see,” she replied, then turned back to the old man, already dismounting.
The old vendor brightened when she approached. “Honey oat bannock, fresh off the griddle, Me lady. And hot cider to warm the bones.”
Ariella clasped her hands. “One bannock, please. And a cider.”
Maxwell stepped up behind her, tossing a coin onto the counter before she could reach her pouch. “And a meat hand-pie.”
“I didn’t ask for a pie,” she said, giving him a look.
“I did not order it for ye.”
The vendor handed Maxwell the steaming hand-pie.
Maxwell stared at it as if it had personally offended him.
Ariella took a delicate bite of her bannock, and then eyed the pie in his hand.
“Are ye going to eat that?”
He exhaled sharply and handed it over without a fight.
She grinned around a mouthful. “Thank ye, husband.”
He muttered something incoherent, and offered a hand to help her back onto her horse. Ariella took it, letting him lift her up onto the saddle, and then followed his lead as they pulled away from the vendor.
As the roadway turned away from the old man and his cart, Ariella asked, “Is it large?”
“Large enough,” Maxwell replied with quick, firm, assurety.
She waited for more. Nothing came.
“The village… Do ye come here often?” she tried again.
“When there is need.”
He did not ask her a single thing in return.
She pressed her lips together, then tried a different tack.
“Did ye grow up riding these same hills?” she asked. “Knew every turn and stone before ye were ten?”
“Aye.”
“Ye never got lost?” she pressed.
“Never.”
“Not once?” she said, skeptical.
He glanced at her, the faintest glint in his eyes. “Nae once that anyone found out about.”
She smiled despite herself. “So ye were human at one time.”
“I had me moments,” he said.
They fell quiet again. She wished, a little foolishly, that he would turn one of those simple questions back on her. Ask if she had ever been to a village like this. Ask if she was excited.
Instead, he rode stiff and straight, gaze on the road, distance settled around him like another layer of clothing.
He is putting space between us, she realized. After the kiss. After the touch of his hand on me cheek.
The thoughts stung more than she wanted to admit.
“Have ye always used the same modiste for dressin’ the Keep?” she asked, refusing to let the conversation die.
“Aye.”
“Is she frightening?” Ariella asked. “Like Mrs. Macrae with pins.”
“Nae frightening,” he said. “Sharp.”
“I like sharp.”
“I noticed,” he murmured.
She had no answer for that.
By the time they crested the last rise and the village came into view, Ariella’s stomach was a knot of nerves and anticipation.
Stone cottages huddled along the main road, smoke curling from chimneys.
A small square lay at the heart of it, with stalls and a well and a scattering of villagers already about their business.
At the far end of the square, a painted sign hung above a tidy shop. A stylized spool of thread and a needle. The modiste.
Her heart quickened.
She had never done this. Not properly. Her mother had altered gowns. Her aunt had sent the odd parcel of trimmings. But to walk into a shop where bolts of fabric waited, where someone would make something just for her, not handed down and cut smaller.
“It is only for appearances,” she reminded herself under her breath.
Even so, the excitement bubbled.
Maxwell dismounted first, handing his reins to a boy who nearly bowed in half when he realized who stood before him. Ariella slid down on her own, cheeks warming as her foot missed the stirrup for a moment. Maxwell’s hand twitched as if to steady her, then he checked himself.
She lifted her chin and followed him across the square.
A bell chimed as they entered the shop.
The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and starch.
Light from the front windows spilled across shelves stacked with neatly folded fabric.
Bolts of wool, linen, silk, and velvet stood in tall rows along the walls.
Ribbons hung in cascading colors. A mannequin wore a half finished gown in soft green, pins glittering along the seams.
Ariella’s breath caught.
“Oh,” she whispered.
It felt like walking into a dream.
A woman with silver threaded dark hair and a measuring tape around her neck emerged from the back room, hands dusted with chalk. She stopped when she saw them, eyes widening.
“Laird McNeill,” she said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “What an honor. And ye have brought yer lady. I am blessed.”
“This is Lady Ariella,” Maxwell said. “She requires new dresses.”
Ariella wanted to sink into the floor at the bluntness of it. Instead she forced a smile. “I am pleased to meet ye.”
“The pleasure is mine,” the woman said warmly. “I am Mistress Kinnaird. Please, look. Touch. See what pleases ye.”
If Mistress Kinnaird had told her to step into heaven, Ariella could not have felt more overwhelmed.
There was color everywhere. Deep forest greens. Rich browns. Gleaming blues that reminded her of clear lochs. Ivory that looked like poured cream. Her fingers itched to touch everything.
She drifted toward a shelf as if pulled, trailing her fingertips over a bolt of fine wool.
Behind her, Maxwell took up a stance in the corner, arms crossed, expression carved into what he must have thought looked like indifference.
He was fooling no one.
“Ye have been in the trade long,” Ariella asked, hoping her voice did not sound as breathless as she felt.
“Many years,” Mistress Kinnaird said. “I made yer husband’s maither’s gowns when she first came to McNeill. God rest her.”
Ariella’s heart gave a little lurch. “Truly.”
“Aye,” the woman said. “And now I see I shall be making yers. Circle of life, and all that.” She clapped her hands briskly. “What do ye like, me lady.”
“Everything,” Ariella admitted, cheeks warming.
“Excellent answer,” the modiste said. “We shall narrow it down. Try this.” She pulled down a bolt of soft heather colored wool and spread it out. The fabric fell in a gentle, flattering line.
Ariella stroked it. “It is beautiful.”
“What does the laird think?” Mistress Kinnaird asked, eyes glinting with friendly mischief.
Ariella turned, following that question. Maxwell stood very still, gaze fixed on her rather than on the fabric.
She saw his throat work once. “It is fine,” he said because his tongue, apparently, had abandoned him.
“Fine,” Ariella repeated. “Nae exactly high praise.”
“It will suit ye,” he added, somewhat stiffly.
Which, from him, was nearly poetry.
She smiled to herself and drifted on, letting her fingers wander over other bolts. Some were far too grand, all embroidery and shimmer. Some too plain. It was a strange, heady pleasure to realize that whatever she chose would be made for her, cut to her shape, not someone else’s old seams.
Then she saw it.
A deep blue silk, the color of stormy sky and river water combined, rich and luminous without shouting. It practically hummed beneath her hand when she touched it.
Her breath stopped. “Oh.”
Mistress Kinnaird followed her gaze. “Ah. That one.”
“It is…” Ariella shook her head, words failing.
“Pricey,” the modiste said frankly. “Too dear for most.”
Ariella swallowed. “How much?”
The number, when given, made her blink. Her hand fell away from the fabric.
“It is only a gown,” she said lightly. “There are many others.”
She almost felt Maxwell’s attention sharpen from across the room. She kept her eyes trained firmly on lesser bolts.
“I think this one,” she said, choosing a good sturdy green wool instead. “And perhaps a softer brown. I daenae need silk.”
“It is a fine choice,” Mistress Kinnaird said, though her expression said she had seen the longing.
Ariella pushed the blue silk from her thoughts. She was here, she reminded herself, not as some grand lady with a bottomless purse, but as a woman whose brother had done his best with little coin. Maxwell might be laird, but she had no wish to be greedy.
“Now, let us measure ye,” Mistress Kinnaird said. She gestured to a standing screen. “Behind there, if ye please.”
Ariella went, cheeks already heating at the thought of stripping down to her chemise. The screen shielded her from view of the main shop, but she was suddenly, painfully aware that Maxwell was mere steps away.
She stepped out of her gown and shawl, folding them neatly over a chair, then stood straight as the measuring tape wrapped around her bust, her waist, her hips.
“Hold still,” Mistress Kinnaird murmured. “Ye are a fine shape, me lady. The laird will have cause to be grateful.”
Ariella spluttered. “Mistress.”
The woman only chuckled. “I speak the truth. Lift yer arm. There. Good.”
Through a gap in the screen, Ariella caught sight of Maxwell.
He stood facing away at first, jaw shadowed with stubble. Then something drew his gaze to the side. For a heartbeat, his eyes landed on the faint outline of her through the fabric of the screen.
His gaze darkened.
He looked away at once, as if burned.
Her heart thudded against her ribs.