Chapter 12
The kitchens had become Ariella’s refuge.
Warm, bright, and alive in a way the rest of the keep wasn’t.
The great hearth roared all day, casting golden light across the flagstones.
The scent of baked bread and simmering stew clung to the air, comforting and familiar.
Every time she stepped inside, a wave of heat and laughter washed over her.
Today was no different.
Mairi was elbow-deep in dough, her sleeves rolled high, her braid sliding over one shoulder as she barked affectionate orders at anyone within reach.
Ewan darted under tables, stealing carrots.
Isla chased him with a wooden spoon. Callum appeared now and then from the back door, wiping soot from his forehead and pretending he didn’t bring half the forge in with him.
Ariella couldn’t help smiling.
“Ye’re nae slicing those roots even, me lady. Remember how I taught ye,” Mairi said, peering over Ariella’s shoulder.
Ariella lifted her knife. “It’s close, is it nae?”
“Aye, close, which is certainly high praise. But they must be even,” Mairi corrected. “In this house, it is the standard, me lady. The laird will take notice.”
Callum stepped behind his wife, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Daenae let her fool ye, me lady. Mairi would have ye slicing vegetables by the moon’s measurements if ye let her.”
Mairi swatted him with the dough-covered hand, leaving a smudge of flour on his jaw.
“Out with ye, Callum Hendry! Ye are mucking up me kitchen!”
“Oh, aye,” he drawled, grinning. “I will muck up far worse later if ye keep throwing me out.”
Isla groaned. Ewan gagged loudly.
Ariella laughed, almost dropping her knife.
Their affection warmed the room more than the hearth. Callum winked at his daughter, caught Ewan by the collar before the boy could sprint away with a heel of bread, and disappeared through the back door again.
Mairi shook her head. “That man will be the death of me.”
But her smile said otherwise.
The kitchen returned to its bustle after Callum’s dramatic exit, but it wasn’t long before a subtle shift passed through the room.
A seamstress carrying a basket of mended napkins drifted closer. Then another woman, who Ariella sorted out was the candle-maker’s wife, stepped nearer. A third, older than the rest and shaped like a stout kettle, folded her arms with the air of someone settling in for evaluation.
Mairi noticed it too. She rolled her eyes. “Och, here they come. Try nae to let them scare ye.”
Ariella blinked. “Scare me? Why?”
The stout woman spoke first. “Lady McNeill, is it true ye can sew?”
Ariella hesitated. “I… can mend. Badly.”
Mairi snorted. “She’s being modest. She stitched the hem on me apron earlier.”
“Aye, and it was crooked,” Ariella admitted.
The seamstress gasped softly. “Ye admit it freely?”
Ariella laughed. “Would ye like me to lie?”
A ripple of chuckling went through them.
The candle-maker’s wife stepped forward next. “What about baking? Ye any good at that?”
Ariella wrinkled her nose. “If ye enjoy charcoal disguised as bread, then aye, I excel.”
Mairi nearly choked on her breath. “Saints preserve us, me lady, have ye nay shame?”
“When it comes to cookin’, nay. I have none,” Ariella said cheerfully.
More laughter.
The stout woman squinted at her, as if testing whether Ariella would crack under the weight of Highland woman scrutiny. “And what about handling a hard-headed man? What advice might ye have,” she asked boldly.
“Mairi manages Callum well enough,” the seamstress whispered conspiratorially.
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “Me faither was hard-headed, and I learned from me maither in that regard. Learning and growing still. We are surrounded by hard-headedness. Men and women alike.”
“Learning,” the elder repeated. “Aye, me lady. Well said.”
Ariella lifted her chin. “Most of me experience with hard-headedness, is just all bark and very little bite when pressed.”
“And how do ye handle that,” the candle-maker’s wife asked.
“By giving it right back, but sparingly,” Ariella said.
A hush spread through the kitchen, and then a roar of laughter.
Mairi slapped the table. “I told ye she was one of us!”
Ariella blinked. “One of… ye?”
“Aye,” the women chorused.
The seamstress leaned in. “Most ladies of the clans willnae step foot in the kitchens. They’d rather faint over a bit of flour. But ye… ye roll up yer sleeves.”
“And laugh with us,” added the candle-maker’s wife.
“And tell the truth,” said the stout woman.
“And ye daenae mind mess,” Mairi cackled. “Which is good, because Ewan’s crumb trail could guide sailors home from sea.”
A loud “Hey!” echoed from behind a table, followed by Ewan standing indignantly with a carrot in hand.
The women laughed harder.
Ariella’s throat tightened with a warm and unexpected sense of acceptance. She felt it in the way the older women nodded approval. In the way Mairi beamed as though she had personally handpicked Ariella for this exact role.
The stout elder crossed her arms once more, but this time, her voice softened. “Ye’ll do, me lady.”
Ariella swallowed. “Thank ye.”
“Now then,” Mairi announced, clapping her hands, “since Lady Ariella has been deemed worthy by the tribunal of hens, she can help with the next task.”
Ariella rolled her eyes. “The tribunal?”
“Aye,” they said in unison.
And Ariella laughed as she reached for the next basket of vegetables.
For the first time, the kitchen didn’t feel like somewhere she worked.
It felt like somewhere she belonged.
I crept in slowly, though. As Ariella chopped, kneaded, stirred, she found herself glancing toward the door Callum had left through.
Recalling Mairi’s fond scolding. At the way her laughter softened when her husband teased her.
At Isla’s bright giggles when Callum lifted her off her feet.
At Ewan’s pride when Callum tousled his hair.
Warmth, love, and partnership was woven through every interaction.
She did not think she envied them, but her chest tightened, faint and unfamiliar. It flickered like a small flame she didn’t fully understand.
She focused on the dough beneath her hands, shaping rolls while Mairi hummed an old lullaby, the kind sung to children on storm-heavy nights.
The warmth of the kitchen seeped into Ariella’s bones.
This felt like a future she might want.
A place she could belong.
A life she had never dared picture for herself.
And when she did think of such a life. One filled with love, warmth, and sharing burdens, Maxwell’s image rose first. Though, she cut that thought away as quickly as it came because she wasn’t ready to examine it.
Not after the last night in his study. Not after the way he had touched her, kissed her, and completely undid her… just to retreat behind walls of cold distance once more.
She kneaded harder.
Mairi slid a bowl of rising dough toward the hearth, then leaned her hip against the table. “Ye like it here,” she observed.
Ariella blinked. “Is it so obvious?”
“Obvious as salt,” Mairi said. “Ye walk in and it looks like we’ve added a window. Ye cannae pretend ye daenae brighten this place.”
Heat rose to Ariella’s cheeks. “Ye flatter me.”
“Nay. I see truth,” Mairi said. “We are a loud house. A messy one. But we are glad for ye, me lady. Glad for the company. And glad for the laughter ye bring.”
Ariella swallowed.
Her throat felt tight again.
She looked around at the bustling kitchen and felt like she belonged there. Something she hadn’t known she needed. But even as she leaned into that warmth, a thread of worry pulled at her.
Maxwell had not looked at her since that night.
Not properly.
Not in a way that meant anything.
And she hadn’t realized how much she wanted that until she didn’t have it.
“Ye ken,” Mairi said later as they prepared the afternoon stew, “folk carry scars ye cannae see.”
Ariella looked up from the pot, brow furrowing. “What do ye mean?”
Mairi stirred slowly, her voice lowering. “Laird Maxwell. He lost his parents young.”
Ariella straightened. “Both?”
“Aye. Fever took his maither. Accident took his father nae long after. Left the lad with a clan to run before he’d grown into his boots.”
Ariella’s hand faltered on the ladle.
“He was too young,” Mairi continued, not unkindly. “Barely a man. But all he did was work harder. Sleep less. Train more. He kept the clan safe through drought and sickness and raiding. But none of that comes without cost.”
Ariella’s chest tightened, like someone had looped a cord around her ribs and pulled.
Mairi wasn’t gossiping. Her tone made that clear. This was explanation, not rumor. Context, not judgment.
Some scars don’t show.
Ariella swallowed. “Why are ye telling me this?”
“Because ye asked nothin’,” Mairi said simply. “Ye make nay assumptions. Ye daenae pry. But ye look at him like yer questions are eating ye alive.”
Ariella lowered her gaze. “I daenae pry because he told me nae to.”
“Aye,” Mairi said. “And he meant it. But that doesnae change what shaped him.”
Ariella finished stirring the stew, mind spinning with Mairi’s words.
Her chest ached for a boy she didn’t know. A boy who carried the burdens meant for grown men. A boy who was now very much a man, placing priority on those burdens all the same.
Isla swept in an hour later, arms full of kindling, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Me lady, oh good yer here! I’ll be right back to ye, miss.
Mrs. Macrae says the fires in the feast hall need checking again and Isobel is laid out ill.
” She paused, eyeing Ariella’s somber expression. “Are ye well, me lady?”
Ariella forced a smile. “Just thinking.”
Isla dropped the wood into the basket with a thump, as if looking for an excuse to be distracted. “Anything I can help with?”
Ariella blinked. “Nay,” she said too quickly.
Isla shrugged sheepishly. “Me maither says ye think a lot. And usually when someone thinks that much, it’s about someone… or in me own case, about something I’ve said.”
Ariella coughed. “I… suppose it is about someone. A little.”