Chapter 12 #2
Isla glanced around, then leaned in. “If it makes ye feel any better… the laird scares everyone.”
Ariella’s brows rose, trying not to give anything away, but still curious. “The laird?”
“Oh aye,” Isla whispered. “He walks like thunder. And he has that glower that can cut glass, I swear it.”
Ariella laughed softly. “That is… nae entirely wrong.”
“But ye’re nae afraid of him,” Isla continued. “That’s why me maither says the keep needed ye.”
Ariella’s breath caught. “Why?”
“Because he needs someone who can stand beside him. Nae behind. He respects ye.”
Ariella’s heart tightened. “Oh?”
Isla nodded fiercely. “Aye. Anyone can see it. But he’s still… intimidating.”
Ariella bit her lip. “I daenae believe the laird is frightening, Isla. Nae at all really.”
Isla scoffed. “Nae frightening? He nearly made Ewan cry by looking at him.”
“That was because Ewan had stolen a whole pie.”
“He would’ve stolen two if he wasnae scared!”
Ariella’s laugh softened. “Isla… people who walk with heavy memories sometimes look heavier than they mean to.”
Isla tilted her head. “Heavy memories?”
Ariella nodded. “A man doesnae carry scars like that without reason.”
Silence.
Isla looked down, thoughtful. “I… never thought of it like that.”
Ariella touched her arm. “The laird isnae cruel. Or cold. He’s… wounded. And wounds make shadows.”
Ariella’s thoughts drifted back to the way he had stiffened when she touched his scar. To the coldness in his voice. To the pain he tried to hide under iron and silence.
“He took the lairdship too young,” Mairi said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Boys his age were out stealing apples and chasing hens. Our laird was dealing with supply shortages and border disputes. He never had a youth.”
Ariella murmured, “I see.”
Mairi nodded toward the hearth where the fire crackled steadily. “He is a good man. A hard man. But sometimes hardness grows where softness was needed.”
Ariella stared into the stew pot, something warm and painful blooming in her chest.
She realized that she wanted to know him better. Not just his temper or his touch or his distance. She wanted to know the pieces that shaped him. The burdens he carried alone.
“Does he ken that ye speak so kindly of him?” she asked quietly.
“Nay,” Mairi said with a chuckle. “If he did, he’d likely stop bringing me fresh bread from the tradesmen.”
Ariella smiled faintly.
Then her smile faded, and the kitchen was back to the normal bustle all around her.
Night fell early, the winter sky sinking quickly into purple shadows. Most of the castle had settled into evening rhythms.
Ariella stayed behind in the kitchen long after supper had been cleared.
She scrubbed tables with Mairi, hummed old songs with Isla, endured Ewan’s dramatic retelling of almost falling into the stew pot. The noise was comforting. The warmth soothing.
She didn’t want to return to her chambers yet.
Not while last night still hung in the air.
Not while Maxwell kept himself folded tight and distant.
She stacked bowls near the sink when someone entered behind her.
Not someone.
Him.
Maxwell stepped into the light of the hearth, the hall’s shadows clinging to him like an old cloak. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind. His jaw shadowed darker than usual. His eyes found her at once.
She felt her breath catch.
“Ye shouldnae trouble yerself with chores,” he said. His voice was calm, but something in it sounded… careful.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “I like helping.”
“It is nae yer place.”
She bristled. “Whose place is it, then? I am nay ornament.”
His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. “I did nae say ye were.”
She faltered.
He stepped closer, though not near enough to touch her, but enough that she could feel the pull of him.
“Ye are already useful,” he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
He looked away almost immediately, as if he regretted saying it. He turned toward the doorway, cloak shifting with the movement.
“Rest,” he said gruffly. “Tomorrow will be long.”
He left.
Not waiting for her reply.
Not giving her a chance to speak.
The kitchen door swung shut behind him, and he disappeared.
Ariella stood frozen, a wet bowl still in her hands. Mairi, Isla, and Ewan had fallen silent without her noticing.
“Go after him,” Mairi whispered, nudging her with an elbow.
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “What? Nay. I — he was only being polite.”
Ewan whispered. “He was being serious.”
Isla whacked him with a towel. “He was being sweet, ye goose.”
Sweet.
The word settled in Ariella’s chest like a candle aflame.
Maxwell was many things, but sweet? Never.
Yet she had heard something gentle in his tone. A softness beneath the gravel. A hint of apology hidden in four simple words: Ye are already useful.
She set the bowl down, drying her damp hands on her skirts.
Mairi gave her a knowing look. “He cares,” she murmured.
Ariella shook her head automatically. “Nay, he —”
“He does,” Mairi insisted. “He just doesnae ken what to do with it.”
Ariella bit her lip.
Maybe Mairi was right.
Maybe that was his way of apologizing for pushing her away, for rejecting her kindness, for offering desire then retreating the moment he felt something deeper stir.
Ariella felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, and she pressed a finger to her lips to steady it.
If that was an apology then she would take it.
Unbeknownst to her, a tall figure had paused in the corridor.
Maxwell stood just beyond the doorway, half in shadow, Finley at his side. He had come from the cellar, checking stores, and had been on his way to the hall when Ariella’s words froze him mid-step.
Finley glanced at Maxwell’s face, eyes widening slightly. “Max…”
But Maxwell didn’t move.
He stared ahead, unreadable, as Ariella’s voice drifted through the warm kitchen air.
“He cares about this clan with every breath. He doesnae yield. He does not falter. But that kind of strength and protection… costs something.”
She stirred the pot again, her voice quieter. “I see more than he thinks.”
Maxwell’s breath caught.
Finley whispered, “We should —”
Maxwell turned away before he could finish. “Nay,” he muttered. “She need nae ken I heard.”
He walked off quickly, boots echoing down the corridor.
But his chest felt different.
Warm in a way he didn’t like. Warm in a way he couldn’t ignore.