Chapter 13
The storm hadn’t arrived yet, but Maxwell felt it in his bones.
The tension was something ancient, bred into the marrow of every Highlander, the instinct that warned when another clan approached with smiles masking steel. O’Douglas was not riding here for peace. Not truly. Maxwell knew that with every breath he took.
Which meant McNeill needed to be perfect.
Strong.
Impenetrable.
When dawn broke, Maxwell was already in the bailey, cloak whipping in the wind, Finley at his side.
“Laird!” shouted Darragh, one of the gate wardens, jogging toward him and bowing his head. “First wave of clansmen from the river villages just arrived. Twenty-three men, four women, two wee ones. They brought three wagons of grain and one of timber.”
“Good,” Maxwell said. “Send the families to the east barracks. They’ll stay warmest there. Put the lumber near the outer wall. I want the smithys to have all they need.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Darragh sprinted off.
Maxwell surveyed the keep and the surrounding yard with the eye of a hawk. Every corner required order. Every shadow needed watching.
“Finley,” he said, already striding toward the smithy, “make sure the men from Glenbrae are given the north watchtower posts. They know cold winds and dark nights better than any.”
“Aye.”
“And send word to Torcall that I want two guards stationed outside the kitchens at all times. Mairi has more weight on her shoulders than any three warriors combined this week.”
Finley smirked. “Aye. And if any lad is foolish enough to cross her, God rest him.”
Maxwell grunted as they reached the forge.
It was sweltering already. The heat rolling from the open-mouthed furnace, sparks spitting as metal met flame. Callum looked up from his anvil, sweat shining down his temples.
“Laird,” Callum grunted, lifting his hammer in greeting.
“Do ye have enough hands?” Maxwell asked.
Callum hesitated. “We’re managing.”
“Managing is nae enough.”
Maxwell turned toward Finley. “Bring in two more smiths from Briar Hollow. And get word to Duncan MacAlpin. Tell him he's needed.”
Finley blinked. “Duncan? That gruff bastard?”
“If we need three more swords sharpened by nightfall, he’ll do it in one hour.”
Finley muttered something about Maxwell collecting difficult men the way other people collected coins, but he left at once.
Maxwell stepped into the center of the yard again, calling out to a cluster of men unloading barrels of salted meat.
“Put those in the second cellar. And keep the inventory straight. I want to ken exactly how much we have if O’Douglas tries to skim from the barrels.”
“Aye, Laird!”
Guards hustled. Horses snorted, stamping the ground. Smoke curled from dozens of hearths around the keep. Everywhere, someone carried something, fixed something, built something.
And Maxwell oversaw it all.
He moved through the keep like a storm in human form.
It wasn’t paranoia.
It was survival.
Two men passed him carrying a crate of torches.
“Ye’ll double the watch in the guest corridors starting tonight,” he ordered without slowing. “Nay one walks unescorted when O’Douglas’s men arrive—not even the kitchen girls.”
“Aye!”
Finley jogged back to Maxwell’s side as the laird finished ordering the extra guards for the guest corridors.
“That’s done,” Finley said. “But ye’ll want to hear this.”
“Go on.”
“One of the scouts returned early.” Finley lowered his voice. “He says he saw O’Douglas riders on the west ridge.”
Maxwell stopped mid-stride. “The west? That’s nae the route they sent word about.”
“Me thought exactly,” Finley said. “He said they werenae heading here. Looked like they were… studying.”
Maxwell’s jaw clenched. “Studying what.”
“Couldnae tell. The scout left before they saw him.”
Maxwell exhaled slowly. “A man doesnae detour for nay reason.”
Finley nodded grimly. “So I told the scout to stay quiet and sent two more to confirm.”
Before Maxwell could answer, a kitchen girl rushed toward them, breathless. “Laird…”
She bowed, shaking. “Forgive me, but Mairi sent me. One of the small knifes is gone. The one she keeps for trimming herbs.”
Maxwell frowned. “A misplaced kitchen blade is nay danger.”
“It… wasn’t misplaced,” the girl whispered. “It was on the rack an hour ago. And now it’s gone.”
“She’s certain?” Finley asked.
“Aye, sir. She never misplaces her things.”
Maxwell exchanged a look with Finley.
“A small knife isnae a threat,” Finley muttered, “but someone sneaking through kitchens is.”
Maxwell dismissed the girl with a nod, then turned to Finley. “Tell Torcall to increase the patrols around storerooms and lower corridors.”
“Aye.”
They resumed walking.
Before five steps passed, another voice called out: “Laird!”
A young messenger jogged toward them, cheeks red, scroll in hand.
Maxwell took it, scanning the brief note.
Finley waited. “What now.”
Maxwell folded the parchment tightly. “A rumor. O’Douglas hired mercenaries last winter. Eastern men. Paid in silver.”
Finley let out a low whistle. “Mercenaries daenae stay hired long unless the coin keeps coming.”
“Aye.”
“And if he’s spending coin,” Finley murmured, “he’s planning something.”
Maxwell tucked the scroll into his belt. “Spread the word quietly. Our men keep their eyes open. No unfamiliar faces wander the crowd once they arrive.”
Finley nodded. “Aye. And the missing knife—?”
“Assume it was taken. Nae misplaced.”
Finley grinned humorlessly. “I love when ye’re paranoid. Means I am nae alone in it.”
Maxwell didn’t answer.
But as they walked together through the keep, his eyes searched every corner, every shadow, every alcove, every path an intruder might slip through.
He felt it now more than ever. The O’Douglas visit wasn’t diplomacy. It was reconnaissance. And the wolves had already begun sniffing.
A rider thundered into the yard, leaping from his horse and bowing. “Laird! Balnoran has arrived with twenty riders.”
“Good. Put them near the south range and reinforce the stables. Tell their captain I’ll speak with him after midday meal.”
“Yes, Laird!”
Maxwell strode toward the inner keep, stopping briefly as he spotted Torcall, his second-in-command.
“Report.”
“The eastern wall is secured. New arrow slits are reinforced. And Finley’s put the extra men on the western parapet.”
“And the armory?”
“Catalogued. We lack nothin’.”
“Good.”
Torcall hesitated. “We are preparing for a feast, Laird… but ye’ve set the keep like a fortress ready for a siege.”
Maxwell gave him a single, hard look.
Torcall nodded at once, understanding.
Because this was not a feast. It was an inspection. A battle waiting for a spark.
Maxwell pressed forward.
Inside the keep, he stalked the corridors with the same intensity. Servants dipped their heads. Guards stiffened. No detail escaped him.
Banners were cleaned and hung higher.
Candles replaced to allow no shadows.
Hall floors swept so there was no stray debris.
Walls inspected to ensure no sign of disrepair.
He checked every door, every latch, every supply room. He asked after the bedding, the fires, the stores. He checked the guest chambers himself.
If O’Douglas meant to cause trouble, he would find no weakness here.
Not one.
When Finley returned near midday, cheeks red from the wind, he offered a nod of satisfaction. “Duncan’s on his way. And the Briar Hollow smiths nearly ran me over trying to get here. They were excited.”
Maxwell grunted. “Good.”
“Ye’ve thought of everything,” Finley said. “The bastard will come, see order and strength, and choke on it.”
“That is the hope.”
“If this were a war camp, I would think we were hours from battle.”
Maxwell said nothing, because he wasn’t sure Finley was wrong.
It was later, near the afternoon sun, when he saw her.
He wasn’t looking for her.
Not deliberately.
But Maxwell’s attention was drawn to movement that was neither soldier nor servant.
Ariella.
She drifted down the corridor carrying a handful of linens, her hair pinned loosely thanks to Isla’s clumsy fingers. Light caught the brown silk of her gown, the new one the modiste had finished yesterday, and turned it warm as honey.
She walked with purpose.
Not like a guest.
Not like a girl unsure of her place.
But like someone who belonged.
He stopped in the archway just outside the great hall, watching her without meaning to.
She didn’t notice him.
She moved from servant to servant, offering help, asking after their tasks, adjusting the angle of a banner here, smoothing the edges of a tablecloth there. She offered smiles, encouragement, little jokes that made shoulders loosen and hands work faster.
She spoke to the candle-maker, inspecting the new centerpieces.
She spoke to the seamstresses, admiring their repaired tapestries.
She even advised Mairi to shift the soup kettle nearer the hearth so it would stay warm longer during the feast.
And their clansmen watched her with a growing quiet respect.
Not because she commanded it.
But because she inspired it.
She didn’t hover or demand or posture. She simply was a soft force of nature whose influence threaded seamlessly into the keep.
Maxwell found himself standing there too long.
Finley came up beside him. “Ye watching her?”
Maxwell didn’t answer.
Finley snorted softly. “She’s making the hall look… different.”
Not weaker.
Better.
Ariella bent to shift a stack of plates into better alignment. The motion revealed a glimpse of her throat, soft in the afternoon light.
Maxwell’s jaw tightened.
He forced himself to look away and resumed barking orders.
But she lingered at the edge of his awareness like warmth on cold skin.
She looks as if she’s lived here her whole life, he thought.
And then, begrudgingly,
What she told her brother was true. She has been respected here.
And he realized suddenly that she believed it too.
That stirred something in him, but he pushed it aside and drowned himself in work.
“All barrels counted,” he muttered, tallying the numbers. “Every crate sealed and marked.”
Finley leaned over his shoulder. “Ye mean to take inventory of the air next?”
“If it can be stolen,” Maxwell said darkly.
Finley laughed outright.
By nightfall, the keep hummed like a living thing. Torches glowed along the ramparts. Guards rotated seamlessly. Servants hurried through the halls with practiced efficiency.
But Maxwell wasn’t done.
Not nearly.
He and Finley took to the war room. Logs spread across the table, maps weighted down with carved stones. The large hearth burned bright, stretching their shadows long across the floor.
Finley poured two mugs of ale. “If O’Douglas tries anything stupid, it’ll be subtle.”
“Subtle can still kill,” Maxwell muttered, marking the northern border lines.
Finley drank. “Ye think he’ll send a man into the storerooms?”
“I think he’ll test us,” Maxwell said. “See how tight the reins are. How alert the guards are. How much he can learn without asking.”
“Ye think he’ll steal.”
“I think thieves walk in sheep’s clothing.”
Finley scratched his beard. “Then we’ll meet them fang for fang.”
Maxwell grunted.
For hours, they reviewed supply lists, border reports, patrol schedules. Nothing escaped him. He refused to let it.
Finally, Finley slumped back in his chair. “If ye tell me ye want to re-count the potatoes, I will stab ye with a spoon.”
But Maxwell barely heard him.
He was staring at the map, at the marks he had drawn, at the paths a careless scout might slip through. At the names of villages under his protection. At the bloody weight of leadership he had carried alone for far too long.
He tightened his grip on the pencil.
“Finley,” he said quietly.
“Aye?”
“Nay man from O’Douglas walks these halls unwatched.”
“Understood.”
“And if ye see anything… any gaps, any shadows, any whisper that feels wrong, ye come straight to me.”
“Aye,” Finley said with more seriousness. “Of course.”
Maxwell ran a hand over his face.
He was tired.
But he could not sleep.
Not tonight.
Not with O’Douglas on the horizon, or his clan depending on him. And not with the memory of Ariella’s soft laughter drifting through his mind like an unwelcome comfort.
His fingers stilled.
He exhaled slowly and returned to the ledgers, forcing himself back into numbers.
The candle beside him burned low.
He meant to think only of O’Douglas.
Only of defenses.
Only of clan survival.
He did not mean to think of a woman arranging tablecloths with a smile that put the torches to shame.
But he did.
More than once.
And each time, he cursed under his breath and bent closer over the ledgers, pretending she wasn’t slowly, quietly unraveling the edges of walls he had spent years building.