Chapter 14
The morning of the O’Douglas visit dawned with a sky the color of wet slate.
Fitting, Maxwell thought. God knew tension when they saw it.
By first light, the castle was already alive. Servants rushed with baskets, torches lit in every corridor, guards stationed at every entrance, the smell of spiced meats filling the air.
The great hall gleamed under the weight of polished candelabras and fresh greenery. Ariella’s touches were everywhere: the tables laid with plaid runners, the hearth decorated with woven branches, lanterns hung low enough to warm the air but high enough not to scorch.
Maxwell strode through the hall with Finley at his shoulder, scanning everything with the same watchful precision he would give a battlefield.
“Gate shifts doubled?” Maxwell asked.
“Aye,” Finley answered. “Every man briefed. Nay one walks these halls without bein’ seen.”
“Good.” Maxwell paused at the far end, eyes narrowing at the shadows near the windows. “And the guest wings?”
“Two guards each corridor, like ye ordered.”
“And the armory?”
“Under lock and key.”
Maxwell only nodded, but his chest eased the slightest fraction. He had prepared every angle, every possible path the enemy might take. There would be no slipping knives into dark corners today. No “misplaced” valuables. No wandering scouts poking into storerooms or border maps.
Today would go smoothly, if he had to stand at the door and throttle every O’Douglas himself.
Movement pulled his attention.
Ariella gliding through the hall like a warm breeze. Her new green gown flowed beautifully as she gave instructions with soft confidence.
She paused at a servant girl’s trembling hands. “Easy, lass. Set the goblet down first, then the pitcher. Ye’ve got this.”
The girl smiled gratefully.
Ariella moved on, checking place settings, adjusting a banner, encouraging the nervous seamstress who’d repaired the tapestries. Everywhere she walked, shoulders un-tensed. Voices softened. Work steadied.
Maxwell watched her without meaning to.
She had a way of making the hall feel less like a war front and more like a home.
Finley followed Maxwell’s line of sight and snorted softly.
“Ye look like a man watching a lantern in a long dark night,” he murmured.
Maxwell didn’t answer.
Finley’s brows rose. “Should I fetch a bucket of cold water?”
“Try,” Maxwell growled, “and I’ll drown ye in it.”
Finley grinned. “Ah. So ye admit?”
“I admit nothing.”
He walked off before Finley could say another word.
Hours later, the horn sounded.
The O’Douglas had arrived.
The great wooden doors opened with a heavy creak.
Laird Lyall O’Douglas stepped inside first. He was a tall man with silver streaking his dark beard, his clothing fine enough to show status and bold enough to show arrogance.
His son walked beside him. Archer was younger, leaner, with the hollow-eyed charm of a fox wearing a crown.
Both men wore smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
“Laird McNeill,” Lyall greeted, spreading his arms with calculated warmth. “It has been far too long.”
“Nae long enough,” Maxwell muttered under his breath before stepping forward.
He bowed his head the faintest inch. The bare minimum respect required. “Laird O’Douglas. Welcome to McNeill.”
Archer’s gaze slid toward the hall, then toward Ariella. His smile sharpened.
Maxwell felt his spine stiffen.
Ariella stepped forward and curtsied with grace. “Laird O’Douglas. Master Archer. We are pleased to host ye.”
Lyall’s eyes skimmed her figure with far too much calculation. “So this is the new Lady McNeill. Word travels, of course, but none of it did yer beauty justice.”
Ariella smiled politely, not warmly. “Ye flatter, Laird.”
“Aye,” Archer said, stepping closer, “but we O’Douglas men flatter only where it’s due.”
Maxwell’s jaw worked.
Finley leaned in. “Ye are allowed to kick him,” he whispered. “As Laird, I’ll say it was justice.”
“Later,” Maxwell murmured back.
Ariella, the ever brilliant and perceptive woman, smoothly redirected the conversation.
“Please, take yer seats. Mairi has prepared a feast fit for kings.”
Lyall chuckled. “We shall see.”
Maxwell pulled a chair out for Ariella, a gesture he rarely made, but one that seemed necessary with predators circling. She murmured thanks and sat, hands folded neatly in her lap.
The feast began.
Platters arrived of roasted venison dripping with honey glaze, thick slices of bread, bowls of root stew, spiced apples, and oat cakes. The wine flowed freely, more freely than Maxwell liked.
Conversation ebbed and rose around them.
Ariella wove through it like a dancer, keeping the councilmen entertained, diverting tension, turning sharp comments into harmless banter.
She offered compliments that sounded sincere even to Maxwell.
She praised other clans’ contributions, asked after children, laughed when appropriate, listened when needed.
Lyall watched her with interest. Archer watched her with hunger.
Maxwell watched both of them with murder.
Every time Lyall’s tone grew sharp, Ariella smoothed it. Every time Archer’s gaze lingered too long, Ariella angled her shoulder away. Every time Maxwell nearly let his temper slip, Ariella changed the topic with elegant ease.
Even the councilmen were impressed. Each of them nodding, murmuring, exchanging glances that said the young Lady McNeill is clever.
She was doing more than her part.
She was saving the night.
But Maxwell did not enjoy a single bite because something was wrong.
Something beyond Archer’s too-eager eyes, or Lyall’s forced politeness.
He couldn’t put a name to it, but he felt it under his skin, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
A threat waiting.
A trap woven beneath silk and smiles.
Ariella caught his gaze once and her brow softened with worry, as if she knew something was coiled inside him like a blade.
She didn’t speak.
But the look said everything.
I am here. We can do this. Hold the line.
And Maxwell did.
But only because she asked it with her eyes.
And because she handled every moment like the lady of a great and ancient keep — steady, gracious, unshaken.
Ariella McNeill.
His wife.
And because of her… the feast did not fall apart.
Even though beneath his skin, Maxwell knew that something was terribly wrong.
The tension in the hall eased slightly after the third course, or rather, it hid itself better. The councilmen grew louder. Lyall’s smile grew tighter. Archer drank enough wine to let his arrogance seep into every movement.
Maxwell ate little. He spoke less.
His gaze never left the table.
Never left the men across from him.
Or the woman beside him.
Ariella kept the conversation flowing easily. She asked Lyall about the winter stores in O’Douglas lands. She complimented their wool shearing. She praised Archer’s hunting reputation — a safe subject that kept him away from politics.
Archer leaned closer every time she spoke.
Maxwell felt his molars grind.
Finley nudged him under the table. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Then breathe quieter. Ye sound like ye’re eatin’ the table.”
Maxwell ignored him.
The second course had barely cleared when a cheerful older councilman leaned toward Ariella.
“Lady McNeill,” he said warmly, “ye’ve outdone yerself with this feast. The hall looks finer than any gathering we’ve had in years.”
Ariella smiled modestly. “The credit belongs to the staff. I only polished what was already shining.”
“Nonsense,” the councilman chuckled. “We’ve seen shining. This…” He gestured toward the hall, the warmth, the greenery, the candles. “This feels like a home.”
Ariella’s smile softened.
Maxwell’s grip on his goblet tightened.
The councilman continued, oblivious. “And that gown suits ye, me lady. Cream is a rare choice in winter, but ye wear it beautifully.”
Ariella flushed pleasantly. “Ye are kind to say so.”
Finley leaned toward Maxwell. “Ye’re doing it again.”
“Doing what,” Maxwell growled.
“Glowering.”
“I am nae glowering.”
Finley made a low hum. “Glowering is when yer brows start plotting murder. Like now.”
Maxwell shot him a look that only confirmed the accusation.
Finley smirked. “If ye’re jealous, ye could just say —”
“Finish that sentence,” Maxwell said, “and I will feed ye to the hounds.”
Finley clamped his mouth shut, eyes twinkling.
The councilman went on, completely unaware he was courting death. “Aye, lass, if me nephew hadn’t married last spring, I’d have introduced ye! Too fine a woman to go unnoticed.”
Ariella laughed politely. “I think ye overestimate me appeal.”
“Not at all,” the man insisted. “Me nephew would have fallen over himself —”
“He would nae have,” Maxwell cut in.
The man blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
Maxwell’s voice remained cool, even. “Lady McNeill does nae need suitors. Nor commentary on what suitors she might’ve had.”
The councilman sputtered. “Of course, of course. Nay disrespect meant.”
Ariella shot Maxwell a surprised look that was part curiosity, part something warmer, but she quickly smoothed it away when Archer approached the table again.
Finley whispered, “Jealousy suits ye, actually.”
“Shut it.”
“I think ye’re glowing.”
“Finley.”
“Aye?”
“If Archer touches her —”
“Ye’ll break his hand? Aye, I counted on it.”
Maxwell scowled and reached for his wine.
The servants brought out the final course — a berry torte Ariella had helped Mairi assemble that afternoon. It filled the hall with sweetness.
Ariella turned just in time to catch a glimpse of his stiff posture, the tight fist around the goblet, the dark glint in his eyes.
And for the briefest moment…
She smiled.
Soft. Secret.
As though she liked that he bristled on her behalf.
Before Maxwell could fully process that expression, Archer reached for the platter at the same time as Ariella had, though far too deliberate, and let his fingers brush hers.
Ariella’s smile faltered half a breath before she hid it.
But Maxwell saw.
The world narrowed.
He set his goblet down with a soft, deadly clink.
“Remove yer hand,” he said, voice low and smooth as drawn steel.
Conversation died in a ripple around them.
Archer blinked. “Laird, I —”
“If ye wish to keep it,” Maxwell added, tone still frighteningly calm.
A hush fell. Every clansman, every servant, every councilman went still.
Archer laughed. The sound was too loud, too false. “Ach, come now. We were simply —”
“Ye were touching me wife.”
Maxwell didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.
Something in the way the words slid from his mouthmade half the hall stiffen.
Archer withdrew his hand slowly, as though wary of moving too fast in front of a predator.
Lyall scoffed. “Savages.”
Maxwell’s gaze snapped to him.
The room froze.
Before Maxwell could speak, Ariella stepped in. Her tone gentle, her smile bright, her poise effortlessly softening the blow.
“Let us nae spoil such a lovely evening,” she said, her voice carrying just enough. “I am sure Archer meant nay disrespect.”
Archer swallowed.
Lyall frowned.
And Maxwell felt every man in the hall take note: Lady McNeill had just prevented a blood feud without raising her voice, without apologizing, without flinching.
Ariella glanced at Maxwell, a silent plea behind her eyes.
Let it go. Nae here. Nae now. Nae with them watching.
He inhaled through his nose.
Exhaled slowly.
And let it go.
Barely.