Chapter 16
“Mmm… Maxwell....”
Ariella’s whisper was barely sound at all, and yet it felt as loud as a shout in the stillness of dawn.
The room was dim, the hearth reduced to sleepy embers, and the air held the lingering warmth of bodies that had shared the same bed. Her bed? No.
Nae me bed.
She blinked, still half-caught between sleep and waking, and the truth settled in a slow, incredulous wave.
Maxwell’s bed.
Her gaze drifted to the man beside her.
He slept on his back, broad shoulders bare beneath the sheet, dark hair tumbled across the pillow. His face, so often carved into stern lines, looked almost peaceful. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his mouth relaxed, his brow smooth.
He looked younger like this. Less like the laird who could silence a hall with a glance, more like a man who had carried too much weight for too long and had finally, briefly, laid it down.
Ariella swallowed.
He’s claimed me as his wife.
The words came unbidden, tender and shocking all at once.
Her body felt different. Not sore, exactly, but aware. Warm. Like she was humming from the inside. She shifted slightly, and the sheet slid along her thigh. The sensation was enough to make her cheeks heat.
She should get up. Quietly. Before he woke. Before she did something foolish.
But her hand was moving before she decided to let it.
Just a touch, she told herself. Only to prove he’s real. Only to remember.
Her palm settled on his chest.
Warm. Solid. The faint rise and fall under her hand made her breath catch. She traced one careful line over the hard plane of muscle, mesmerized by the simple fact that he existed like this. That she was allowed to touch him.
She’d been too shy last night, too overwhelmed by the sheer nearness of him. Too conscious of every breath, every sound, every heartbeat, as if she might break something if she reached too far.
Now, with dawn muted and quiet, she wanted to be brave.
Her fingers slid another inch.
Maxwell shifted in his sleep.
Ariella froze as if she’d been caught stealing.
His arm moved, his hand flexing at the sheet, and a low sound left his throat, half a murmur, half a warning.
Her face went hot.
What am I doing?
She snatched her hand back, pressed both palms to her cheeks, and stared at him with the wild-eyed guilt of a girl caught sneaking biscuits from the pantry.
“Oh, saints,” she breathed.
Maxwell didn’t wake. His breathing steadied again, deep and even. He turned slightly toward her, the sheet shifting to reveal more of his shoulder, the line of his throat.
That did not help.
Ariella slid out of bed as carefully as if the floor were made of ice. She gathered her shift and gown, padded across the chamber, and slipped out the door with a soft click.
The corridor felt colder immediately.
She pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady the frantic rhythm there. Her mind replayed the warmth of his skin under her palm and the way his body had moved instinctively, unaware of her.
She hurried toward her own chamber, nearly tripping over her own feet.
When she pushed open the door, she stopped short.
Isla stood inside with her arms folded and a look of pure, unbearable satisfaction.
“Well,” Isla said brightly. “Good morning to ye too, me Lady.”
Ariella blinked. “Isla! What are ye doing in here?”
“Waiting,” Isla said, and her grin widened. “I went to wake me lady at dawn like I always do. Imagine me surprise when her bed was empty.”
Ariella groaned and shut the door behind her, as if that could keep the entire castle from hearing. “Keep yer voice down.”
Isla’s eyes sparkled. “Why? Ye want the keep to miss the fact that Lady McNeill did nae sleep alone?”
“Isla,” Ariella hissed, “must ye be so shameless?”
“Aye,” Isla said cheerfully. “It is me finest quality.”
Ariella tried to scowl. She failed. A smile tugged at her mouth.
Isla clapped her hands once. “Come. I’ll help ye wash up and dress before ye melt into a puddle.”
“I am nae melting,” Ariella muttered, following after the maid into the back room.
Isla met her with a small wash basin cradled carefully in her arms.
Steam curled faintly from the water, carrying the clean scent of rosemary and chamomile. The sight of it made something in her chest loosen all the same. Isla set the basin down without another word, then placed a folded cloth beside it, movements unhurried and practiced.
“The water is warm,” she said simply. “I added the herbs that the body favors. They’re good for tired skin.”
Ariella nodded, grateful for the calm. She knelt, rolling up her sleeves, and dipped her hands into the basin.
The warmth seeped into her fingers at once, soothing and grounding.
She washed slowly, letting the water carry away the heaviness of sleep, the lingering heat of the night, the faint ache that reminded her she was very much alive.
Isla handed her a second cloth, clean and dry, then stepped back, giving her space without needing to be asked.
For a few quiet moments, there was only the sound of water in the space.
When Ariella finished, Isla lifted the basin and carried it away as gently as she’d brought it.
Then she returned and began brushing Ariella’s hair briskly. “Ye are melting, me Lady. Just quietly. Like butter near the hearth.”
Ariella covered her face with her hands. “I cannae believe ye.”
“Oh, come now,” Isla said. “I just cannae stop smiling about it.”
She worked quickly, lacing Ariella’s gown, pinning loose curls, tugging ribbons into order.
“Ye look well rested,” Isla declared at last.
Ariella’s hands dropped and her cheeks warmed again.
Isla leaned in, conspiratorial. “Also, like someone who learned exactly what our laird’s bed feels like.”
“Isla!”
“All right, all right,” Isla laughed, stepping back. “I’ll behave. Mostly. I am off to the kitchens. Me maither wants help early.”
She reached the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder, her smirk returning with full force. “Oh, and me lady?”
Ariella groaned. “What?”
“Remember the laird usually rises before all of us.”
Ariella stiffened.
Isla smiled like a cat who had swallowed cream. “I ken he might wish to see ye, first thing this morning.”
Then winked and then fled before the slipper that Ariella threw hit her.
Ariella exhaled slowly and walk to the door, sliding on the slipper as she opened it and stepped into the corridor.
Prepare for me husband, she thought as she turned down the dark pathway, letting her fingers glide over the smooth stone walls as she walked slowly. And do we think that me husband will he be angry or kind this morning, after such an eveni —
“Ye left.”
Ariella stopped so abruptly she nearly stumbled backward.
Maxwell stood in the corridor just behind her, fully dressed, cloak hanging heavy at his shoulders. His arms were folded across his chest, and the line between his brows was carved deep.
He looked… displeased.
Not furious. Not cold.
More like a man who had expected to find something and hadn’t.
“I,” Ariella began, then her voice caught. “Erm. Good morning.”
His gaze swept over her face with unnerving focus, as if cataloguing whether she was well, whether she was frightened, whether she regretted anything.
“When I woke,” he said, “ye were nae in me bed, lass.”
The words should have sounded ordinary, but they didn’t and they weren’t.
Ariella felt the heat crawl up her throat.
“I thought…” she started, then forced herself to finish. “I thought ye wouldnae wish me there once… once the night was done.”
His frown sharpened, and for a moment, the sternness looked almost endearing. Like he was genuinely offended by the notion.
“Ye thought incorrectly.”
Ariella’s breath caught. “I did?”
“Aye.”
She attempted a joke because her body had forgotten how to do anything else in the face of him. “Forgive me. I forget how fond ye are of company.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Daenae turn this into jest.”
Ariella’s heart kicked. “I wasnae.”
He stepped closer, and the corridor suddenly felt too small.
“I didnae bring ye to me bed to have ye flee before dawn,” he said quietly.
The words were not romantic or soft.
They were worse than that because they were plain truth, stated like a fact that could not be argued.
Ariella swallowed. “I… didnae flee.”
“Aye,” he said. “Ye walked.”
“And ye are truly offended by it?” she whispered, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
His jaw flexed. “I woke and reached for ye.”
Ariella froze.
Maxwell seemed to realize what he’d revealed. His gaze flicked away for a heartbeat, then returned hard, as if daring her to tease him.
Ariella’s chest tightened in a way she could not explain.
“Oh,” she breathed.
The air between them shifted. Thickened.
If they stayed in this corridor another moment, she was certain she would forget her own name.
So she turned sideways, forcing herself to step away. “I am on me way to the kitchens.”
Maxwell blinked once, as if her words had yanked him out of something dangerous. “The kitchens?”
“Aye,” she said brightly. Too brightly. “Care to join me?”
His brows drew together. “Why would I do that?”
“To spend time with yer wife,” she said, smiling. “Or to supervise. Or to glare at bread. I daenae mind which.”
“I daenae glare at bread.”
She lifted a brow. “Sure.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, as if he was deciding whether he could tolerate her teasing today.
Then he said, “Fine.”
Ariella blinked. “Fine?”
He exhaled sharply. “Aye. I will go. Because I want to ken what keeps stealing ye away to that hearth like a moth to flame.”
Ariella’s smile spread, delighted and disbelieving. “Very well, then. Come along.”
He followed her down the stairs, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking as if he expected a kitchen to challenge him to a duel.
When they pushed through the kitchen door, warmth rushed over Ariella like a blanket.