Chapter 16 #2
The hearth blazed. Pots simmered. The air smelled of yeast and broth and roasted oats. A dog lay near the fire with its nose on its paws, tail thumping lazily. Isla was already there, hands busy.
Mairi turned at the sound of the door, and went as still as stone.
Her gaze locked on the Laird.
“Sweet mercy,” Mairi breathed. “Have we offended the laird? Has he come to punish us with his presence? Are we bein’ let go, then?”
Maxwell’s scowl returned. “I am capable of walking into a kitchen without any purpose whatsoever than to see this part of me keep.”
“Aye,” a sharp voice called from the far table, “and I am capable of juggling knives. Neither of us should be encouraged to do so unless absolutely necessary. And I see nay necessity here, me laird.”
Ariella turned and found Moira.
Hair pinned tight, arms dusted in flour, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She looked Maxwell up and down with the unflinching judgment of a woman who had survived too many winters to be impressed by a laird.
Moira sniffed. “He looks lost.”
“I am nae lost,” Maxwell said.
Moira nodded solemnly. “That’s what lost men say.”
Isla choked on a laugh.
Ariella bit her lip, delighted.
Mairi thrust a loaf into Maxwell’s hands before he could retreat. “If ye’re here, then ye can work.”
Maxwell stared at the bread as if it had personally insulted him.
Moira slid a serrated knife across the table. “Go on then, me Laird. Show us how ye conquer the body of Christ.”
Maxwell picked up the knife, pointing the tip at the loaf. “This has been blessed?”
Moira bit her bottom lip, as did Ariella. It was Mairi who laughed out loud first. “It’s just a saying, me laird. Nothin’ has been blessed.”
With the easy grip of a warrior he pressed the point into the crust, willing it to yield as easy as he was used to target yielding at knifepoint. And that was his first mistake.
His first cut was too forceful. Impatient. The blade chipped through the crust clumsily and then sank deep and tore, crushing the bread instead of slicing clean.
Ariella gasped in mock horror. “Maxwell!”
Moira made a sound like a cough that might have been laughter. “Saints preserve us. He’s killed it.”
“It’s bread,” Maxwell said flatly.
“And ye’ve murdered it,” Moira replied.
Maxwell glanced at Ariella as if to say, This is what ye dragged me into?
Ariella’s eyes sparkled. “Try again.”
He grumbled and adjusted his grip.
The next slice was thin. The one after that was thick as a brick.
Moira leaned in. “That’s it. Easy does it.”
“I can carve a man in two,” Maxwell muttered.
Moira nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, and it shows. Ye’re slicing bread like it wronged ye in battle.”
Ariella laughed, bright and unrestrained, and the sound seemed to loosen something in the room.
Even Maxwell’s shoulders eased just a fraction.
He glanced at Moira and said, “If I slice it well enough, will ye stop yer yammerin’?”
Moira’s eyes widened, then she barked a laugh. “Oh! The laird has teeth after all.”
“I’ve always had teeth, Moira,” Maxwell said. “I merely save them for worthy opponents.”
Moira slapped the table. “Worthy opponent. Aye. Such as a loaf of bread.”
Ariella laughed so hard her eyes watered.
And Maxwell, after a moment of stubborn resistance, laughed too. It was a deep, unguarded sound that made Ariella forget how to breathe.
Then the world snapped back into motion.
A loud cry pierced the room, shrouding the space in ice cold fear.
Ewan went sprawling over a stray basket, scraping his knee on the stone, wailing as if he’d been struck by an arrow.
“Ewan!” Ariella said at once, already moving. “Let me see.”
The boy sat on the floor, face crumpled, clutching his knee with both hands.
“It hurts,” he sobbed.
“I ken,” Ariella murmured, kneeling beside him. She gently pried his hands away. “But we’ll fix it. Look at me.”
Ewan sniffed hard and looked up, tears clinging to his lashes.
“That’s it,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
She took his leg carefully, lifting it just enough to see the scrape. The skin was angry red, dotted with grit. Nothing serious, but it stung fiercely and Ewan was young enough for pain to feel like disaster.
Ariella reached for a cloth and a small bowl of warm water.
Moira moved to help, already muttering, “Lads. Always falling. They’re built like sheep.”
Ariella smiled faintly and began cleaning the wound in slow, gentle strokes.
Ewan hissed. “Ow! Ow!”
“I ken,” she said again, voice steady. “It will sting for a moment. Count with me. One… two… three…”
His breathing steadied as he followed her count.
Ariella’s hands did not shake. Her expression stayed calm. She spoke to him while she worked, not with empty reassurance but with the certainty of someone who had done this before.
“Ye ken,” she said conversationally, “I used to get patched up every time I climbed a tree I had nay business climbing. Always scraping me knees and hands.”
Ewan’s sniffle paused. “Ye climbed trees?”
“Constantly,” Ariella confessed. “I thought I was fearless. Skylar thought I was foolish.”
Moira snorted. “Sounds about right.”
Ariella kept cleaning, then dabbed the scrape with a simple herb-infused salve. “She taught me what plants help the skin heal. How to clean a wound so it doesnae fester. And, most importantly, how to keep someone from panicking.”
Ewan’s eyes widened. “Is Skylar yer sister.”
“Nay,” Ariella said, smiling. “Me cousin. But she felt like one. She still does.”
“Where is she now,” Ewan asked, voice smaller.
Ariella’s smile softened. “She is Lady Crawford now. She lives at Crawford Castle. And she is the healer of the keep.”
Moira glanced over sharply. “Lady Crawford. The one folk say can stitch a man’s flesh like cloth?”
Ariella laughed. “Aye, that’s her.”
Ewan looked impressed. “Does she have a sword?”
“Nay,” Ariella said, amused, “but I think she could frighten a man with a stare if she wished.”
From behind them, Maxwell’s voice rumbled, unexpectedly close. “Oh aye, she can.”
Ariella looked up.
Maxwell stood near the table, hands loosely at his sides now, watching her with an intent stillness. The kitchen noise seemed to dim around him, as if everyone had instinctively stepped back to give the laird space.
“Ye’ve met Skylar?” Ariella said, surprised.
He nodded once. “Aye, I’ve met yer Lady Crawford.”
Ariella blinked. “When?”
“At Crawford Castle,” he said. “Zander invited me to their wedding.”
Her brow furrowed, mind racing backward through memory. Crawford Castle had been full that day. Music, guests, laughter, the noise of celebration. She remembered Skylar radiant and fierce, Zander looking at her as if he could barely breathe.
But Maxwell?
“I daenae recall seeing ye,” Ariella admitted.
His gaze held hers, steady and dark.
Then, slowly, a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth.
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “Why are ye smiling?”
He said nothing for a heartbeat, and somehow that silence felt like an answer.
The smirk faded as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual restraint. “Ye wouldnae have noticed me,” he said simply.
Ariella’s heart gave a strange little kick. “Why nae?”
Maxwell’s eyes flicked to the side, toward Ewan, toward the busy kitchen, toward the world. “Because ye were looking at her,” he said, voice low. “As family does.”
Ariella didn’t know what to say to that.
It sounded like admiration.
It sounded like longing.
It sounded like a man who watched love from the edges.
She finished tying the cloth around Ewan’s knee, keeping her hands steady even as her chest tightened.
“There,” she said, brightening her voice. “Stand up. Slowly.”
Ewan rose, wobbling, then grinned. “It already feels better.”
Ariella tapped his nose gently. “Of course it does. Ye survived.”
He giggled and limped off, already bragging.
Only then did Ariella become aware again of Maxwell’s gaze.
“Ye didnae hesitate,” he said quietly.
“He needed help,” she replied.
“Aye,” he said. “And ye kent exactly what to do.”
Ariella rose to her feet, brushing flour from her skirt. “Skylar taught me well.”
Maxwell nodded once more, as if filing that away.
Then his posture shifted, the laird returning. “There is a market day in the village today. We should attend.”
Ariella stared at him. “We should?”
“Aye.”
“Ye,” she said, unable to hide her disbelief, “wish to go to the market? With me?”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Why does everyone, including me own wife, speak as if I am proposing to walk on me hands with me kilt over me face, bare to the world?”
“Because,” Ariella said, smiling, “ye daenae strike me as a man who enjoys stalls and gossip and —”
“Bread,” Moira muttered loudly from behind them. “He cannae conquer bread but he’ll conquer a market.”
Maxwell shot her a look. Moira grinned back, entirely unafraid.
Ariella tried not to laugh and failed.
Maxwell exhaled through his nose, then said, “It is expected. And it is useful. Folk talk at markets. We listen.”
Ariella’s brows lifted. “So it’s politics.”
“It is always politics,” he said.
“And yet ye said we should go,” Ariella pressed, “nae that we must go.”
Maxwell’s gaze flicked briefly to her mouth again, then away. “Aye.”
Ariella’s stomach fluttered.
He added, almost grudgingly, “They sell sweets.”
Ariella’s eyes widened. “Sweets?”
“Candied apples,” he said, as if it pained him to admit it. “Honey cakes. Spiced buns.”
Ariella’s agreement came far too quickly. “Aye. We should absolutely go.”
Maxwell’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile.
Moira called after them, “If ye bring back honey cakes, I might forgive ye for killing me loaf, me Laird.”
Maxwell didn’t look back. “Bring better bread and I might forgive ye for chiding me.”
Moira cackled.
Ariella walked beside Maxwell as they left the kitchen, warmth blooming in her chest.
He was opening doors, albeit small ones, and she stepped through them eagerly.