Chapter 17 #2
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I am finished in the kitchens.”
Moira gasped theatrically. “Oh nay. We’ll miss ye.”
Mairi called after him, “If ye return, bring honey cakes. The good ones.”
Maxwell glanced at Ariella. “Come.”
They left together, boots echoing in the corridor. The castle seemed brighter outside the kitchen, as if the hearth’s warmth had followed her into the halls.
At the stable yard, Maxwell’s horse was brought out, and Ariella’s mare was saddled beside it. The air smelled of hay and cold earth. Distantly, a hammer rang from the forge.
Ariella adjusted her gloves. “Market day truly happens every other week.”
“Aye,” Maxwell said, mounting. “It is a rare excursion beyond these walls. Folk come to trade, to talk, to see their laird and ken he is not a ghost.”
Ariella smiled faintly. “Are ye concerned they think ye are a ghost.”
Maxwell glanced down at her. “Are ye trying to bait me into being charming again?”
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “I am only asking.”
He huffed. “Market day matters. We show our faces. We hear what is whispered. We see who comes and who avoids our eyes. And ye,” he added, “will see more than stone corridors and councilmen.”
Her brows lifted. “Ye think I need that?”
“I think ye deserve it,” he said before he could stop himself.
Her breath caught. She looked away quickly, but he saw the way her mouth softened.
He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and she followed, riding beside him down the track that led toward the village. The land opened around them, cold hills and scattered trees, the wind carrying the faint scent of peat smoke.
Ariella’s eyes kept moving, taking in everything. A bird on a fence post. A child waving near a cottage. A dog running along the road like it owned it.
Maxwell found himself watching her reaction more than the road.
Joy in the smallest things.
It irritated him, how much he liked seeing it.
The village market was already alive when they arrived.
Stalls lined the open square. Cloth awnings fluttered.
Baskets of apples and root vegetables sat beside jars of honey.
The smell of fresh bread and smoked meat mixed with the sharp tang of pickled onions.
Children darted between carts, shrieking with laughter until a mother caught one by the collar.
Maxwell dismounted first, scanning the crowd out of habit. He noted faces he knew, men from the outer farms, women from the river cottages, two lads who should have been working but were pretending not to see him.
Ariella dismounted with less caution and more wonder.
“It is like a festival,” she murmured.
“It is trade,” Maxwell corrected, though he felt an odd satisfaction at her delight.
A vendor called out, “Fresh oatcakes. Hot off the stone.”
Another shouted, “Heather honey. Sweet as sin.”
Ariella’s eyes widened at the colors, the bustle, the noise. She moved toward a stall draped in bright cloth, fingers hovering over ribbons and pins. She stopped to watch a woman weighing flour. She leaned toward a basket of candied nuts like it might contain treasure.
Maxwell stayed close, silent and watchful, letting her drift while he tracked the edges of the crowd. If O’Douglas had eyes here, they would be subtle. A stranger watching too long. A familiar face asking the wrong questions.
Ariella paused at a honey stall. The vendor lifted a small spoon. “Taste, me lady. Wildflower honey. Good for the throat.”
Ariella tasted it and sighed. “Oh. That is lovely.”
Maxwell watched her mouth as she licked a bit of honey from her lip, then looked away sharply.
Next came a tart stall. Berry tarts cooling on a board, crusts golden and flaky. Ariella chose one and took a careful bite, eyes closing as if she were praying.
Maxwell felt heat curl in his stomach at her expression.
She turned, holding the tart out slightly. “Do ye want some.”
“Nay.”
Ariella lifted a brow. “Ye daenae eat sweets.”
“I eat what keeps a man alive.”
“That is a grim way to live,” she said, then took another bite in defiance.
They reached a stall with candied nuts and sugar twists. The vendor, a young man with a grin too big for his face, held up a stick coated in glossy sugar. “Try this, me lady.”
Ariella sniffed suspiciously. “It looks… sticky.”
“It is,” the vendor said proudly.
Ariella leaned back. “I daenae want it.”
Maxwell stared at her. “Ye just ate honey and berry tart.”
“That was refined,” she said, entirely serious.
And Maxwell felt the urge to laugh and hated it.
“Stubborn,” he murmured.
Ariella’s eyes snapped to his. “I am nae stubborn.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “Ye are.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. She glared playfully, like she wanted to bite him and kiss him in the same breath.
Maxwell’s pulse jumped.
Before he could think better of it, he reached out, took the sticky sweet from the vendor, and bit into it himself.
Ariella’s eyes widened in outrage. “Maxwell.”
He chewed slowly, never breaking her gaze. The sweet was cloying, stuck to his teeth, and he did not care.
Then he stepped closer.
Ariella stiffened. “What are ye doing?”
Maxwell leaned in and kissed her.
Not a hidden kiss in a corridor. Not a quiet one behind a door. This was in the middle of the market, with the scent of sugar on his mouth and the taste of it still on his tongue.
Ariella made a startled sound against his lips, then melted into it for half a heartbeat before reality snapped back.
The vendor whistled loud enough to draw a few heads.
Ariella jerked away, hand flying to her mouth, flustered and breathless. “Maxwell.”
He lifted a brow, entirely unbothered.
“How was it?” He asked, voice low.
Ariella’s eyes darted around, mortified. Then she looked up at him, cheeks blazing. “Decadent.”
Maxwell’s eyes darkened a fraction. “Aye?”
He wanted to say something else. Something that would make her blush harder. Something that would prove, to himself, that he could take what he wanted and still keep control of the terms.
Instead, he turned slightly, scanning the crowd again as if nothing had happened.
Ariella stood beside him, breathing too fast, smoothing her skirts, trying and failing to regain composure. He felt a grim satisfaction at that.
They bought honey cakes. They bought oat bannock. Maxwell paid without comment when Ariella’s eyes lingered on a small bundle of ribbons, and she pretended not to notice.
On the ride back, she was quieter. Still glowing, but quieter, as if the kiss had rearranged something in her thoughts.
Maxwell did not speak of it.
He did not need to.
When the keep came back into view, stone rising against the gray sky, Maxwell’s mind returned to practical things. Guards. Stores. O’Douglas. The healer who had been away in the market as well.
They dismounted in the yard.
The stable boy took their horses, and Maxwell turned toward the entrance.
Then Isla appeared at a sprint.
Her hair had come loose from its pins, cheeks wet, eyes wide with panic. She nearly slammed into Ariella.
“Me lady!” Isla gasped. “Me maither — It’s time! The pains started and they’re close and the healer is nae back yet.”
Ariella’s face sharpened instantly, all softness gone, replaced by calm competence. She grabbed Isla’s hand. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen,” Isla sobbed. “She told me to be brave, but she is trying to be brave and I cannae.”
Maxwell’s voice cut through the panic like a blade. “Finley!” he barked right as his man stepped out of the shadow into the entryway, curious at the commotion. “Fetch the healer. Now! Ride if ye must.”
Before Finley could even acknowledge him, Maxwell turned to the nearest guard. “Send for hot water. Clean cloths. Firewood. Move, man!”
Then he looked at Ariella.
Who was already moving, pulling Isla along, steady as stone.