Chapter 21
“Read it again, Max,” Finley said. “Slowly.”
Maxwell did not look up. He held the letter so tightly the parchment bowed between his fists.
“I have read it twice already,” Maxwell replied.
Finley stood on the far side of the table, hands braced on the wood, expression drawn.
The study smelled of ink, leather, and the faint smoke that lived in the stone no matter how many fires were banked.
Outside, the keep moved with its usual rhythm.
Footsteps. Voices. A distant hammer at the forge.
Inside this room, time had narrowed to one thing.
The missive.
Finley spoke again, quieter. “Then read it aloud.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Because ye are about to tear it in half,” Finley said. “And if ye do, ye’ll pretend it was only anger. But it isnae only anger. Say the words out loud and admit what it is.”
Maxwell’s gaze flicked up, sharp. “Daenae presume to tell me what I feel.”
Finley held his stare, unflinching. “I’ve watched ye since we were lads. Ye feel plenty. Ye just prefer nay one sees it.”
Maxwell’s hands clenched again. His knuckles whitened. The ink on the letter blurred slightly as if the words were shifting just to mock him.
He inhaled once through his nose, controlled, then forced the parchment flat against the table and read.
“Laird,” Maxwell said, voice hard. “Borders are tightening. O’Douglas men are gathering in greater number along the eastern ridge and at the ford. They are nae hunting. They are nae trading. They are watching.”
Finley’s expression did not change, but his shoulders tensed.
Maxwell continued, every word scraped raw from his mouth. “I’ve joined the bordermen to help keep the perimeter secured. We will need more men, and quickly. There are whispers of a scheme. Their wagons are heavier than they ought to be. Too many horses. Too many blades.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed as he read the next line.
“Daenae underestimate Lyall,” he read, and his voice pitched lower. “He was never here for peace. If he strikes, he will strike hard. Prepare. Or we will bleed.”
Maxwell stopped.
The final line was the sort of thing only his brother would write. Reckless. Bitter. Like a man who wanted to pretend he did not care while writing a letter that proved the opposite.
“Tell me braither,” Maxwell read, jaw flexing, “that I am nae returning to be leashed. If ye mean to force me home, ye’ll have to drag me.”
Silence filled the study.
Finley exhaled slowly. “He’s scared.”
“He is foolish,” Maxwell snapped.
“He’s both,” Finley replied.
Maxwell’s fingers curled again around the parchment. He hated the way the letter made his chest feel tight. Hated that he could see Hunter’s face in the words. The way his brother would lift his chin, daring anyone to call him afraid. The way fear lived beneath that bravado like an ember.
Maxwell stared at the seal at the bottom. A smudge of wax. A hurried hand.
Hunter was on the border.
Hunter was standing between O’Douglas and McNeill land.
And Hunter was the closest thing Maxwell had to an heir.
If anything happened to him, there would be no fixing it. No undoing it. No waking up to find it had been a dream.
Maxwell would have failed again.
Finley’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Ye need to send riders.”
“I ken,” Maxwell said sharply.
Finley watched him. “Ye need to send them now.”
Maxwell swallowed. His control was slipping at the edges. He could feel it. Like a blade sliding in a sheath that had grown too tight.
“Ye think I daenae ken that?” Maxwell said, and his voice was harsher than he intended.
Finley’s gaze softened. “I think ye ken. I think ye’re trying nae to feel it. Which I think is foolish.”
Maxwell slammed his palm on the table.
The sound cracked through the room. Ink trembled in its pot. Finley did not flinch.
“I will nae have him die,” Maxwell said, voice low and dangerous. “Nae out there. Nae because he cannot keep his pride from putting himself in harm’s way.”
Finley nodded once. “Then we move.”
Maxwell stood abruptly, pacing to the hearth, then back again, as if motion could burn the fury out of his blood.
“He should nae be there,” Maxwell growled.
Finley followed him with his eyes. “He’s there because he thinks it’s where he’s meant to be.”
“He is meant to be here,” Maxwell snapped. “Alive.”
Finley’s mouth tightened. “And if ye order him home, he’ll run harder toward danger just to prove he’s nae yers to command.”
Maxwell stopped pacing and glared. “He is me braither.”
Finley held his gaze. “And that is exactly why this frightens ye.”
Maxwell’s hands clenched again. He could still feel the texture of the letter under his fingers. The pressure of the words. The urgency. The warning.
He forced his mind toward strategy because it was the only thing that made him feel like he could shape the world again.
“How many men can we muster without emptying the keep?” Maxwell asked, voice clipped.
Finley leaned over the table and began naming groups. “Two dozen from the inner farms. Another dozen from the river cottages. Callum could spare men from the forge villages if we pay them in coin and nae promises.”
Maxwell nodded, mind already calculating.
“We reinforce the east ridge first,” Maxwell said. “Then the ford.”
Finley nodded. “And send scouts into O’Douglas territory.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Aye.”
Finley hesitated. “And what about yer wife?”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “What about her.”
Finley’s tone was careful. “She will notice the shift in the keep. The guards doubling. The men leaving.”
Maxwell looked away. “She does nae need to ken every detail.”
Finley’s gaze sharpened. “Aye, but she asked to be treated as an equal.”
Maxwell’s pulse thudded once, hard.
He remembered Ariella’s face as she held the newborn. The steadiness in her hands. The warmth in her eyes. The way she looked like she belonged in a world Maxwell had promised himself he would never offer her.
If danger came, it would come for her too.
He could not afford softness now.
“I will handle it,” Maxwell said.
Finley’s mouth tightened. “That sounds like what ye say when ye plan to do everything alone.”
Maxwell’s gaze snapped back. “Do ye think I can afford to do otherwise?”
Finley’s voice lowered. “Ye are nae alone anymore.”
Maxwell’s throat tightened.
He turned back to the table, flattening the letter with the heel of his hand like he could crush the problem into obedience.
“Summon Torcall,” Maxwell ordered. “Have him ready a dozen riders within the hour. Have them carry word to Hunter that reinforcements are coming, and he is to hold position, nae seek glory.”
Finley nodded, already moving toward the door.
“And Finley,” Maxwell said sharply.
Finley paused.
Maxwell’s voice came out rougher than he liked. “If anything happens to him…”
Finley’s gaze softened. “It willnae.”
Maxwell shook his head once, a harsh motion. “Ye daenae ken that.”
Finley came back to the table and placed a steady hand on the wood, grounding the moment.
“I ken this,” Finley said. “Ye willnae let it happen without a fight. And Hunter is stubborn enough to survive out of spite.”
Maxwell huffed a humorless breath. “That is true.”
Finley left.
Maxwell stood alone in the study, staring at the letter until the words blurred.
A surge of fury rose again, but underneath it was something colder.
Fear.
Not for land.
Not for reputation.
For blood.
For the one person left who could carry the McNeill name if Maxwell fell, or if Maxwell chose to keep his rules.
Hunter was placing himself at risk.
And Maxwell, for the first time in days, felt his composure fracture at the edges.
He folded the letter carefully, as if gentleness with paper could soften the truth.
Then he strode from the study and into the corridor, already barking orders as the keep began to shift around him, the calm of yesterday giving way to the familiar tightening of war.
She had to have gotten a letter from her maither by now…
“It’s from me maither,” Ariella said, smiling to herself as Isla set the tray beside her chair.
Isla leaned over Ariella’s shoulder, eyes curious. “Does she scold ye?”
“Always,” Ariella replied fondly.
Isla grinned. “Good. Maithers should. Keeps ye sharp.”
Ariella unfolded the letter carefully. The wax seal bore her family’s mark, pressed cleanly. The parchment smelled faintly of lavender, as if her mother had tucked it near dried herbs before sending it.
Ariella scanned the first lines.
My dearest Ariella,
I pray this letter finds you well and settled in your new home, and that you are keeping warm with the first bite of winter.
Your last letter eased my mind more than you know.
I confess, I feared you would be unhappy, and though I would never say such a thing aloud to your brother, I have been watching the days with too much worry…
Ariella’s throat tightened briefly. Her mother’s love was often hidden beneath sharpness, but it was there.
She continued reading.
We have received word that Frederick has begun making plans should O’Douglas become bold once and for all.
He has met with the men of our outer farms and has spoken with allies who still owe us favors.
He will not be caught unprepared. He says he will not lose another inch of McIntosh land to the greed of a man who already has too much…
Ariella exhaled slowly. Frederick, ever dutiful. Ever protective.
She read on, her mother mentioning small household matters, a new seamstress in the village, a neighbor’s cow that had wandered into the orchard, and then a pointed line about Ariella eating properly and not letting Highlanders starve her on pride.
Ariella smiled softly.
A knock came at the door.
Before Isla could answer, the door opened.
Maxwell entered.
Ariella looked up, surprised by the intrusion. “Maxwell?”
His gaze swept the room quickly, sharp as if he expected to find a threat hidden in her curtains. “Leave us,” he demanded, and Isla bowed before sprinting out the door, closing it on her way out.
Ariella watched, miffed, as her husband’s eyes landed on the letter in her hands.
“Yer maither wrote ye,” he said, less of a question and more of an impatient statement.
She blinked. Oddly comforted that he knew without asking. That he recognized the seal, the rhythm of her receiving it. As if he had noticed enough to know the shape of her life that had grown around his.
She lifted a brow. “Perhaps it’s nae from me maither.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Ariella.”
She tried to smile. “It could be Skylar. Or Frederick. Or some other secret admirer.”
His expression did not budge.
Then she saw it.
The tension in his jaw. The tightness around his eyes. It was as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and was trying not to let the burn show.
The tension between them stretched thin.
Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed.
Neither of them moved. “What has happened?” she asked softly.
“Nothin’,” he said too quickly.
Ariella’s heart sank a fraction. “Maxwell.”
His gaze flicked away, then back. “What does yer maither say?”
Ariella studied him. “Why do ye want to ken?”
“Because, Ariella,” he said, voice controlled, “I have just asked ye.”
That was not an answer.
She rose slowly, letter still in hand. “Ye are worried.”
“I am nae,” he said, and it was almost convincing until she saw his hands. One of them was clenched, fingers flexing until the knuckles were white.
Ariella stepped closer. “What is this about? Have I angered ye?”
Maxwell’s eyes sharpened. His silence neither confirmed or denied it.
She held up her letter slightly. “This is from me maither. She speaks of the keep and me braither being busy —”
Maxwell’s gaze snapped from hers down to the parchment at that. “May I?”
Ariella hesitated only a heartbeat, then handed it over.
Maxwell took it and read quickly, eyes moving with ruthless efficiency. He looked like a man scanning a battlefield, not reading a mother’s careful words.
When he finished, he handed it back.
“I am glad yer maither is well,” he said. “And yer braither has been busy. We shall see soon enough the caliber of his plans.”
Ariella’s brows lifted. “That is all ye have to say?”
“It is sufficient enough,” Maxwell replied.
Ariella felt a flare of annoyance, sharp and familiar. “What are ye nae telling me?”
Maxwell’s gaze went cold. “Daenae leap at shadows.”
Ariella’s pulse kicked. “I am nae leaping. I am observing me husband.”
He stared at her.
For a moment, she thought he might tell her. Might admit what sat heavy behind his eyes. Might treat her as an equal the way he had agreed.
Instead, he said, “Should ye write back to her…”
Ariella blinked, thrown by the change. “Should I?”
“Ye asked if there is anything to relay to Frederick,” Maxwell said, voice clipped, as if he were reading from a script.
Ariella searched his face. “Did I?”
“Nay,” he said. “It is all in hand.”
Ariella’s frustration rose. “Maxwell.”
His gaze sharpened. “Daenae press me.”
A chill slid down her spine. Not fear of him, but fear of what he was holding back.
“Ye barged into me chamber and dismissed me maid,” Ariella said, keeping her voice controlled, “to ask about me maither’s letter. Ye are clearly worried. And now ye are leaving without explaining anything.”
Maxwell’s jaw flexed. “Sorry to bother ye, lass.”
He turned toward the door.
Ariella took a step after him before she could stop herself. “Ye are nae a bother. Ye are never a bother.”
Maxwell paused.
Ariella’s voice softened despite herself. “Ye are me husband.”
He stood with his back to her, shoulders rigid.
For a heartbeat, Ariella thought he might turn. Might let something show.
Instead, he opened the door.
“I have work,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Ariella stood in the middle of her chamber, letter still in her hand, feeling as if she had been left mid-step on a stair that suddenly vanished beneath her.
Isla slid back into the room as the door clicked shut and stood near the wall, eyes wide. “Me lady.”
Ariella exhaled slowly. “He is frightened.”
Isla swallowed. “Of what?”
Ariella stared at the door, her heart tightening. “I daenae ken.”
She looked down at her mother’s letter again, the words blurring as a new worry settled in her bones.
Whatever storm was coming, it was already inside the keep. And Maxwell, for all his strength, was trying to hold it back alone.