Chapter 23 #2
Sometimes she ate in the kitchens, where the warmth of the hearth and the scent of bread softened the sharp edges of her thoughts.
“Sit,” Mairi would order, pointing to a stool. “If ye daenae sit, I’ll throw flour at ye.”
Ariella would sit, and Mairi would shove food into her hands as if feeding her could fix everything.
Sometimes she took her food to the small library tucked away from the noise and movement, where the world felt briefly manageable.
It was there she found the books.
They were old, bound in cracked leather, written in careful hands. The lineage of Clan McNeill. Names, dates, marriages, deaths. Battles fought and lost and won. Alliances forged and broken. Notes written in margins by people who had lived through decisions that shaped lives.
Her name was there now, the ink fresh.
She traced the letters once, fingertips lingering as if touch could make it real. Then she closed the book and opened another.
She learned the names of men long dead who had stood on the same walls she now walked. Of women who had married into the clan and left their own marks in quieter ways. Of lairds who had fallen in battle and those who had outlived their enemies by patience alone.
She found a passage about a laird who had married in wartime, his bride arriving like a peace treaty bound in silk. The margin beside the entry held a short note, very clearly written in a woman’s delicate script.
He never learned to look at her when his mind was on war.
Ariella’s throat tightened.
She wondered who updated the books.
And then she wondered if Maxwell knew she had found them.
Each day, she carved out time for it. Not out of duty, but out of something like longing. If she could not reach her husband, she would at least know the ground he stood on. If she could not be held by him, she would hold his history instead.
The Hendry family tried to fill the noticeable space he left as well.
Isla came often, sometimes with Ewan in tow, sometimes with news from the village.
“Old Tam says he saw O’Douglas scouts near the ford,” Ewan announced one afternoon, as if he were delivering news to a council.
Isla cuffed his shoulder. “Old Tam sees ghosts in puddles.”
“He does nae,” Ewan protested.
“He does, Ewan. Ye should stop breathing life into that old man’s nightmares,” Isla insisted. “Though, in this case, he might be right anyway. Have ye told anyone?”
Ariella tried to smile. “He’s just told me. Thank ye, Ewan.”
Ewan puffed up. “Aye.” Then turned and stuck his tongue out at his sister.
Callum stopped by the kitchens more frequently, checking on supplies, joking too loudly, as if sound itself were armor against fear.
“Moira,” he said one day, leaning on the counter. “If ye keep glaring at the flour like that, it’ll refuse to rise out of spite.”
Moira snorted. “If it refuses to rise out of spite, I’ll just toss it out and start a new loaf. One more pliant and obedient.”
Callum laughed, but his eyes kept flicking toward the door.
And Mairi.
Mairi was in the kitchens again as well with her baby wrapped around her tightly.
Ariella loved the child. She did.
But each time she held the small, warm weight, something twisted painfully inside her. She watched Mairi soothe him with a murmured word, watched Callum hover with the fierce devotion of a man who had nearly lost everything, and felt the ache settle deeper.
She wanted that, and she wanted it with Maxwell. Even though it would break the rules.
One afternoon, when the ache grew too sharp to ignore, she found herself lingering after the others had gone, helping Mairi fold linens she did not need folded. The baby slept in a basket near the hearth, tiny chest rising and falling.
“Ye’re quiet,” Mairi said at last, not unkind.
Ariella forced a smile. “Am I?”
“Aye,” Mairi replied gently. “Too quiet.”
Ariella smoothed a sheet, then smoothed it again, as if perfection could be found in fabric.
They worked in silence for a moment longer before Ariella spoke again, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“What if I cannae have children?”
Mairi’s hands stilled.
Ariella’s breath hitched and she pressed on quickly, as if speed could protect her from the vulnerability of it. “What if there is something wrong with me? What if I would nae ken how to care for one even if I could?”
Mairi turned then, eyes soft but steady. “Why would ye think that?”
“I daenae ken,” Ariella admitted. “I just… doubt.”
“That’s natural,” Mairi said. “Every woman doubts.”
Ariella gave a weak laugh. “Ye daenae seem to.”
Mairi snorted. “I have doubted every time. Even now.”
She adjusted the baby’s blanket with a practiced hand. “But there’s something that comes with it. A knowing. A pull. Women have it in them, whether they trust it or nae.”
“And if they daenae?” Ariella asked quietly.
“Then they learn,” Mairi said. “With love. With fear. With grace. With time.” She met Ariella’s gaze, then. “It’s divine, some say. I think it’s simpler than that. It’s just part of us.”
Ariella nodded, throat tight. “And what if me husband does nae want it?”
Mairi’s expression did not change, but her voice softened. “Every man wishes for a bairn… an heir to the lairdship. Does our laird say he does nae?”
Ariella swallowed. “He has set rules. That Hunter is his heir.”
Mairi’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in understanding. “Men set rules when they’re frightened. Hunter cannae be his heir… he doesnae want it. He would run from it… as he ran from yer marriage.”
Ariella’s hands clenched around the sheet. “The laird is nae frightened.”
Mairi gave a quiet huff. “Aye, and I am the queen of France.”
Ariella laughed despite herself, the sound breaking something loose.
Mairi’s gaze warmed. “Ye love him.”
Ariella went still.
“I didnae say that,” Ariella whispered.
“Ye didnae have to,” Mairi replied.
Ariella looked away, blinking hard. “It doesnae matter.”
“It matters,” Mairi said, firm. “Because love makes ye brave, and bravery makes ye do foolish things. Like waiting alone and pretending it doesnae hurt.”
Ariella’s throat tightened again. “I am fine.”
Mairi’s voice gentled. “Nay, ye’re nae. But ye will be.”
Ariella pressed her palm lightly against the table, steadying herself. “What if he dies?”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Mairi’s gaze softened. “Then we grieve. But we daenae borrow grief before it’s owed.”
Ariella swallowed. “I keep trying nae to.”
“Aye,” Mairi said softly. “And that’s why ye’re too quiet.”
Mairi barked at a few kitchen maids who were idly chattering just beyond the stores, and Ariella begged off to get ready for bed.
That night, Ariella dreamed of a child with dark hair and solemn eyes, small fingers clutching hers. In the dream, Maxwell stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, steady and warm.
She woke alone.
By the third week, the waiting had become its own kind of battle.
The keep hummed with readiness. Arrows were fletched and stacked. Horses were shod and restless. Men spoke more quietly now, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Maxwell grew more distant.
When he did speak to her, it was brief.
“Stay inside the keep,” he told her once, passing in the corridor.
“I always do,” she replied, bitterness slipping out before she could catch it.
His gaze flicked to her face, sharp. “Ariella.”
She lifted her chin. “Me laird?”
His jaw flexed. “Dae nae be stubborn.”
“Dae ne be absent,” she shot back, then immediately regretted it.
Maxwell’s eyes darkened. For a heartbeat, she thought he might say something real.
Instead he said, “I have work.” And walked away.
She told herself that she did not care and that she can get on without him, that she had gotten on without him all these years so far.
And yet each evening, she returned to the small library, tracing the names in the books, touching the place where hers sat beside his, wondering if the ink would someday be smudged by blood or grief or something worse.
The battle had not yet come.
But in the silence before it, Ariella felt as though she were already fighting one she did not know how to win.