Chapter 3 #2
Caitlin’s fingers dug harder into Ariella’s arm, as if she could anchor her with sheer force. “We will find another way. There must be another way.”
“Maither, ye’re hurtin’ me,” Ariella whispered. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, far away.
Maxwell’s eyes dropped briefly to where Caitlin held her. Something shifted in his expression.
“Lady McIntosh,” he said, his voice edged with steel that had nothing to do with war. “Let go of yer daughter.”
Caitlin, however, did not move. “She is me child.”
“She is a grown woman,” Maxwell countered. “Ye willnae shake her about like a rag in front of both our clans.”
The hall went very still.
Frederick flushed a dark, furious red. He bowed his head, just a little. “Aye, all is well,” he said stiffly. “The day has been… difficult. Maither. Daenae ye think ye are being too emotional about this? We were ready to wed the Murdoch braither after all.”
Caitlin sucked in a breath. For a heartbeat, Ariella thought she would argue, throw his words back, and tear the hall apart with maternal fury.
But then her shoulders sagged. She released Ariella’s arm, fingers trailing down her sleeve as if loath to let her go.
“It is just nae the plan, Frederick. She is me little girl.”
Ariella’s skin tingled where her mother had frantically gripped her, and the commotion started to overwhelm her senses.
She swayed.
Maxwell looked at Frederick. “I would speak with yer sister alone.”
All eyes swiveled to Ariella again. She wanted to protest, to cling to her brother and mother, but the words would not come. Everything felt hazy, as if she were walking through the remnants of a fever.
Frederick hesitated only a moment. This was laird to laird now, responsibility passing between them like a weight.
He inclined his head. “Very well. There is a small alcove off the hall. Ye may have privacy there.”
Maxwell turned to her. “Lady Ariella.”
She could not read his expression. Only his eyes, steady and intent.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She followed him, her skirts whispering, her veil trailing. The crowd parted for them, a living corridor of breath and doubt. The murmurs rose again the instant their backs were turned, as if the hall itself exhaled.
Hazy confusion wrapped itself tighter about her. She was aware of the stone beneath her feet, of the weight of silk on her shoulders, of the distant sound of someone laughing in disbelief. Her heart beat somewhere far away, as if in someone else’s chest.
It struck her then that she had come to this same alcove as a child to hide from duties, to steal a moment of quiet. Now she stood here with a man who had just calmly announced that he would take her as his wife.
“It is quieter here,” Maxwell noted.
His voice sounded very near. She had not realized how close he had moved.
She stared at the tapestry beside her, the faded image of some long-dead warrior whose face had worn away with time. Her hands had begun to tremble.
“Ariella.”
He spoke her name with a rough gentleness that tugged her gaze upward before she could resist.
He reached out and tipped her chin up with two fingers. The touch was firm but not unkind. “Look at me.”
She did. His green eyes filled her world.
“They are loud out there,” he began. “Opinions. Fears. None of that matters right now. Only this. Do ye remember what we spoke of last night?”
Her throat worked. The words were there, somewhere beneath the fog. “About O’Douglas.”
“Aye. About yer clan. About mine. About why this match was made in the first place.”
“For our clans,” she whispered.
The corners of his mouth softened, not quite a smile. “For our clans,” he agreed. “That hasnae changed. Hunter has shown his true nature. The threat from O’Douglas hasnae grown smaller because me braither lacks a spine. The shield we spoke of still needs to be raised.”
“And that shield is me.” The words came out hollow.
“Aye,” he said. “And me. Together, we are the shield.”
Something in his tone steadied her more than the words themselves.
He was not coaxing her with pretty speeches. He was not pretending this was romance or fate or any nonsense from the songs. He spoke as he would speak to one of his captains, or so she imagined. Offering a place beside him, not beneath him.
Her head cleared a little.
“Ye willnae run again,” he said, half question, half certainty.
She thought of the dark road, the cold wind, her own fear. She thought of the way the clan had looked at her this morning, hopeful and expectant, placing more on her shoulders than jewels and silk.
She thought of her brother, weary and proud, finally admitting that he needed help. She thought of her mother’s hands, wringing and wringing, desperate to keep her safe in a world where safety was a luxury.
“I willnae run,” she declared. Her voice still shook, but the words were clear. “If this is what keeps me clan safe, I will do me duty as I was ready to do today with yer braither.”
His fingers tightened the smallest fraction on her chin, as if acknowledging the weight of what she gave. His eyes darkened.
“Good lass,” he murmured.
The quiet praise slid over her skin like a touch. A shiver ran down her spine, unexpected and swift.
He seemed to sense it. His hand fell away from her chin, leaving her skin oddly cold.
“Are ye certain?” he asked. “I willnae have ye say later that ye were forced.”
“Ye said yerself,” she replied, surprised to feel her usual sharpness surfacing. “There is nay time for niceties. The clans are waiting. The priest is waiting. O’Douglas is waiting. I may as well decide one thing for meself and walk toward it, instead of letting it drag me.”
His gaze held hers a moment longer. Something akin to respect or approval flickered there. Then he inclined his head. “Very well, let us give them their shield.”
They stepped back into the hall together, and the noise swelled as the crowd saw them side by side. Ariella felt their stares.
She took her place before the priest. Maxwell stood to her right, close enough that his sleeve brushed the back of her hand.
The priest fumbled with his book for a moment, then found his place with visible relief.
The words washed over her.
“Do ye take…? Do ye swear…? In sickness and in health… For clan and for kin… For hearth and for land.”
She answered when prompted. Her own voice sounded like it came from somewhere else, steady and clear, as if another woman was speaking through her.
Maxwell’s responses were quieter, but they rang in her bones. When he vowed to protect, she believed him. When he pledged his name, she felt the weight of it settle over both of them.
A ring, simple and heavy, slid onto her finger. His hand was warm when it held hers. The warmth seeped into her palm, into her veins, calmer than the storm that had raged only moments ago.
At last, the priest lifted his hands over their joined ones, his voice growing strong and formal in the ancient cadence.
“Before God and clan, before stone and sky, I seal this bond,” he declared. He looked from Maxwell to Ariella and back again. “Ye stand now as one. Laird and Lady of Clan McNeill in truth.”
The hall erupted in cheers, murmurs, and the scrape of benches. Someone began to weep. Someone else laughed in disbelief.
Ariella heard none of it. The words echoed in her head.
Lady of Clan McNeill.
Her life had tilted on its axis with a few quiet sentences and one soft, devastating “Good lass.”
There was no going back now. No road behind her. Only the path ahead, beside a man she barely knew, toward a future that might hold safety, or sorrow, or both.
The priest released their hands.
Maxwell did not.
He looked down at her, his green eyes shadowed, his face unreadable to anyone who did not stand as close as she did.
“Welcome to McNeill, Ariella,” he said quietly.
Her heart gave a single, hard thud.
For better or worse, she had just become his.