“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 ascheme. 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 couldsee 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.
