Now there was nothing to speak to. No one to bind herself to.
“Perhaps he is ill,” her mother whispered, wringing her hands. “Perhaps his horse cast a shoe. Perhaps…”
Frederick cut her a sharp look. “Enough, Maither.”
A servant hurried through the side door, flushed and breathless. He went straight to Maxwell and spoke in a low voice. Ariella watched the laird’s expression as if her own life depended upon it.
It did not change. Not much. A slight narrowing of the eyes. A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Then he looked directly at her.
Her stomach dropped.
Maxwell moved to stand nearer the center of the hall. He did not raise his voice much, yet somehow it carried to every corner.
“Hunter Murdoch is nae within these walls,” he said. “Nor within these grounds.”
Silence dropped like a bomb.
Her mother made a faint, strangled sound. Frederick swore under his breath, barely audible, then checked himself and straightened.
“Do ye mean he has left?” Frederick asked, voice cool but strained.
“Aye,” Maxwell said. “His horse is gone. So is his gear. The guards saw nay sign of him after supper last night.”
Ariella’s cheeks went cold. The words she had heard in the solar rose in her mind.
If ye truly daenae wish to marry me, there are ways.
Her own flight across the yard. The way Maxwell had stepped from the shadows. The way he had looked past her, as if already expecting trouble.
He used me as cover.
The thought landed without heat, without even much surprise. Hunter had tossed his suggestion into the air like a jest, yet in truth it had been his own plan all along. Let the lass run, let everyone chase her, while he slipped away to whatever freedom he fancied.
A bitter little laugh rose in her chest and loosed like a wild arrow.
Around her, whispers swelled.
“He left.”
“Abandoned the wedding.”
“Shameful.”
“Poor lass.”
Her mother seized her hands. “He will come back,” she said wildly. “There must be some mistake. Men do foolish things, but he will come back.”
Frederick did not join in the hopeful scramble. His face was carved from stone. “If this is a jest, it is a poor one.”
“It is nay jest,” Maxwell replied.
Ariella glanced at him. His eyes were not calm, not truly. There was rage banked deep in them, a hot, steady thing that did not flare outward. It sat at the core of him, contained by iron will.
“Then what happens now?” Frederick’s voice dropped lower. “The clans are gathered. The priest stands ready. Me sister stands there, dressed for vows. The alliance.”
Ariella became aware, distantly, that she was breathing too fast. The veil clung to her lips with each inhale.
