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.
22
“Stop.”
The word came out rough, scraped from his throat, and still his feet would not obey it.
Maxwell crossed the length of his chamber again, boots striking stone too hard, too fast. The fire had burned low, the shadows long and restless, and the decanter on the table was lighter than it had any right to be. He did not remember pouring the last glass. He only knew it was in his hand, hanging uselessly from his fingers, amber liquid trembling inside.
The letter lay unfolded on the table where he had left it. Hunter’s hand. Hunter’s recklessness. Hunter’s life balanced on the edge of a blade that Maxwell could not reach fast enough.
