That O’Douglas was stirring.
She did not mention that she barely saw her husband anymore, and that every time he passed her in the corridor, she felt like she was watching him walk away from her all over again.
When the letter was finally done, she folded it with care and pressed the seal, then smoothed the page flat again as though she could smooth her life into place the same way.
She held the letter for a long moment before handing it to the runner.
“Ride swiftly. Deliver this to directly to Laird McIntosh,” she said.
The young man nodded. “Aye, me lady.”
As he left, Ariella stood alone in the solar again, staring at the empty space.
She told herself it was only the beginning of preparations. That she was being foolish. She told herself many things as the weeks went on.
The first week passed in a flurry of activity all that began before dawn.
Ariella woke every day to the sound of boots in the courtyard below, to shouted instructions carried on cold air, to the scrape of metal and the low rumble of wagons arriving at the gate. The keep did not roar. It hummed, steady and relentless.
By sunrise, men had filled the yard. For practice on some days, hauling sacks of grain into storage and rolling barrels of salted meat on other days, and lifting bundles of wood for arrow shafts as well.
The forge rang from dawn until nightfall. Hammer on iron. Hammer on iron. A rhythm that worked its way into Ariella’s bones.
The guards doubled, then tripled.
“Daenae stand there like a statue,” Moira snapped at one young lad in the kitchens. “If ye’ve got hands, use them.”
“I am using them,” the boy protested, shifting a sack of oats.
“Ye’re thinking too slow,” Moira replied. “Think quicker.”
The air of the keep tightened, drawn taut like a bowstring.
Maxwell moved through it all like a shadow given purpose.
Ariella saw him only in passing. On the stairs, when he brushed by without stopping. Across the courtyard, shouting quiet orders to the men. Once, briefly, at the high table before he rose again without touching his meal, leaving his trencher nearly full.
Isla, hovering beside Ariella that night, whispered, “He eats like a ghost.”
Ariella kept her gaze on her plate. “He eats?”
“Nae enough,” Isla muttered. “Nay one eats enough when war is coming.”
“He has always been like this?” Ariella assumed.
“Aye, and nay doubt all lairds are the same,” Isla said quietly.
She watched him go, his back rigid, his posture carrying the weight of every stone in the keep.
He did not come to her chamber.
The first night, she told herself he would.
He had been busy. He had been tense. He would come after his rounds, after his orders, after his mind settled.
She lay awake, listening for footsteps. None came.
The second night, she told herself the same.
