For our clans.
The hall was still roaring when Maxwell moved. One step, two, and he stood closer, the storm of voices parting around him.
He did not shout for silence.
He did not need to.
He simply waited.
And somehow, through some current of fear and respect that had nothing to do with raised voices, the hall quieted around him.
The quiet rang louder than the uproar had.
Caitlin’s grip on Ariella’s arm tightened until it hurt. “Ye can nae. See some sense child,” her mother said wildly, voice low but urgent. “Nae him. Nae like this. Ariella, tell him. Tell them ye will nae have it.”
“Maither,” Ariella tried, but her tongue felt thick. The hall blurred. The priest’s face, the watching clansmen, the flicker of candlelight, all seemed to tilt and smear, as if they belonged to a dream she could not quite wake from.
Frederick found his voice again. “Laird McNeill,” he began, attempting a tone of reason. “This is nay small thing. To wed a lass who was promised to yer braither, and with nay time to consider…”
“There is nay time,” Maxwell said. His voice was calm, cold as winter water. “Every hour we delay gives O’Douglas more room to poke at our borders. He watches us. He will hear of this day. I daenae intend to give him the pleasure of an unstable alliance.”
Her mother turned on him, eyes bright with unshed tears. “And what of me daughter. Ye speak of alliances and borders and menwith swords. What of the lass who must live beside ye. Do ye think of her at all?”
Maxwell’s gaze did not waver. “I am thinking of the life she will have if O’Douglas rides through these gates. Even if they ride through me own first, yers will certainly be next.”
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, yer 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, a fraction.
“Lady McIntosh,” he said, and now there was iron in his tone that had nothing to do with battlefields. “Let go of yer daughter.”
Her mother, however, did not move. “She is me child.”
“She is a grown woman,” Maxwell replied. “Ye will nae 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… charged. Maither.”
Her mother sucked in a breath. For a heartbeat Ariella thought she would argue, would throw his words back and tear the hall apart with maternal fury. Then her shoulders sagged. She released Ariella’s arm, fingers trailing down her sleeve as if loath to let her go.
Ariella’s skin tingled where both grips had been. Her mother’s frantic, clutching hold. Maxwell’s hold from the night before, fingers firm beneath her chin as he turned her face toward his.
She swayed.
Maxwell looked at Frederick. “I would speak with her alone.”
All eyes swung to Ariella again. She wanted to protest, to cling to her brother and mother, but the words would not shape. Everything felt hazy, as if she were walking through the remains 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, skirts whispering, veil trailing. The crowd parted around them, a living corridor of breath and doubt. The murmur rose again the instant their backs were turned, as if the hall itself exhaled.
