And with it came an instinct that surprised her with its clarity.
To pull away.
To protect this secret until she could decide how to place it in his hands without it being crushed by his fear.
“Isla,” Ariella whispered, voice tight. “Help me back to me rooms.”
Isla nodded at once, face drawn with worry and something like fierce loyalty. “Aye, me lady.”
As Isla guided her toward the door, Ariella’s mind spun to Maxwell.
To the battle he had just won.
To the man who had protected everyone.
And to the truth that now grew quietly inside her, demanding a future whether he wanted it or not.
Maxwell should have felt only relief.
The field had been cleared. The wounded tended. The dead honored. The men had returned through the gates with their heads high, pride burning in their chests like a hearth-fire that no enemy could douse.
The keep was sound.
And still, something twisted in Maxwell’s chest as if the battle had only shifted fronts.
He noticed it first in the way Ariella moved.
Not the purposeful stride she had carried for weeks while he prepared. Not the quiet certainty she had shown in the kitchens and the halls.
This was different.
Her gaze did not meet his.
When he passed her in the corridor, she stepped aside too quickly, her shoulders angled away from him as if turning her body could turn away her thoughts.
He saw her once in the great hall, kneeling beside a wounded man, hands steady, voice calm. She looked like a woman born for command in crisis.
And yet when Maxwell entered, her head lifted for only a heartbeat, eyes flicking to him, then away again.
As if he were dangerous, and he knew he deserved it.
He had distanced himself until the space between them had become its own wall. He had told himself it was necessary, thathe could not afford distraction, that a laird’s duty came before comfort.
But now that the enemy had been beaten back, now that the shouting had faded into murmurs, the emptiness in his chambers felt louder than any battle horn.
He watched her from across the hall while men moved around them carrying water, cloth, bowls of broth. The air smelled of blood and herbs.
Finley came to stand beside Maxwell, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Ye keep staring like ye want to burn a hole through her.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “I am nae staring.”
Finley snorted. “Aye. And I am a priest.”
Maxwell did not answer.
Because Ariella had just turned, and Hunter was froze.
Hunter had his sword belt off, tunic stained, a shallow cut along his forearm that had been wrapped quickly. He looked worn out, but alive, and that alone was enough to loosen something in Maxwell’s chest.
