Maxwell’s gaze flicked to Ariella’s hands. They were clasped before her, fingers interlaced as if she was holding herself together. He had seen her hands steady over blood and wounds. He had seen them calm a crying child. He had seen them on his chest, trembling with want.
Now they were white at the knuckles.
“Ye’re unwell,” he said before he could stop it.
Ariella’s chin lifted a fraction. “I am fine.”
The same lie she had thrown back at him after weeks of him using it.
Maxwell’s jaw flexed. “Ariella.”
Her eyes flickered. A small movement of defiance. “I will nae discuss it.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ye should nae ride if ye are unwell.”
Ariella’s lashes lowered. “I have ridden while ill before. I will manage.”
He could hear the strain beneath her words. The determined attempt to sound strong when she was not.
Isla’s eyes darted between them, worried.
“Ariella,” Maxwell said again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
For a heartbeat, she did.
Something passed between them.
And then her face changed.
It happened so quickly Maxwell did not understand it at first. Her eyes unfocused slightly, her lips parting as if to speak but no sound coming. Her hand lifted toward the doorframe as if she meant to steady herself.
“Ariella,” Isla said sharply, stepping forward.
Ariella swayed.
Maxwell moved at the same instant, reaching for her, but she was already sinking, knees giving way as though her body had simply decided it could no longer hold her upright.
“Ariella!” Maxwell caught her before she hit the floor, her weight sudden in his arms, frighteningly limp.
Her head fell against his shoulder.
Her skin was cold.
No. Not cold. Damp. Clammy.
“Get the healer,” Maxwell barked, voice cracking through the hall like a whip.
Someone ran.
Isla dropped to her knees beside them, face white. “Me lady. Ariella, can ye hear me?”
Ariella’s lashes fluttered once.
Then her eyes rolled back.
She went slack.
Panic erupted like a spark to tinder.
