The noise swelled, then faltered as the crowd saw them side by side. Ariella felt their stares like a physical thing. Some pitying. Some curious. Some calculating.
She took her place before the priest. Maxwell stood at her right, close enough that his sleeve brushed the back of her hand. Thepriest fumbled with his book for a moment, then found his place with visible relief.
The words washed over her.
“Do ye take. Do ye swear. In sickness and in health. For clan and for kin. For hearth and for land.”
She answered when prompted. Her own voice sounded like it came from somewhere else, steady and clear, as if another woman spoke through her.
Maxwell’s responses were quieter, but they rang in her bones. When he vowed to protect, she believed him. When he pledged his name, she felt the weight of it settle over both of them.
A ring, simple and heavy, slid onto her finger. His hand was warm when it held hers. The warmth seeped into her palm, into her veins, calmer than the storm that had raged only moments before.
At last the priest lifted his hands over their joined ones, his voice growing strong and formal in the ancient cadence.
“Before God and clan, before stone and sky, I seal this bond,” he said. He looked from Maxwell to Ariella and back again. “Ye stand now as one. Laird and Lady of McNeill in truth.”
The hall erupted into sound, cheers and murmurs and the scrape of benches. Someone began to weep. Someone else laughed in disbelief.
Ariella heard none of it properly. The words echoed in her head.
Lady of McNeill.
Her life had tilted on its axis with a few quiet sentences and one soft, devastating“Good lass.”There was no going back now. No road behind her. Only the path ahead, beside a man she barely knew, toward a future that might hold safety, or sorrow, or both.
The priest released their hands.
Maxwell did not.
He looked down at her, his green eyes shadowed, his face unreadable to anyone who did not stand as close as she did.
“Welcome to McNeill, Ariella,” he said quietly.
Her heart gave a single, hard thud.
For better or worse, she had just become his.
4
There had been no point in lingering.
The vows were spoken, the alliance sealed. The longer they remained under McIntosh’s roof, the more time people had to whisper, to look at him with curiosity and pity, to look at her with the wide eyes they saved for a lass whose groom had run.
So, he gave the order. “Make ready to depart within the hour,” he told the same servant who broke him the news about Hunter.
The horses were saddled. Packs were secured. Farewells were spoken in a rush of embraces and murmured blessings. He saw Ariella’s mother cling to her, and saw Frederick pull his sister into a fierce hug, his expression a mix of pride and something that looked almost like apology.
Maxwell looked away. These partings were not his to witness.
They rode out beneath a sky still pale with afternoon, McNeill men falling into line behind him. Ariella rode at his side on a smaller mare, the blue of her wedding gown hidden beneath a thick cloak. The wind tugged at the loose strands of her dark hair and brought color to her cheeks.
Silence rode with them.
He had never been a man for idle talk, and the weight of the day pressed heavy on his tongue. He could feel her glancing at him now and then, quick, furtive looks that slid away the moment he met them. He kept his eyes on the road, on the rise and fall of the land he knew well.
He was decidedly angry. As it was the only feeling at the moment that wouldn’t ensnare his new bride.
He was angry at Hunter, first and foremost. The boy had shamed his own name and left others to pick up the pieces. Maxwell had spent years shaping him, teaching him, pressing him toward duty, and still the lad had chosen the easiest path, running from what was needed.
