He was angry at Frederick, for keeping his sister blind to the truth until the last possible moment.
Angry at the priest, for fumbling and blinking as if marriage were some novelty.
Angry at the clans watching, some of them no doubt relishing the spectacle.
Angriest at himself, because he had seen Hunter’s carelessness for years and yet still thought he could trust him on this.
The sun slid downward as they rode, staining the horizon in streaks of red and gold. The air grew sharper. When the first faint stars appeared, he raised a hand.
“We will stop at that hunting lodge,” he said. “Another few hours from here and there is shelter enough.”
Ariella nodded, her face pale with fatigue. She did not complain. He noticed that, despite his best efforts to ignore her.
The hunting lodge stood in a small clearing, a squat shape of stone and timber half hidden by trees. He had used it often over the years, for winter hunts and solitary nights when the keep had felt too crowded with ghosts. Smoke did not rise from its chimney now; it had been empty for some time.
He swung from his horse, joints protesting, and gave curt orders for the men to see to the animals and make camp outside. He would sleep inside with his new wife. The words still felt strange in his own head.
He pushed open the door. Cold air and the scent of dust greeted him. The hearth was empty, only a few charred logs left. Cobwebs clung between the rafters.
“It is nae much,” he said, almost grudgingly. “But it keeps the wind out.”
“It is fine,” Ariella answered at once. Her voice was softer than usual, but steady. “Better than the ground.”
She stepped past him without hesitation, cloak swirling, and began to look around with quick, practical eyes. Before he could stop her, she found an old broom propped in a corner and began to sweep.
“Ye daenae need to do that,” he said.
“Someone must,” she replied, pushing dust into a pile with brisk strokes. “There is nay sense in breathing all this in while we sleep.”
He bit back the reminder that they would only be here one night. She fetched a bucket from beside the door, peered inside, wrinkled her nose, and went out again to find the well.
Maxwell set his jaw and went to check the shutters, making certain each one latched. The wind would pick up after midnight. It always did in these hills. He laid fresh logs in the hearth, his hands moving through familiar motions.
She returned with water, cheeks pink from the cold, and set the bucket near the hearth. Then she found a cloth and began to wipe down the table, humming under her breath.
The sound, oddly domestic in the bare room, unsettled him more than silence would have.
He did not thank her. He was not sure he knew how, in this context. Gratitude for allies and warriors, that he understood. For a lass who swept a floor so they would not sneeze in the night, he did not.
Yet when she straightened and smiled at him, tired but bright, something shifted between them.
“At least we will nae choke on dust,” she said, running her hands down the length of her makeshift apron.
“Hm,” he managed.
He struck flint to steel and lit the fire. Flames caught, small at first, then licking higher as he fed them. The lodge warmed slowly, shadows dancing along the walls.
Ariella busied herself with their packs, laying out blankets, setting her comb and a small pouch of herbs on the table. He noticed her arranging things with care, as if claiming the space, making it less stark.
“Is this lodge used often?” she asked after a moment.
“Only when needed,” he said.
“Ye come here on hunts?”
“Aye.”
“Alone?”
