No one believed him. Not today.
Maxwell’s gaze slid to the great hall doors as they opened, and the noise swelled. Warmth spilled out with it, the smell of roasted meat and herbs and bread that had been baked from dawn.
And then Ariella appeared.
She stepped into the courtyard with their son in her arms, the babe swaddled and heavy with sleep, dark lashes against his cheeks. Ariella’s hair was braided loosely, wisps escaping around her temples as if even her appearance had softened with motherhood. She wore a dress in McNeill colors, but she wore it like a woman who belonged here by more than marriage.
Maxwell’s chest tightened, familiar and fierce.
She paused, adjusting the bairn against her shoulder, and glanced across the courtyard until she found him.
Their eyes met.
A smile touched her mouth, private and warm.
Maxwell did not smile broadly. He rarely did. But his gaze softened in a way he no longer tried to hide, and he lifted his chin once, the simplest of greetings.
Ariella walked toward him, careful of the babe, careful but not fragile. She moved like someone who had learned strength in quiet ways.
When she reached him, she tilted her head slightly. “Ye’re brooding.”
“I am watching,” he corrected.
“Same thing,” she murmured, and there was mischief in her eyes.
Maxwell lowered his voice. “Ye should be sitting.”
Ariella’s brows lifted. “I have been sitting for months, me laird.”
His mouth twitched again, almost a smile. “Ye’re still meant to rest.”
Ariella shifted the babe slightly and leaned closer. “He fell asleep on me. If I sit, I’ll never rise again.”
Maxwell’s gaze dropped to their son.
The child’s hair was dark like Maxwell’s, thick even at this age, and his face had Ariella’s softness in the mouth. He slept as if the world had never demanded anything from him. As if there were no war horns in his memory, no blood on stone, no nights of fear.
Hope made flesh.
Maxwell swallowed, throat tight, and reached out to brush one knuckle gently along the bairn’s cheek.
The baby stirred, mouth puckering slightly, then settled again.
Ariella watched Maxwell’s hand with quiet satisfaction, as if she still marveled that he touched their son as if the child were sacred.
“He looks like ye,” she whispered.
Maxwell’s voice came out rough. “He looks like ye too.”
Ariella’s smile widened. “Then we did well.”
Maxwell huffed a soft sound. “Aye.”
A shout rose near the gate.
Someone had arrived.
Maxwell turned and saw Hunter stride into the courtyard, cloak thrown back, eyes bright with a kind of energy Maxwell had not seen in his brother for years. Hunter had always been loud, always restless, always chasing something. But today, there was steadiness under it, as if he had finally found a place to stand.
