Eventually her mind tired of chasing itself. Her body softened into the mattress.
Just as sleep began to pull at her, she felt his fingers curl a little more firmly into the blanket at her shoulder, as if claiming something the words had not yet said.
“Good night, wife,” he said quietly.
The words slid into her like a warm blade.
“Good night,” she whispered, not sure if he heard her. “Husband,” she said, even softer.
6
“Welcome home, lass,” Maxwell said roughly as McNeill rose out of the rock like it had grown there.
The castle loomed grey and solid on its crag, its walls dark against the pale midday sky. The wind came harder off the hills here, sharper, as if to test whoever approached. Banners snapped along the outer ramparts, the green and blue of his clan stark against old stone.
It was not a pretty place, he knew. It was a fortress. A spine of rock and mortar between his people and whatever the world chose to throw at them.
He glanced sideways at Ariella as they rode through the gate.
Her eyes were wide, taking in the height of the curtain wall, the depth of the inner yard, the bustle of men and women going about their tasks. She drew her cloak tighter around herself, butshe did not shrink. Her back stayed straight in the saddle, chin lifted in that stubborn way he was learning to recognize.
The yard quieted as they entered. Men straightened. Voices dropped. Children paused in their games, peering from behind skirts or barrels. His men-at-arms formed at the edges, a respectful distance, hands on sword belts but relaxed.
“Laird,” Finley Drummond called from near the stable, striding forward with his easy, rolling gait. “Ye brought the weather home with ye. Bleak and biting.”
“It suits ye, Drummond,” Maxwell said.
His man-at-arms grinned, eyes flicking at once to Ariella. “And ye brought more than weather. Me lady, welcome.”
Ariella blinked, then offered a small, uncertain smile. “Good day.”
Her voice carried more than he had expected in the open yard.
“This is Finley Drummond,” Maxwell said, reigning in beside her. “Me man-at-arms. He thinks he is funnier than he is.”
“Someone must,” Finley said cheerfully. “Else ye would go entirely without laughter.”
Maxwell ignored that. “See to the horses and then meet me inside.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
He swung down from his saddle, handing the reins to a waiting stable lad. Ariella hesitated a moment, clearly eyeing the distance between her foot and the ground. Before he could move, Finley was already there, offering a hand.
“Allow me, me lady,” Finley said, all exaggerated gallantry. “I promise nae to drop ye. The laird would never forgive me.”
Ariella flushed but placed her gloved hand in his. Finley lifted her down as if she weighed little more than a feather, then stepped back with an easy bow.
“Welcome to McNeill,” he said.
“Thank ye,” she replied, voice soft but clear.
Maxwell felt a peculiar twist in his chest at the words. Welcome to McNeill. They sounded different with her standing there in the middle of his yard, veil gone, hair braided, cloak snapping in the wind.
His men watched openly now. He saw curiosity in their faces, some approval, some doubt. They had expected a bride for Hunter, not for him.
“Inside,” he said shortly. “The wind cuts deeper up here.”
He led the way across the yard and up the stone steps into the great hall. Ariella’s steps sounded light behind him. The familiar scents of peat smoke and old rushes, iron and wool, wrapped around them as the heavy doors shut out the worst of the wind.
