The hall was as it had always been. Dark beams overhead. A long central hearth. Tables stacked along the walls. Tapestries in faded colors depicting old battles and stags in forests. It was clean, his steward saw to that, but spare.
Beside the hearth, a cluster of servants waited. Mrs. Macrae, his housekeeper, broad and solid as an oaken chest, with iron in her hair and in her eye. Beside her, a girl of perhaps seventeen years with a round, pleasant face and a neat apron. At the edge of the group lurked a boy of twelve or so, freckled and wiry, hands shoved in his too short sleeves, eyes bright with mischief.
“Laird,” Mrs. Macrae said, dipping a curtsy that was more a nod with knees. “We heard ye ride in. The rooms are prepared as ye ordered.”
He inclined his head. “Mrs. Macrae, this is Lady Ariella. She will stand as Lady of McNeill.”
The older woman’s gaze flicked to Ariella and sharpened. Then her lined face broke into something nearly like a smile.
“Me lady,” she said. “Ye are welcome under this roof. We have been waiting a long time for the like of ye.”
Ariella’s shoulders eased a fraction. “That is kind of ye to say. I only hope I will be equal to what is needed.”
“We shall see to it together,” Mrs. Macrae said briskly. “This is Isla. She will attend ye.”
The younger girl dropped into a curtsy so low it looked as if she might never rise again. “Me lady. I am that glad ye are here. I mean, we all are. Well, most of us. Ewan said ye might be terrible, but I think ye look very nice already.”
“Isla,” Mrs. Macrae hissed.
The boy snorted. “I only said she might be, since we did nae ken her yet.”
“Ye did nae need to say it in the hall,” Mrs. Macrae snapped.
Ariella’s lips twitched. “I assure ye I have been called worse than terrible. Often by me maither.”
Isla looked up, wide eyed, then giggled. Ewan grinned, all freckles and cheek.
“This is Ewan,” Mrs. Macrae said, eyeing the boy with long suffering. “Runner of messages and breaker of things that were nae meant to be broken.”
“I do more running than breaking,” Ewan protested. “And I do it well.”
“Ye run yer mouth plenty,” Isla said. “That is one.”
“Ye talk twice as much as I do,” Ewan shot back. “That is two.”
“Enough,” Mrs. Macrae said, but there was more exasperation than true anger in her tone.
It was a small thing, their bickering, but Maxwell saw how Ariella’s face changed as she listened. The tightness about her eyes eased. A real smile, unforced, curved her mouth.
He realized, then, that he had not seen that in days. Not since before she tried to flee her own yard.
“Isla will see ye settled,” he said. “If there is aught ye require, speak to her or to Mrs. Macrae.”
Ariella turned to him. For an instant their gazes met. There was tiredness there, and uncertainty, but also that same stubborn light.
“Thank ye,” she said.
He nodded once and stepped back. “Isla. Take her to the solar.”
“Aye, Laird,” the girl chirped. “This way, me lady, mind the step, Ewan tripped on it last week and near landed in the stew pot.”
“It was nae the step,” Ewan said indignantly as they moved off. “It was ye chasing me with a spoon.”
“Do ye see what I mean?” Isla said conspiratorially. “He never stops going.”
Their voices faded as they disappeared along the corridor, Isla’s quick chatter and Ewan’s arguments overlapping. Ariella went with them, head bent as she listened, skirts whispering over the stone.
Maxwell watched them go longer than he intended.
