“Looks like they will eat her alive,” Finley murmured as he came up beside him. “Or she will tame the lot of ye. Hard to say which.”
“They will nae eat her,” Maxwell said shortly.
Finley cut him a sideways look, half amused, half thoughtful. “Nay. Ye would nae let them.”
Maxwell did not answer. His gaze had shifted to the walls instead, to the bare stretches of stone between the tapestries, to the slightly smoke stained rafters, to the patched rushes.
He had always valued the keep as it was. Yet suddenly he saw it through different eyes. Through hers.
Too dark. No softness for small hands or weary feet. No color save the banners and the flames.
The thought unsettled him.
Later, when he passed by the solar on his way to the upper floor, he heard laughter. Not the rough, coarse kind that spilled from the barracks, but a lighter sound. Girls’ voices. Ariella’s among them. He slowed despite himself.
Isla’s voice carried through the half open door. “Nay one was surprised when we heard that Mister Hunter ran, me lady. He runs from work in the stables. He runs from training. He would run from his own bath if Mrs. Macrae did nae catch him.”
Ariella laughed, bright as bell metal. “Ye can nae mean that.”
“It is true,” Isla insisted. “Ewan says he runs from his own reflection.”
Ewan’s voice rose in protest. “I only said he dislikes sitting. I did nae say aught about his face.”
“Everyone knew he would nae stay long,” Isla went on. “We were all stunned that the laird wed. That is what had me maither dropping her spoon in the porridge.”
There was a small pause.
Ariella spoke more softly. “Were ye truly?”
“Aye,” Isla said. “Laird Maxwell does nae do anything without reason.”
Maxwell moved on then, jaw clenched, not interested in hearing more of what his household speculated about his choices.
Still, the words stayed with him as he climbed the stair.
Everyone was stunned that the laird wed.
He did not know how he felt about that either.
Ariella had not expected to like McNeill Keep.
She had expected cold stone and sterner faces. There was plenty of both, but there was life too. Children ran across the yard with wooden swords, shrieking in mock death. Women laughed as they hauled baskets. Men called to one another as they stacked peat.
Inside, the castle felt tired.
The hall was sound but somber, with dark panels and smoke stained beams. The solar that Isla showed her had small windows and plain benches, the cushions thin and faded. The bed in her chamber was sturdy, the linens good, but the curtains that hung around it were a dull, lifeless brown that might once have been some other color.
“This place is in desperate need of a woman’s touch,” she murmured before she could catch herself.
Isla, busy straightening the coverlet, looked up. “Me lady.”
Ariella smiled. “Forgive me. I am used to me maither fussing over every cushion and candle.”
“I think fussing would nae be so bad,” Isla said frankly. “We have plain things here. Strong things, Mrs. Macrae says. But it would nae hurt if they pleased the eye a bit more while they last.”
“Consider it our first project,” Ariella said. She stepped closer to the window and pressed her fingers to the cold stone of the sill. The view took her breath a little. Hills rolled away into the distance, patched with winter brown and evergreen. Far beyond, a faint gleam of light hinted at water.
“I think I will come to like it here,” she said softly.
