“An emergency,” he repeated.
“For the people’s spirits,” she insisted. “Ye bring guests here to talk of alliances and trade and then ye let them stare at those. It is a cruelty.”
Finley choked on a laugh. Maxwell shot him a look that would have withered lesser men. Finley only grinned wider.
“Is there blood on the floor,” Maxwell asked Ariella. “Has the roof fallen. Are the stores gone.”
“Nay,” she said slowly.
“Then I daenae see how it qualifies as an emergency,” he said.
“It is an emergency of appearance,” she said. “Of what folk must look at every day. Surely that matters a little.”
For the first time she saw something almost like humor flicker in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if against his will. He very nearly smiled.
Then, as if catching himself, he smoothed his expression into a frown again.
“It is nae an emergency,” he said firmly.
“It will be when yer people go blind from dreariness,” she replied.
Finley put a hand to his chest. “Laird, if we must choose between O’Douglas and curtains, I fear the curtains may be the greater foe.”
Maxwell ignored him. Ariella did not. She bit back her own smile.
She had noticed that if she used the word emergency, he could not so easily tell her she had no reason to approach him. If she must not seek him out without cause, then she would label every cause she could find.
Loose flags in the yard. Wobbly stools. Cracks in the plaster.
She knew, somewhere under her own mischief, that she was pushing. That she wanted to see what would finally make him break that cool, distant composure.
He looked at her now, green eyes steady. For a heartbeat she wondered what he would do if she pushed farther. If he would lean across the map, haul her close, and kiss her senseless simply to stop her talking.
The thought sent a hot jolt through her that she did not dare show.
“Laird,” Finley said lightly, tapping the map. “We were speaking of where to start looking for Hunter before ye were called to curtain duty.”
Maxwell’s gaze did not leave Ariella. “We will speak of it in a moment.”
Something in his voice made the hairs rise at the back of her neck. He looked vexed. He also looked as if he were holding himself by sheer will.
Perhaps she had pushed too far this time.
7
The corridor leading toward the kitchens was warm and fragrant with the scent of baking bread and herbs. Ariella carried a basket of linens she meant to return. Isla had insisted on doing it herself, but Ariella wanted an excuse to explore the keep with purpose.
She rounded the corner and stopped short.
A heavily pregnant woman struggled down the hall, balancing a load of firewood on one hip and two baskets on the other. Her face was red from the strain, her breath coming sharply.
Without thinking, Ariella hurried forward. “Let me take that, please.”
The woman startled and nearly dropped everything, wide dark eyes snapping up. She was round faced, rosy cheeked, with a loose braid falling toward her shoulder and a belly so beautifully full it looked as if she might birth right there on the rushes.
“I am managing fine,” the woman puffed.
“Ye are nae,” Ariella said, already ushing forward. She took the firewood from her. “Please ye should nae be lifting so much.”
