He growled under his breath and stood, dragging on his shirt and boots with more force than needed. Today he would find something to occupy his thoughts. Anything. Repairs. Training. O’Douglas. Hunter. Hell, even Ewan’s antics would be preferable to the memory of Ariella’s mouth soft beneath his.
In the courtyard, men moved about, hauling timber and rope, mending the outer wall before winter storms hardened the mortar. Maxwell oversaw it, barking orders, correcting measurements, and trying, however unsuccessfully, to not replay the way Ariella’s breath had hitched when he’d put his mouth to her ear.
“Ye look troubled, Max.”
Finley’s voice came from behind him. Maxwell did not turn.
“I am busy,” he said curtly.
“Aye,” Finley said mildly, “and brooding.”
“I am not brooding.”
“Then ye are thinking too hard, which is the same thing, only quieter.”
Maxwell shot him a glare. Finley only grinned. “If I may give ye somethin’ else to think about without ye throwing me over the wall…”
“Nay.”
Finley said it anyway.
“The new Lady McNeill,” he murmured, leaning an elbow on a barrel. “Her gowns are several years out of fashion. But she wears them like a queen.”
Maxwell stiffened.
Her gowns? Of all the damned things to notice.
But he had not. He hadn’t even given it a single thought until now.
He had noticed her eyes, her stubborn chin, her laugh when Ewan called Isla a hen. He had noticed her lips, her blush, the tremble in her breath.
He had not seen her gowns.
“Ye are mistaken,” Maxwell said firmly. “Me wife is nae one to care for frivolities.”
Finley’s smirk said he knew more than he said. “It is nae about frivolities. It is about what it is messaging to outsiders.”
Maxwell frowned.
“If O’Douglas or any of his spies see her wearing outdated attire,” Finley said, quiet now, “they may think ye cannae afford such things. That ye wed a lass who brought nothin’. That ye are desperate enough to ally yerself in haste.”
Maxwell’s jaw flexed.
Finley shrugged. “Appearances matter, Laird. Even if ye daenae care for them.”
A rock formed in Maxwell’s chest.
He did not want to think about it. He wanted, desperately, to ignore it. Her dresses were clean. Mended. Well made. He had seen no fault.
Because he had not been looking.
He had been watching her face instead.
Damn.
Finley clapped him on the shoulder and strolled off, leaving Maxwell with the gnawing realization settling into his bones.
His wife deserved better.
