“Aye,” she muttered. “And ye ken it well enough, so just leave it alone. I was just tryin’ to give thanks to yer thoughtfulness and ye are right ruinin’ it.”
She tried to speak again but her voice faltered. She stammered once, twice, then pressed her lips together in mortification.
Maxwell stared at her.
She was acting this way because he kissed her and now she didn’t know what the boundary was or where she stood with him.
He reached out, but she jerked back, instinctively and flustered. “We should eat something.”
Maxwell sat, frozen, hand half raised in the cold morning air.
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered it. “Good idea. There should be a vendor cart just over that hill. We’ll ride quickly and stop there for food.”
She nodded firmly and then urged her horse forward without another word.
At last, he allowed himself the truth.
Me wife is affecting me. More than she should.
And if he was not careful and kept his distance he would want her past reason. Want her enough to forget the reasons he should not touch her.
He clenched his jaw and turned away.
Distance.
He needed distance.
And he needed it now.
9
The morning air was crisp, the sky a pale, washed out blue as they continued down the roadway that led away from McNeill and toward the village.
Ariella tried very hard not to stare at Maxwell as they went.
They rode side by side, their horses’ hooves a steady rhythm on the packed earth. The hill rolled gently on either side, spotted with scrub and the occasional cluster of sheep.
On the other side of it, as anticipated, a vendor cart was perched on the side of the road. The scent of warm bread and honey drifted from a small wooden cart by the road. Ariella’s stomach growled greedily.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, pulling her horse to a slow trot until they both slowed at the cart.
“What’ll it be, me lady?” the old man said slowly.
She looked over to Maxwell for his approval, to which he merely shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever ye wish, lass. There will be proper food in the village.”
“How far is the village from us?” she asked.
“A little over an hour,” he said.
“I see,” she replied, then turned back to the old man, already dismounting.
The old vendor brightened when she approached. “Honey oat bannock, fresh off the griddle, Me lady. And hot cider to warm the bones.”
Ariella clasped her hands. “One bannock, please. And a cider.”
Maxwell stepped up behind her, tossing a coin onto the counter before she could reach her pouch. “And a meat hand-pie.”
“I didn’t ask for a pie,” she said, giving him a look.
