“Nae frightening,” he said. “Sharp.”
“I like sharp.”
“I noticed,” he murmured.
She had no answer for that.
By the time they crested the last rise and the village came into view, Ariella’s stomach was a knot of nerves and anticipation. Stone cottages huddled along the main road, smoke curling from chimneys. A small square lay at the heart of it, with stalls and a well and a scattering of villagers already about their business.
At the far end of the square, a painted sign hung above a tidy shop. A stylized spool of thread and a needle. The modiste.
Her heart quickened.
She had never done this. Not properly. Her mother had altered gowns. Her aunt had sent the odd parcel of trimmings. But towalk into a shop where bolts of fabric waited, where someone would make something just for her, not handed down and cut smaller.
“It is only for appearances,” she reminded herself under her breath.
Even so, the excitement bubbled.
Maxwell dismounted first, handing his reins to a boy who nearly bowed in half when he realized who stood before him. Ariella slid down on her own, cheeks warming as her foot missed the stirrup for a moment. Maxwell’s hand twitched as if to steady her, then he checked himself.
She lifted her chin and followed him across the square.
A bell chimed as they entered the shop.
The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and starch. Light from the front windows spilled across shelves stacked with neatly folded fabric. Bolts of wool, linen, silk, and velvet stood in tall rows along the walls. Ribbons hung in cascading colors. A mannequin wore a half finished gown in soft green, pins glittering along the seams.
Ariella’s breath caught.
“Oh,” she whispered.
It felt like walking into a dream.
A woman with silver threaded dark hair and a measuring tape around her neck emerged from the back room, hands dusted with chalk. She stopped when she saw them, eyes widening.
“Laird McNeill,” she said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “What an honor. And ye have brought yer lady. I am blessed.”
“This is Lady Ariella,” Maxwell said. “She requires new dresses.”
Ariella wanted to sink into the floor at the bluntness of it. Instead she forced a smile. “I am pleased to meet ye.”
“The pleasure is mine,” the woman said warmly. “I am Mistress Kinnaird. Please, look. Touch. See what pleases ye.”
If Mistress Kinnaird had told her to step into heaven, Ariella could not have felt more overwhelmed.
There was color everywhere. Deep forest greens. Rich browns. Gleaming blues that reminded her of clear lochs. Ivory that looked like poured cream. Her fingers itched to touch everything.
She drifted toward a shelf as if pulled, trailing her fingertips over a bolt of fine wool.
Behind her, Maxwell took up a stance in the corner, arms crossed, expression carved into what he must have thought looked like indifference.
He was fooling no one.
“Ye have been in the trade long,” Ariella asked, hoping her voice did not sound as breathless as she felt.
“Many years,” Mistress Kinnaird said. “I made yer husband’s maither’s gowns when she first came to McNeill. God rest her.”
Ariella’s heart gave a little lurch. “Truly.”
