Desire was dangerous enough.
12
The kitchens had become Ariella’s refuge.
Warm, bright, and alive in a way the rest of the keep wasn’t. The great hearth roared all day, casting golden light across the flagstones. The scent of baked bread and simmering stew clung to the air, comforting and familiar. Every time she stepped inside, a wave of heat and laughter washed over her.
Today was no different.
Mairi was elbow-deep in dough, her sleeves rolled high, her braid sliding over one shoulder as she barked affectionate orders at anyone within reach. Ewan darted under tables, stealing carrots. Isla chased him with a wooden spoon. Callum appeared now and then from the back door, wiping soot from his forehead and pretending he didn’t bring half the forge in with him.
Ariella couldn’t help smiling.
“Ye’re nae slicing those roots even, me lady. Remember how I taught ye,” Mairi said, peering over Ariella’s shoulder.
Ariella lifted her knife. “It’s close, is it nae?”
“Aye, close, which is certainly high praise. But they must be even,” Mairi corrected. “In this house, it is the standard, me lady. The laird will take notice.”
Callum stepped behind his wife, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Daenae let her fool ye, me lady. Mairi would have ye slicing vegetables by the moon’s measurements if ye let her.”
Mairi swatted him with the dough-covered hand, leaving a smudge of flour on his jaw.
“Out with ye, Callum Hendry! Ye are mucking up me kitchen!”
“Oh, aye,” he drawled, grinning. “I will muck up far worse later if ye keep throwing me out.”
Isla groaned. Ewan gagged loudly.
Ariella laughed, almost dropping her knife.
Their affection warmed the room more than the hearth. Callum winked at his daughter, caught Ewan by the collar before the boy could sprint away with a heel of bread, and disappeared through the back door again.
Mairi shook her head. “That man will be the death of me.”
But her smile said otherwise.
The kitchen returned to its bustle after Callum’s dramatic exit, but it wasn’t long before a subtle shift passed through the room.
A seamstress carrying a basket of mended napkins drifted closer. Then another woman, who Ariella sorted out was the candle-maker’s wife, stepped nearer. A third, older than the rest and shaped like a stout kettle, folded her arms with the air of someone settling in for evaluation.
Mairi noticed it too. She rolled her eyes. “Och, here they come. Try nae to let them scare ye.”
Ariella blinked. “Scare me? Why?”
The stout woman spoke first. “Lady McNeill, is it true ye can sew?”
Ariella hesitated. “I… can mend. Badly.”
Mairi snorted. “She’s being modest. She stitched the hem on me apron earlier.”
“Aye, and it was crooked,” Ariella admitted.
The seamstress gasped softly. “Ye admit it freely?”
Ariella laughed. “Would ye like me to lie?”
A ripple of chuckling went through them.
