Isla tilted her head. “Heavy memories?”
Ariella nodded. “A man doesnae carry scars like that without reason.”
Silence.
Isla looked down, thoughtful. “I… never thought of it like that.”
Ariella touched her arm. “The laird isnae cruel. Or cold. He’s… wounded. And wounds make shadows.”
Ariella’s thoughts drifted back to the way he had stiffened when she touched his scar. To the coldness in his voice. To the pain he tried to hide under iron and silence.
“He took the lairdship too young,” Mairi said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Boys his age were out stealing apples and chasing hens. Our laird was dealing with supply shortages and border disputes. He never had a youth.”
Ariella murmured, “I see.”
Mairi nodded toward the hearth where the fire crackled steadily. “He is a good man. A hard man. But sometimes hardness grows where softness was needed.”
Ariella stared into the stew pot, something warm and painful blooming in her chest.
She realized that she wanted to know him better. Not just his temper or his touch or his distance. She wanted to know the pieces that shaped him. The burdens he carried alone.
“Does he ken that ye speak so kindly of him?” she asked quietly.
“Nay,” Mairi said with a chuckle. “If he did, he’d likely stop bringing me fresh bread from the tradesmen.”
Ariella smiled faintly.
Then her smile faded, and the kitchen was back to the normal bustle all around her.
Night fell early, the winter sky sinking quickly into purple shadows. Most of the castle had settled into evening rhythms.
Ariella stayed behind in the kitchen long after supper had been cleared.
She scrubbed tables with Mairi, hummed old songs with Isla, endured Ewan’s dramatic retelling of almost falling into the stew pot. The noise was comforting. The warmth soothing.
She didn’t want to return to her chambers yet.
Not while last night still hung in the air.
Not while Maxwell kept himself folded tight and distant.
She stacked bowls near the sink when someone entered behind her.
Not someone.
Him.
Maxwell stepped into the light of the hearth, the hall’s shadows clinging to him like an old cloak. His hair was slightly mussed from the wind. His jaw shadowed darker than usual. His eyes found her at once.
She felt her breath catch.
“Ye shouldnae trouble yerself with chores,” he said. His voice was calm, but something in it sounded… careful.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “I like helping.”
“It is nae yer place.”
She bristled. “Whose place is it, then? I am nay ornament.”
