Maxwell stood just beyond the doorway, half in shadow, Finley at his side. He had come from the cellar, checking stores, and had been on his way to the hall when Ariella’s words froze him mid-step.
Finley glanced at Maxwell’s face, eyes widening slightly. “Max…”
But Maxwell didn’t move.
He stared ahead, unreadable, as Ariella’s voice drifted through the warm kitchen air.
“He cares about this clan with every breath. He doesnae yield. He does not falter. But that kind of strength and protection… costs something.”
She stirred the pot again, her voice quieter. “I see more than he thinks.”
Maxwell’s breath caught.
Finley whispered, “We should —”
Maxwell turned away before he could finish. “Nay,” he muttered. “She need nae ken I heard.”
He walked off quickly, boots echoing down the corridor.
But his chest felt different.
Warm in a way he didn’t like. Warm in a way he couldn’t ignore.
13
The storm hadn’t arrived yet, but Maxwell felt it in his bones.
The tension was something ancient, bred into the marrow of every Highlander, the instinct that warned when another clan approached with smiles masking steel. O’Douglas was not riding here for peace. Not truly. Maxwell knew that with every breath he took.
Which meant McNeill needed to be perfect.
Strong.
Impenetrable.
When dawn broke, Maxwell was already in the bailey, cloak whipping in the wind, Finley at his side.
“Laird!” shouted Darragh, one of the gate wardens, jogging toward him and bowing his head. “First wave of clansmen from the river villages just arrived. Twenty-three men, four women, two wee ones. They brought three wagons of grain and one of timber.”
“Good,” Maxwell said. “Send the families to the east barracks. They’ll stay warmest there. Put the lumber near the outer wall. I want the smithys to have all they need.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Darragh sprinted off.
Maxwell surveyed the keep and the surrounding yard with the eye of a hawk. Every corner required order. Every shadow needed watching.
“Finley,” he said, already striding toward the smithy, “make sure the men from Glenbrae are given the north watchtower posts. They know cold winds and dark nights better than any.”
“Aye.”
“And send word to Torcall that I want two guards stationed outside the kitchens at all times. Mairi has more weight on her shoulders than any three warriors combined this week.”
Finley smirked. “Aye. And if any lad is foolish enough to cross her, God rest him.”
Maxwell grunted as they reached the forge.
It was sweltering already. The heat rolling from the open-mouthed furnace, sparks spitting as metal met flame. Callum looked up from his anvil, sweat shining down his temples.
