“The eastern wall is secured. New arrow slits are reinforced. And Finley’s put the extra men on the western parapet.”
“And the armory?”
“Catalogued. We lack nothin’.”
“Good.”
Torcall hesitated. “We are preparing for a feast, Laird… but ye’ve set the keep like a fortress ready for a siege.”
Maxwell gave him a single, hard look.
Torcall nodded at once, understanding.
Because this was not a feast. It was an inspection. A battle waiting for a spark.
Maxwell pressed forward.
Inside the keep, he stalked the corridors with the same intensity. Servants dipped their heads. Guards stiffened. No detail escaped him.
Banners were cleaned and hung higher.
Candles replaced to allow no shadows.
Hall floors swept so there was no stray debris.
Walls inspected to ensure no sign of disrepair.
He checked every door, every latch, every supply room. He asked after the bedding, the fires, the stores. He checked the guest chambers himself.
If O’Douglas meant to cause trouble, he would find no weakness here.
Not one.
When Finley returned near midday, cheeks red from the wind, he offered a nod of satisfaction. “Duncan’s on his way. And the Briar Hollow smiths nearly ran me over trying to get here. They were excited.”
Maxwell grunted. “Good.”
“Ye’ve thought of everything,” Finley said. “The bastard will come, see order and strength, and choke on it.”
“That is the hope.”
“If this were a war camp, I would think we were hours from battle.”
Maxwell said nothing, because he wasn’t sure Finley was wrong.
It was later, near the afternoon sun, when he saw her.
He wasn’t looking for her.
Not deliberately.
But Maxwell’s attention was drawn to movement that was neither soldier nor servant.
Ariella.
She drifted down the corridor carrying a handful of linens, her hair pinned loosely thanks to Isla’s clumsy fingers. Light caught the brown silk of her gown, the new one the modiste had finished yesterday, and turned it warm as honey.
She walked with purpose.
