His fingers stilled.
He exhaled slowly and returned to the ledgers, forcing himself back into numbers.
The candle beside him burned low.
He meant to think only of O’Douglas.
Only of defenses.
Only of clan survival.
He did not mean to think of a woman arranging tablecloths with a smile that put the torches to shame.
But he did.
More than once.
And each time, he cursed under his breath and bent closer over the ledgers, pretending she wasn’t slowly, quietly unraveling the edges of walls he had spent years building.
14
The morning of the O’Douglas visit dawned with a sky the color of wet slate.
Fitting, Maxwell thought. God knew tension when they saw it.
By first light, the castle was already alive. Servants rushed with baskets, torches lit in every corridor, guards stationed at every entrance, the smell of spiced meats filling the air.
The great hall gleamed under the weight of polished candelabras and fresh greenery. Ariella’s touches were everywhere: the tables laid with plaid runners, the hearth decorated with woven branches, lanterns hung low enough to warm the air but high enough not to scorch.
Maxwell strode through the hall with Finley at his shoulder, scanning everything with the same watchful precision he would give a battlefield.
“Gate shifts doubled?” Maxwell asked.
“Aye,” Finley answered. “Every man briefed. Nay one walks these halls without bein’ seen.”
“Good.” Maxwell paused at the far end, eyes narrowing at the shadows near the windows. “And the guest wings?”
“Two guards each corridor, like ye ordered.”
“And the armory?”
“Under lock and key.”
Maxwell only nodded, but his chest eased the slightest fraction. He had prepared every angle, every possible path the enemy might take. There would be no slipping knives into dark corners today. No “misplaced” valuables. No wandering scouts poking into storerooms or border maps.
Today would go smoothly, if he had to stand at the door and throttle every O’Douglas himself.
Movement pulled his attention.
Ariella gliding through the hall like a warm breeze. Her new green gown flowed beautifully as she gave instructions with soft confidence.
She paused at a servant girl’s trembling hands. “Easy, lass. Set the goblet down first, then the pitcher. Ye’ve got this.”
The girl smiled gratefully.
Ariella moved on, checking place settings, adjusting a banner, encouraging the nervous seamstress who’d repaired the tapestries. Everywhere she walked, shoulders un-tensed. Voices softened. Work steadied.
Maxwell watched her without meaning to.
