Platters arrived of roasted venison dripping with honey glaze, thick slices of bread, bowls of root stew, spiced apples, and oat cakes. The wine flowed freely, more freely than Maxwell liked.
Conversation ebbed and rose around them. Ariella wove through it like a dancer, keeping the councilmen entertained, diverting tension, turning sharp comments into harmless banter. She offered compliments that sounded sincere even to Maxwell. She praised other clans’ contributions, asked after children, laughed when appropriate, listened when needed.
Lyall watched her with interest. Archer watched her with hunger.
Maxwell watched both of them with murder.
Every time Lyall’s tone grew sharp, Ariella smoothed it. Every time Archer’s gaze lingered too long, Ariella angled her shoulder away. Every time Maxwell nearly let his temper slip, Ariella changed the topic with elegant ease.
Even the councilmen were impressed. Each of them nodding, murmuring, exchanging glances that saidthe young Lady McNeill is clever.
She was doing more than her part.
She was saving the night.
But Maxwell did not enjoy a single bite because something was wrong.
Something beyond Archer’s too-eager eyes, or Lyall’s forced politeness.
He couldn’t put a name to it, but he felt it under his skin, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
A threat waiting.
A trap woven beneath silk and smiles.
Ariella caught his gaze once and her brow softened with worry, as if she knew something was coiled inside him like a blade.
She didn’t speak.
But the look said everything.
I am here.We can do this.Hold the line.
And Maxwell did.
But only because she asked it with her eyes.
And because she handled every moment like the lady of a great and ancient keep — steady, gracious, unshaken.
Ariella McNeill.
His wife.
And because of her… the feast did not fall apart.
Even though beneath his skin, Maxwell knew that something was terribly wrong.
The tension in the hall eased slightly after the third course, or rather, it hid itself better. The councilmen grew louder. Lyall’s smile grew tighter. Archer drank enough wine to let his arrogance seep into every movement.
Maxwell ate little. He spoke less.
His gaze never left the table.
Never left the men across from him.
Or the woman beside him.
Ariella kept the conversation flowing easily. She asked Lyall about the winter stores in O’Douglas lands. She complimented their wool shearing. She praised Archer’s hunting reputation — a safe subject that kept him away from politics.
