Archer leaned closer every time she spoke.
Maxwell felt his molars grind.
Finley nudged him under the table. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Then breathe quieter. Ye sound like ye’re eatin’ the table.”
Maxwell ignored him.
The second course had barely cleared when a cheerful older councilman leaned toward Ariella.
“Lady McNeill,” he said warmly, “ye’ve outdone yerself with this feast. The hall looks finer than any gathering we’ve had in years.”
Ariella smiled modestly. “The credit belongs to the staff. I only polished what was already shining.”
“Nonsense,” the councilman chuckled. “We’ve seen shining. This…” He gestured toward the hall, the warmth, the greenery, the candles. “This feels like a home.”
Ariella’s smile softened.
Maxwell’s grip on his goblet tightened.
The councilman continued, oblivious. “And that gown suits ye, me lady. Cream is a rare choice in winter, but ye wear it beautifully.”
Ariella flushed pleasantly. “Ye are kind to say so.”
Finley leaned toward Maxwell. “Ye’re doing it again.”
“Doing what,” Maxwell growled.
“Glowering.”
“I am nae glowering.”
Finley made a low hum. “Glowering is when yer brows start plotting murder. Like now.”
Maxwell shot him a look that only confirmed the accusation.
Finley smirked. “If ye’re jealous, ye could just say —”
“Finish that sentence,” Maxwell said, “and I will feed ye to the hounds.”
Finley clamped his mouth shut, eyes twinkling.
The councilman went on, completely unaware he was courting death. “Aye, lass, if me nephew hadn’t married last spring, I’d have introduced ye! Too fine a woman to go unnoticed.”
Ariella laughed politely. “I think ye overestimate me appeal.”
“Not at all,” the man insisted. “Me nephew would have fallen over himself —”
“He would nae have,” Maxwell cut in.
The man blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
Maxwell’s voice remained cool, even. “Lady McNeill does nae need suitors. Nor commentary on what suitors she might’ve had.”
The councilman sputtered. “Of course, of course. Nay disrespect meant.”
