Ariella shot Maxwell a surprised look that was part curiosity, part something warmer, but she quickly smoothed it away when Archer approached the table again.
Finley whispered, “Jealousy suits ye, actually.”
“Shut it.”
“I think ye’re glowing.”
“Finley.”
“Aye?”
“If Archer touches her —”
“Ye’ll break his hand? Aye, I counted on it.”
Maxwell scowled and reached for his wine.
The servants brought out the final course — a berry torte Ariella had helped Mairi assemble that afternoon. It filled the hall with sweetness.
Ariella turned just in time to catch a glimpse of his stiff posture, the tight fist around the goblet, the dark glint in his eyes.
And for the briefest moment…
She smiled.
Soft. Secret.
As though she liked that he bristled on her behalf.
Before Maxwell could fully process that expression, Archer reached for the platter at the same time as Ariella had, though far too deliberate, and let his fingers brush hers.
Ariella’s smile faltered half a breath before she hid it.
But Maxwell saw.
The world narrowed.
He set his goblet down with a soft, deadly clink.
“Remove yer hand,” he said, voice low and smooth as drawn steel.
Conversation died in a ripple around them.
Archer blinked. “Laird, I —”
“If ye wish to keep it,” Maxwell added, tone still frighteningly calm.
A hush fell. Every clansman, every servant, every councilman went still.
Archer laughed. The sound was too loud, too false. “Ach, come now. We were simply —”
“Ye were touching me wife.”
Maxwell didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.
Something in the way the words slid from his mouthmade half the hall stiffen.
