“So says the man who is still standing,” she answered softly. “I could say the same to ye.”
He huffed. “I have too much noise in me head to sleep.”
“Same,” she admitted.
He reached the table nearest the hearth, found the small bottle of whisky and two cups that had not yet been cleared. He poured without asking if she wanted any.
He handed her a cup.
“Ye look pleased,” he said, eyeing the faint flush in her cheeks.
She took a slow sip, then met his gaze over the rim. “Did I please ye?”
The question hit him sideways.
He inhaled at the wrong moment and nearly choked on his own drink.
Ariella’s eyes widened. “Saints, Maxwell, I didnae mean to murder ye with whisky.”
He coughed once, twice, set the cup down with more force than necessary. “Warn a man before ye… ask things like that.”
“Ask what?” she asked with entirely too much innocence.
“If ye ‘pleased’ him,” he mimicked roughly.
Her mouth curved. “Well. Did I?”
He pressed his tongue against his teeth, somewhere between exasperated and undone. “Ye ken full well ye did.”
Her smile brightened at that.
“Ye are dangerous when ye smile like that,” he muttered.
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Should ye nae be used to danger by now?”
He tried to scowl. It came out more like a reluctant smirk. “This is different.”
“How so?”
He shrugged, at a loss. “Danger in battle is simple. Ye swing, they fall, or ye do. This…”
He gestured vaguely between them.
“This is messier.”
Her gaze softened. “I didnae mean to make it messy.”
“Aye, but it happened anyway,” he said quietly. “Ye walked into me keep and moved all the stones I thought were set.”
She blinked, a little taken aback by his honesty.
Their banter continued, but laced with something gentler tonight. They teased about the councilmen, about Finley nearly starting a brawl over a dice game at the far end of the table. She mimicked Lyall’s pompous tone so accurately he almost laughed aloud. He told her Ewan once tried to challenge a grown warrior to a wrestling contest and nearly broke his own arm.
All the while, the space between them seemed to shrink inch by inch.
Her laughter brushed against him like a hand. The firelight gilded her hair. She stood close enough now that he could see the faint shadow of fatigue under her eyes, and the brightness that refused to be dimmed.
She was not angry with him. Not bristling. Not hurt.
