“And ye are truly offended by it?” she whispered, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
His jaw flexed. “I woke and reached for ye.”
Ariella froze.
Maxwell seemed to realize what he’d revealed. His gaze flicked away for a heartbeat, then returned hard, as if daring her to tease him.
Ariella’s chest tightened in a way she could not explain.
“Oh,” she breathed.
The air between them shifted. Thickened.
If they stayed in this corridor another moment, she was certain she would forget her own name.
So she turned sideways, forcing herself to step away. “I am on me way to the kitchens.”
Maxwell blinked once, as if her words had yanked him out of something dangerous. “The kitchens?”
“Aye,” she said brightly. Too brightly. “Care to join me?”
His brows drew together. “Why would I do that?”
“To spend time with yer wife,” she said, smiling. “Or to supervise. Or to glare at bread. I daenae mind which.”
“I daenae glare at bread.”
She lifted a brow. “Sure.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, as if he was deciding whether he could tolerate her teasing today.
Then he said, “Fine.”
Ariella blinked. “Fine?”
He exhaled sharply. “Aye. I will go. Because I want to ken what keeps stealing ye away to that hearth like a moth to flame.”
Ariella’s smile spread, delighted and disbelieving. “Very well, then. Come along.”
He followed her down the stairs, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking as if he expected a kitchen to challenge him to a duel.
When they pushed through the kitchen door, warmth rushed over Ariella like a blanket.
The hearth blazed. Pots simmered. The air smelled of yeast and broth and roasted oats. A dog lay near the fire with its nose on its paws, tail thumping lazily. Isla was already there, hands busy.
Mairi turned at the sound of the door, and went as still as stone.
Her gaze locked on the Laird.
“Sweet mercy,” Mairi breathed. “Have we offended the laird? Has he come to punish us with his presence? Are we bein’ let go, then?”
Maxwell’s scowl returned. “I am capable of walking into a kitchen without any purpose whatsoever than to see this part of me keep.”
“Aye,” a sharp voice called from the far table, “and I am capable of juggling knives. Neither of us should be encouraged to do so unless absolutely necessary. And I see nay necessity here, me laird.”
Ariella turned and found Moira.
Hair pinned tight, arms dusted in flour, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She looked Maxwell up and down with the unflinching judgment of a woman who had survived too many winters to be impressed by a laird.
