Ariella shook her head, amused. “The image of me maither healing a cut is so out of place I could laugh. She would have looked at the blood as if it were personally insulting.”
Maxwell heard the edge of fondness under her teasing, and something in him eased.
“But,” Ariella added, quieter now, “when I was ill, she did tend to me.”
Maxwell’s stirring slowed.
Ariella’s gaze drifted to the hearth, as if she could see the past in the flames. “I grew ill when I was younger. A fever I couldnae get rid of. The kind that leaves a lass half-dreaming and frightenedby shadows. Me maither always stayed by me bed. She pressed cool cloths to me brow. She sang under her breath when she thought nay one could hear. And she held me hand until morning. Every morning.”
Her voice softened further. “I remember waking and thinking she must have been the strongest woman alive, because she looked so calm. Like the fever couldnae touch me while she watched.”
Maxwell stared into the porridge as if it held answers.
Moira cleared her throat loudly, as if to push the air back into motion. “Right. That’s enough tenderness for one pot. Stir this way now, me Laird, or we’ll get lumps.”
Maxwell resumed the steady motion, but he could not shake the image. A mother holding a child’s hand through sickness. A quiet vigil. A softness hidden behind composure.
It was too familiar.
Ariella stepped closer, likely to check the pot, but she hovered near him instead. He could feel her warmth at his side.
“Me maither did nae sing,” Maxwell said before he meant to.
Ariella went still. “Nay?”
He swallowed, regretting the words and unable to take them back. “She spoke to me. When I was ill. She told me what herbs would cool the blood. What teas would settle the stomach. What poultices would draw pain from the joints.”
Ariella’s eyes widened gently. “She kent healing?”
“Aye,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “More than most.”
Mairi softened, her hands pausing on her work. Even Moira looked away as if granting him privacy by force.
Maxwell’s throat tightened. He kept his gaze on the pot. “She was… skilled. Folk sought her. Nae because she was the laird’s wife. Because she had knowledge.”
Ariella’s voice came softly. “That is remarkable.”
“It is irrelevant,” Maxwell said at once, the old reflex snapping into place. He stirred harder, as if motion could erase vulnerability. “The porridge is ready.”
Moira stepped in, saving him. “Aye. It is. And for once, the laird did nae ruin something edible.”
Maxwell shot her a look. “Careful.”
Moira smiled sweetly. “Or what. Ye’ll stir me to death?”
The kitchen laughed again. Ariella included.
But when they finally stepped away from the hearth, leaving the women to their bustle, Ariella lingered beside Maxwell near the corridor, her expression quieter.
“Thank ye,” she said.
“For what.”
“For telling me that,” she replied gently. “About yer maither.”
Maxwell stared down the passage as if it were safer than her face. “Daenae make it into something it is nae.”
Ariella’s lips curved, not teasing this time. “I willnae.”
