She did not hesitate. She did not act like it was beneath her. She rolled up her sleeves, tied her apron, and began washing with practiced ease, speaking to Isla as she worked, listening to Moira’s complaints, laughing when Mairi teased her about soap.
The staff moved around her as if she had always been there. As if she belonged. And they looked at her with something that was not just respect, but affection.
Maxwell felt it like a weight in his chest.
She had stepped into his keep and made it warmer without demanding anything for herself.
When Ariella finished, she dried her hands and turned toward him. “There. Done.”
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I am finished in the kitchens.”
Moira gasped theatrically. “Oh nay. We’ll miss ye.”
Mairi called after him, “If ye return, bring honey cakes. The good ones.”
Maxwell glanced at Ariella. “Come.”
They left together, boots echoing in the corridor. The castle seemed brighter outside the kitchen, as if the hearth’s warmth had followed her into the halls.
At the stable yard, Maxwell’s horse was brought out, and Ariella’s mare was saddled beside it. The air smelled of hay and cold earth. Distantly, a hammer rang from the forge.
Ariella adjusted her gloves. “Market day truly happens every other week.”
“Aye,” Maxwell said, mounting. “It is a rare excursion beyond these walls. Folk come to trade, to talk, to see their laird and ken he is not a ghost.”
Ariella smiled faintly. “Are ye concerned they think ye are a ghost.”
Maxwell glanced down at her. “Are ye trying to bait me into being charming again?”
Ariella’s cheeks warmed. “I am only asking.”
He huffed. “Market day matters. We show our faces. We hear what is whispered. We see who comes and who avoids our eyes. And ye,” he added, “will see more than stone corridors and councilmen.”
Her brows lifted. “Ye think I need that?”
“I think yedeserveit,” he said before he could stop himself.
Her breath caught. She looked away quickly, but he saw the way her mouth softened.
He kicked his horse into a slow walk, and she followed, riding beside him down the track that led toward the village. The land opened around them, cold hills and scattered trees, the wind carrying the faint scent of peat smoke.
Ariella’s eyes kept moving, taking in everything. A bird on a fence post. A child waving near a cottage. A dog running along the road like it owned it.
Maxwell found himself watching her reaction more than the road.
Joy in the smallest things.
It irritated him, how much he liked seeing it.
The village market was already alive when they arrived.
Stalls lined the open square. Cloth awnings fluttered. Baskets of apples and root vegetables sat beside jars of honey. The smell of fresh bread and smoked meat mixed with the sharp tang of pickled onions. Children darted between carts, shrieking with laughter until a mother caught one by the collar.
Maxwell dismounted first, scanning the crowd out of habit. He noted faces he knew, men from the outer farms, women from the river cottages, two lads who should have been working but were pretending not to see him.
Ariella dismounted with less caution and more wonder.
“It is like a festival,” she murmured.
