Page 12 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

M aisie paused in the doorway, her heart quickening as her eyes swept the long rows of benches.

"Ye'll nae win, Laird McGibb," she whispered beneath her breath, though no one could hear her above the chatter. "I'll nae let ye take more from me than ye already have."

Yet even as she spoke the vow, she felt her own weakness, felt the treacherous spark within her that longed for what she could not name. It frightened her more than anything else.

At the front, upon the dais, Caiden sat in his place, the whole hall belonged to him, his dark gaze scanning the crowd.

The thunderous hum of voices rising and falling from the gathered made her nervous.

Tankards clattered against the tables, and the scent of ale and roasted meat lingered in the air.

"Welcome, me lady," a clanswoman said in passing.

Maisie nodded in polite greeting, "Good eve to ye."

It felt strange to exchange such a greeting as though it was any other occasion, and not under the extreme circumstances she found herself in.

Remember ye are a captive, a prisoner. Ye are nae a guest.

She looked around the room. She did not want to sit near Caiden, not with all eyes watching to see what passed between them. Instead, she slipped down the far side of the room and slid onto a bench among strangers.

From here she could see him clearly though, the way the light caught the cut of his jaw, the ease with which he bore the noise of the room. She lowered her eyes quickly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing she looked.

Still, she felt it, the weight of his stare. Even with laughter roaring about her and men raising their cups, she knew when his eyes found her across the crowded tables.

Then, to her surprise, Isabelle swept toward her and settled gracefully by her side.

"Ye look flushed, lass," Isabelle said gently, her voice carrying a soft lilt that was neither prying nor cold.

"Do I?" Maisie asked realizing it must be because she was thinking of Caiden but would not dare say such a thing aloud.

"Tell me, is it the crowd that makes ye uneasy, or somethin' else?" Isabelle leaned closer, her eyes kind as if she meant to offer shelter rather than judgment. Her tone carried the weight of patience, of someone who had been raised to see rather than merely to look.

Maisie forced a small smile, though her heart was thudding hard in her chest.

"Och, nay, it's naught but the heat of the hall, Lady Isabelle," she replied, dropping her gaze. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying nerves she prayed Isabelle would not notice. "The fire blazes fierce, and I've nae yet grown used to such company. So many bodies in this hall."

Isabelle chuckled softly, folding her hands in her lap. "Aye, the hearth does burn hotter than the midsummer sun in this place. Ye'll grow accustomed to many people soon enough, I promise ye."

Isabelle rambled on, but Maisie could feel heat rise up her neck and her chest tighten.

Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown.

She told herself she would not look up, not this time, not when he had stolen something from her that could never be returned.

But she did not follow her own orders and instead she looked up to see that Caiden's gaze was locked on her.

Quickly she averted her gaze and picked up her goblet of wine, drinking to distraction.

The memory of that kiss burned fresh upon her lips, though it had been two days past. She had never known such a thing before, never dreamed her first kiss would be taken so suddenly.

It should have been hers to give, hers to treasure, and yet he had claimed it as though it belonged to him.

The shame of it lingered like fire in her veins, hotter than the torchlight flickering upon the stone walls.

So why did I enjoy it? Why did I want more?

The cruelest truth was that she had not hated it.

No matter how she told herself otherwise, some part of her had leaned into it, had wanted the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms about her.

That knowledge made her angrier than anything, angry at him for daring, but angrier still at herself for yielding.

She pressed her lips together, wishing she could erase the memory, but knowing it was now etched into her heart.

Her family's voices echoed in her mind, stern and unbending.

A McGowan did not falter, did not yield, and surely did not give herself to an enemy.

And yet, in the span of a single breath, she had betrayed them all by savoring what Laird McGibb had forced upon her.

The thought clawed at her chest, leaving her raw and unsettled, caught between duty and desire.

She shifted on the bench, but the torment followed her.

"Tell me, how do ye spend yer days here?" Maisie asked Isabelle with an aim at distracting herself from the ache she had when thinking of her own family.

"I go for long walks on the beach. I like to collect the shells and see the fishermen on the boats. I read in the library often, and when me sister is here I play with me nephews."

"Yer sister?" Maisie asked.

"Aye, she is nae at the castle at the moment, she'll be returnin' soon from the village, where she's been tendin' to the healer's work the last few days. I think ye would like her very much and she would be pleased with ye as well," Isabelle said.

Maisie nodded faintly, "I will be happy to meet her as well."

"Good then it is settled. As soon as she returns, I shall tell her to find ye and not waste a moment, then we shall all be greatly acquainted," Isabelle smiled.

Maisie was only half in this conversation as her eyes darted toward him once more despite her oath not to look.

He was laughing at something a clansman had said, the sound rolling low and deep through the hall.

But then, as if sensing her gaze, his head turned, and their eyes nearly met.

Heat flooded her face, and she snapped her attention to Isabelle, heart pounding like a drum.

The hall erupted in cheers as servants carried in platters of fish and loaves of steaming bread. Tankards were raised, songs began, and the great room spun with life.

Maisie forced a smile to her lips for the benefit of those beside her, but her heart was far from the merriment. It beat instead to the rhythm of her own confusion, a tangle of anger, shame, and secret yearning.

She told herself she blamed him, blamed Caiden for every moment of unrest she now suffered.

If he had not taken her from her kin, she would not be here, torn between loyalty and a heart that betrayed her with every thud.

He had set her adrift in this storm, and she would never forgive him for it.

And yet, deep within, she knew it was not so simple.

Her thoughts returned again and again to that moment, the press of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the strength of his hand steadying her as though he feared to let her go.

It was madness to think of it, madness to wish she had turned her face away.

She hated him for putting her in such a place, hated that her body remembered what her mind despised.

Closing her eyes, she prayed the hall's noise would drown out the storm inside her, but no such mercy came.

Maisie opened her eyes and looked toward Caiden, expecting his eyes to be burning through her, but what she saw made her eyes go wide.

There, Laird McGibb leaned back in his chair, his tousled brown hair catching the glow of the firelight. A maid stood close beside him, her hand brushing the sleeve of his tunic far too boldly, her laugh light and careless.

Maisie's heart plummeted, sinking low into her belly like a stone dropped in water.

She looked away quickly, her throat tight, the air seeming too thick to breathe.

Jealousy struck swift and sharp, though she had no right to claim it.

What was she to Laird McGibb but a captive in his castle, another lass he could play with as he pleased?

Anger flared inside of her, attempting to replace the ache rooting itself deeply.

Turning back to Isabelle, she summoned her courage.

"Tell me, Lady Isabelle… does the laird have an intended?" The question left her lips before she could rein it back, her voice hushed but urgent. "A wife, or a betrothal, perhaps?"

Isabelle tilted her head, studying Maisie with a flicker of amusement tempered by sincerity.

"Nay, nay wife, nor betrothal that I ken of," she said. Her tone was calm, as if she were accustomed to such inquiries. "Though, there are whispers enough. Folk say he must keep a mistress, how else could a man of his age bear to walk alone?"

Maisie felt her breath catch, unease stirring low in her chest. The thought of Caiden with some secret woman, kept apart from the eyes of the hall, made her stomach twist. She glanced again toward him, but the maid was already sweeping away. Still, the sting of jealousy lingered, stubborn and raw.

"I should nae have asked," Maisie murmured, cheeks hot once more. Her fingers tangled in the folds of her skirt, restless and uncertain. "It is nae me place to wonder about such things." She wished she could sink into the stone floor beneath her, unseen, unheard.

Isabelle reached for her hand with a soft smile. "Ye need nae fret, lass. Curiosity does nae shame ye, it makes ye honest. Ye want to ken about this place and its ruler." Her grip was warm, grounding, a balm against Maisie's restless spirit.

Maisie blinked at her, surprised by the openness. Isabelle was nothing like she had expected: not haughty, not cold, but kind in a way that disarmed her. For the first time since entering Castle McGibb, Maisie felt the faintest spark of trust.

Still, her heart beat heavy with doubt. If Caiden truly carried no betrothal, no wife, then why did the sight of that maid's bold laugh twist her so painfully? She swallowed hard, forcing her thoughts back to Isabelle's words. And yet, the questions would not leave her.

Who is this possible mistress?

"Eat, lass. It's good food," Isabelle said.

Maisie's stomach twisted with hunger, yet the memory of Caiden's careless remark, that she seemed a lass with an appetite, burned at the edges of her pride.

With a careful hand, she reached for the serving spoons and placed but the smallest portions upon her trencher, willing her face to appear calm though her insides churned.

The fare of the table tempted her greatly, rich with the sea's bounty.

There was salt herring, laid out in neat rows, their silver skins glistening beneath the firelight.

Platters of mussels steamed in their shells, touched with butter and garden herbs that filled the hall with a briny fragrance.

A bowl of Cullen skink, thick with smoked haddock, onions, and cream, sat beside roasted fish fillets dusted with peppercorns.

The scent of oatcakes and bannocks, warm from the griddle, mingled with the sharper tang of dried kelp.

Maisie's hunger flared, but she kept her motions deliberate, breaking off a corner of oatcake and dipping it daintily into the broth. Isabelle, watching her with a knowing smile, leaned close enough that her curls brushed her shoulder.

"Ye must nae starve yerself, dear heart. There's nae shame in eatin' when the food's set before ye. I swear, the Laird keeps a hall like a king's feast more oft than nae."

Maisie forced a faint smile, nodding as though satisfied with her tiny meal.

Inside, however, she felt hollow, empty not only of food, but of confidence.

She dared not be seen as greedy or wanting, not when Caiden's words haunted her.

Her gaze flicked toward the high table, where laughter rang and wine spilled freely.

The maid had returned and lingered near the laird, her bodice lowered far more than propriety should allow, her hand brushing too close to his sleeve.

Maisie's chest tightened, a heat rising in her throat that had naught to do with hunger.

"Tell me, Isabelle," Maisie ventured, her voice careful as she forced herself to cut a small piece of haddock. "Is this rumor about the laird having a mistress about one of the maids perhaps?"

"I daenae ken who. Only that men have needs and it is not uncommon for a laird to have a mistress, or several," Isabelle said.

Maisie coughed, nearly choking on her bannock. "Excuse me," she said taking a drink of her wine. The thought of him bedding more than one woman suddenly made her gasp for air.

Maisie felt her stomach lurch, the haddock turning to stone in her mouth. The thought of Caiden lying close with another, laughing softly in her ear, made Maisie's insides ache with a pang sharper than jealousy alone. She lowered her eyes again, stabbing her oatcake with unnecessary force.

Isabelle studied her with the wisdom of one who saw far more than she spoke aloud. "Ye look troubled, Maisie," she said softly, her tone kind. "But daenae fash yerself too much over tales and gossip. Men like the laird draw whispers like gulls to a fishing boat. It doesnae make all of it true."

Around her the hall roared with cheer, but all she could hear was the echo of her own unsettled feelings. The feast might have been fit for a queen, yet for Maisie it tasted of longing, doubt, and the salt of the sea.