Page 13 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

" C an I bring ye anythin' else, me laird?" the voluptuous maid named Tilly asked.

"Nay, all is well," he said.

"I am glad ye are satisfied, but if ye should need anythin' from me, anythin' at all. Ye ken that I will give it freely," she whispered.

Caiden nodded his head in understanding. It was not new for women to offer themselves to him, but he did not have an interest. His appetite for such things had left him long ago.

He sat at the long table in the great hall, the warmth of the hearth fire doing little to ease the unrest in his chest. His eyes strayed toward Maisie, seated across the room beside Isabelle, her gaze fixed anywhere but his.

Every time his glance caught hers, she turned quickly away, as though the sight of him was a danger she dared not face. The more she ignored him, the more the sting sharpened, though he tried to school his expression into indifference.

"Stubborn lass," he muttered.

He shifted his goblet between his hands, the rich wine forgotten as frustration gathered within him.

It was his own fault, he had kissed her, broken his own vow, and now paid the price for it.

He had long sworn never to let a lass slip beneath his skin, never to risk the part of himself he kept locked away.

Yet here sat Maisie, proving how weak his resolve had grown, a living reminder of how dangerous it was to care.

Yes, he had known women before, fleeting moments, nothing more. But this was different, and that truth unsettled him more than he wished to admit.

Why has this lass buried herself in me soul? This is nae what I want, nor what I deserve.

With Maisie, it wasn't just the taste of her lips or the warmth of her breath, it was the way she made him feel. If she lingered near him too long, she would see beyond the surface, to the shadows he carried and the truths he dared not speak.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to tear his gaze away, yet it slid back to her like iron drawn to a lodestone.

She laughed softly at something Isabelle said, though the sound never once reached his ear.

That laugh cut him deeper than her silence, reminding him she would rather offer her smiles to anyone but him.

And still, curse him, he could not stop wanting her all the same.

She should nae be chained to someone like me… me history is cruel and will rear its head again.

When their eyes did lock, her lashes swept down, and she looked quickly to her trencher, pretending sudden interest in her food. The deliberate slight pulled a low groan from his throat, one he had not meant to loose so loudly.

Eric, seated on his right, caught the sound and leaned close with a smirk.

"Havin' trouble with the lass already?" he asked, voice low but laced with amusement.

Caiden ground his teeth, knowing full well he should have hidden his reaction better.

"The lass is stubborn," Caiden muttered, his hand tightening around the handle of his cup.

He had dealt with many a hard-headed soul, yet none seemed to grate on him as she did. Her defiance clung to him, needling at his pride and patience both. He felt the old ache of battle wounds would have been easier endured than the sting of her indifference.

Eric's grin widened, and he lifted his cup in mock salute.

"Aye, well, I've a way with the ladies, ye ken.

Perhaps ye'd do well to let me teach ye a trick or two.

" His tone was light, teasing, but it cut close, for he knew Caiden would never admit to needing help in such matters.

The man's confidence with women was notorious, and he wore it now like armor.

"I've nay need of yer help," Caiden snapped, glaring at his trencher as though it were to blame.

"The lady is but a captive, and I've nay other interest in her.

" He forced the words with deliberate coldness, though they rang hollow in his own ears.

If Eric heard the lie, he gave no sign save the twitch of his grin.

The man-at-arms lifted both hands in feigned surrender, his dark eyes dancing with mischief.

"That may be, me laird. But I'd wager this, get the lass alone for a game of wits.

Only then will she loosen her tongue and tell ye what she kens about the paintin'.

That's how ye deal with a stubborn lass in me own experience. "

Caiden exhaled sharply, the muscle in his jaw working. "Ye think to advise me like some lovesick swain? Enough of yer prattle, Eric."

His voice carried more edge than he intended for his friend's words gnawed at a truth he refused to face. Yet still, the image of Maisie's downcast gaze burned hot within him.

Eric leaned back, laughter spilling soft but unrelenting. "Och, ye growl like a hound denied its bone. Careful, else the hall will ken where yer thoughts truly lie."

Caiden's glare silenced him at last, though Eric's smirk lingered, smug as ever. The laird turned his eyes away, but not before they found Maisie once more, his annoyance deepened by the knowledge that his man-at-arms saw far too much and now he felt the need to show his dominance.

Caiden lifted a bottle of whisky and pulled the cork with his teeth. He drank long and deep, the fire of drink searing his throat. The hall's noise blurred into a dull roar, yet his eyes never left the slip of a lass seated across the room.

He pushed away from the table and strode across the hall, boots striking heavy against the stone. Laughter and chatter swirled about, yet the moment he reached Maisie, silence seemed to stretch between them.

She did not look at him, her chin ducked low, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The restraint in her posture only fueled the storm inside him.

"Ye'll come with me," Caiden growled, his voice low but commanding enough to turn a few heads nearby.

Maisie rose at once, silent and obedient, though she still refused to meet his gaze.

The gesture stung more than it should, a slight that pricked at his pride.

He clenched his jaw and turned, leading her out of the great hall with long strides.

Behind him, he could hear the faint swish of her skirts as she followed, meek as a lamb, though he suspected fire burned beneath that calm mask.

When they reached his study, Caiden shoved the heavy oak door closed, the latch falling into place with finality.

The fire was banked low in the hearth, shadows pooling thick across the room.

Without a word, he crossed to the shelf, pulled down a carved chessboard, and set it atop the table with a decisive clatter.

Then he turned, his eyes narrowing on the lass who still lingered near the door.

Maisie lifted her chin at last, a spark of defiance glimmering in her dark eyes.

"What's this then?" she asked, her voice sharper than he expected, though her lips trembled faintly.

Caiden lowered himself into a chair, his hand resting firm atop the board.

"Ye'll play with me," he commanded, the words a test, a line drawn in the sand.

Her brows shot up, her mouth parting in incredulity. "Play? I've nay wish for yer games, me laird."

His eyes darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Aye, ye will. I daenae give ye a choice in the matter."

Maisie crossed her arms, her chest rising with a sharp breath. "Ye drag me from supper like a hound on a leash, only to sit me at a table of painted pieces? Ye're mad if ye think I'll humor ye."

His lips twisted in something between a sneer and a smile. "Better to sit across a board of kings and pawns than sit across a hall pretendin' ye've nay eyes for me. Ye think I dinnae see how ye avoid me?"

Color rushed to her cheeks, though she lifted her chin higher. "I avoid ye because I wish to keep me peace."

"Peace?" His voice dropped low, edged with something dangerous. "Ye call it peace, I call it cowardice."

Maisie's eyes flashed, and she stepped closer to the table. "Ye call it cowardice, I call it sense. Any lass with sense would keep clear of a man whose temper runs hotter than the devil's fire. Why would I want to be near me own captor? I daenae wish to speak to ye at all."

Caiden leaned forward, his gaze locked on hers. "And yet here ye stand, answerin' me blow for blow."

Her lips parted, words faltering for a heartbeat. Then she shook her head. "Ye're impossible."

"Aye," he said, softer now, though his stare held her captive. "And so are ye."

The silence stretched, thick and taut between them, until Maisie finally gave a sharp exhale.

She dropped her arms, the fight dimming though not extinguished in her eyes.

With a muttered curse under her breath, she moved toward the chair opposite his.

Her skirts rustled as she sank down, her gaze flicking to the chessboard.

"Fine," she said, the word bitten off like a challenge. "I'll play yer cursed game. But daenae think for a moment that makes ye the victor."

Caiden's mouth curved, satisfaction warming the sharpness of his features. "Nay, lass. The game's just begun."

The chessboard sat between them, its polished pieces gleaming like carved soldiers, each waiting to be commanded. He moved a pawn forward, the scrape of wood across wood sounding louder than it ought. His gaze lingered on her, on the delicate arch of her wrist as she traced the rim of the board.

Maisie's lips curved into a sly smile as she slid her knight into play. "Ye seem very fond of pawns, Laird. Always movin' the little ones first." Her voice was teasing, yet her eyes held something sharper, a challenge that pricked his composure.

He bent closer to the board, the nearness of her unsettling his thoughts.

"A pawn may be small, lass, but one wrong move, and it can turn the whole game." He let his words sink between them, layered with meaning beyond the board.

He watched as she lifted her eyes, meeting his with defiance and a flicker of heat he felt deep in his chest. He took her measure as carefully as he would the next move.

Maisie tipped her head, letting a curl slip against her cheek. "Ye make everythin' sound like a warnin'," she said softly, sliding her queen across the board with deliberate grace. Her fingers lingered on the piece, the touch slow. He thought perhaps she wanted him to notice. He did.

He captured one of her pawns with a rook, his hand brushing closer to hers than necessary.

"Aye, sometimes warnings are worth heedin', even when ye think ye ken better.

" He smirked faintly, though his chest tightened at the way her lashes lowered.

Every move she made felt like a provocation, one he longed to answer.

"Tell me, why is it ye're so obsessed with findin' this missin' paintin'? Ye've the look of a man haunted by it." She pushed a bishop forward, bold, her gaze fixed on him instead of the board. He stilled, the question sharper than any dagger.

He let a silence hang, then spoke, voice lower. "It was me mother's favorite." His jaw flexed, the memory stirring a part of him he rarely let show. He moved another piece, almost absently.

"I ken the feelin'. I started paintin' after me sister wed. The house grew quiet, too quiet, and me brush became the only thing that filled it." Her eyes shone with a faint longing, and he leaned forward before he realized it.

"And what drew ye to paintin'?" His tone was cautious, though his chest thudded as if her answer mattered more than it should.

She lifted her knight, then paused, her fingers lingering as if she weighed more than a move. When she finally spoke, her words slipped into him like a thread pulling tight.

"It was Byrne who inspired me most. The strokes held a life in them. Everythin' else seemed dull beside it. I... I miss it sorely." Her voice dropped with the admission, and her gaze fell, avoiding his.

Caiden's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. Byrne. The name struck him harder than the queen she had cornered against his knight. He leaned back, searching her face for any sign of jest.

She looked up, cautious yet curious. "Is Byrne some auld relation of yers? It bears the same family name. So, I can only think it is." Her tone was gentle, but the question landed like a blade at his ribs. He could not let her see more than he wished.

His jaw hardened, the warmth between them cooling like a doused flame. "It is a relation," he said sharply, his voice clipped and unyielding. He shifted a piece on the board without looking, unwilling to meet her gaze. "And that is all I've to say of it."

The silence that followed was thick, as though the very fire in the hearth hesitated. He forced his eyes to the board, though the game no longer mattered. Every move she made still echoed in him, tugging at walls he had built long ago.

"I think of me own relations. I miss them.

I miss me sister and me nephew. I miss the wee lad so much.

He'd come clingin' to me skirts, beggin' me to play the silliest games, hidin' in cupboards and laughin' like a loon when I'd find him.

And when he grew tired, I'd hold him close till he fell asleep in me arms."

The wistful tone in her words made Caiden shift, unsettled yet drawn.

He studied her face with keen attention, noting the way her smile held a touch of sorrow. "Ye've a strong bond with the bairn, then?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying a rare gentleness. "Nay bitterness nor distance between ye?"

Maisie shook her head with certainty, her eyes bright.

"Aye, we're close," she said, her tone resolute. "He kens he can always come to me, and I'll never turn him away. It matters, ye ken, that a child feels safe, that they ken they're wanted."

Her words settled deep in Caiden's chest, pressing against places he had long kept locked.

Caiden's mind churned as he glanced away, his thoughts darkening. He thought of Arran, his own nephew, his blood, who now scarcely met his gaze, as if Caiden were a monster to be avoided.

Is it possible to bridge that gulf, to learn how to soften me sharpness through this lass before me?

Yet even as he wondered, he knew Maisie's kindness was a thing apart from his own coldness, and mayhap the boy would never look upon him the same.