Page 28 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

H e hadnae spared a glance, nor a smile, as though all the heat we'd shared by the sea had been naught but a dream.

Maisie sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched tight in her lap, her heart still raw from the sharpness of Caiden's cold words in the great hall the night before.

The memory stung, twisting in her chest until she felt she could hardly breathe. She reached for the whisky bottle on the table and poured herself a glass, the amber liquid burning as it slid down her throat.

"Another," she muttered, filling the glass again, hoping the fire would dull the ache clawing at her insides. The second drink made her cheeks warm and her limbs heavy, yet it did nothing to ease the hollow ache in her heart.

She thought of his mouth against hers, his hands upon her skin, and then the way he'd looked past her as if she were a stranger.

"Fool, Maisie," she whispered, pressing the rim of the cup to her lips again.

Her gaze drifted to the window. How she wished she were back home, far away from this laird with his secrets and his walls of stone about his heart.

She was meant to have been a quest, a chance to find the stolen painting, yet it felt more like she was trapped in a snare, her own heart betraying her.

She didn't even know if the letter to Nathan had been sent, for Caiden gave her no word of it after he forced her to write it.

The silence pressed heavy until a sudden knock startled her, making her set the glass down with trembling hands. Her breath caught in her chest, her heart racing as she thought it might be him, coming to soften his cruel silence.

She rose quickly, smoothing her skirts, her lips parting to speak, but she hesitated at the threshold. A soft voice came instead, muffled through the wood.

"Me lady, 'tis Leslie."

Maisie's shoulders sagged, disappointment washing over her like cold rain. She swallowed and opened the door to find the young maid standing with her hands folded before her. Leslie's face was calm, though her eyes darted up and down the hall as though guarding a secret.

"Good day, Leslie," Maisie said.

"Good day, me lady," Leslie replied, dipping her head. "The laird requests yer presence. I'm to escort ye, if ye'd be so kind as to follow." Her tone was polite, but her cheeks were tinged pink, as if she knew well the weight of the message she carried.

Maisie's heart gave a wild thump at the words, though she forced her face to remain steady.

"Aye, very well," Maisie managed, though her voice shook faintly.

She crossed the room and snatched up her shawl, wrapping it tightly about her shoulders, as though it might shield her from whatever awaited.

Her fingers brushed the glass on the table, the half-empty whisky staring back at her like a guilty witness.

She turned away and stepped into the corridor, following Leslie's quiet footsteps.

Maisie kept her head lowered, her thoughts whirling, each step heavier than the last.

Why has he sent for me after his cruel dismissal?

Her heart was torn between fear and hope, and each breath seemed too loud in the narrow hall.

Maisie followed closely behind Leslie. The air in this part of the castle was cooler, untouched by the warmth of the fires she knew well in the west wing.

Each turn of the corridor revealed places she had never seen, corners and stairwells that felt secretive and full of whispers from long ago.

Her heart beat faster with every step, wondering where this path would lead.

"Where are we goin', Leslie?" Maisie asked, her voice hushed though she did not know why. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She could not shake the feeling that she was being led into a place meant for secrets.

Leslie's steady stride gave her no clue of what was ahead. "The laird is this way in the east wing," Leslie replied, her tone quiet but certain. Her hands brushed the folds of her skirts as if she too felt the weight of what she was saying.

Maisie looked up at the high ceilings, marveling at how unfamiliar it all seemed. A strange flutter stirred in her chest, equal parts nervousness and excitement.

"I've never been in this part of the castle," Maisie said softly, her gaze darting from one painted panel to another. There was something lonely about the east wing.

"Aye, there are few that come here, as the laird prefers it that way," Leslie answered, pausing before a tall wooden door.

Her hand rested against the carved handle, her eyes unreadable in the dim light. Maisie felt her breath quicken as the silence pressed around them. She was certain she was about to step into a room that carried far more meaning than its walls let on.

Leslie pushed open the door, and the hinges gave a low groan.

A warm light spilled from within, chasing back the shadows of the corridor.

Maisie's eyes widened at the sight of the sitting room, so unlike the stern, masculine spaces she had seen elsewhere in the castle.

Floral motifs and cream-colored drapes softened the stone, creating a haven of gentleness.

Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze found him, Caiden stood near the hearth, tall and solemn, his broad shoulders bathed in firelight.

The scar at his right eye drew her attention as always, a mark of hardship that somehow only deepened his handsomeness.

His presence seemed to fill the room, commanding without words.

Maisie's heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

Leslie gave a respectful curtsy, her eyes flickering between them before lowering.

"I shall leave ye here, mistress," she said, her voice low. Then she slipped from the room, closing the heavy door behind her with a soft thud that left Maisie suddenly aware of her own breathing. The silence pressed close as she turned toward the laird.

"Ye wanted to see me?" Maisie asked, her hands twisting together at her waist. Her voice wavered, though she tried to keep it steady. She felt small before him, the heat of the fire warming her cheeks though it was his gaze that truly burned her.

"Aye, there's somethin' I wanted to show ye," Caiden replied.

His eyes held hers for a long moment, and she found herself unable to look away. It was as though the very air thickened between them, charged with unspoken things.

The silence stretched, heavy and unrelenting. Maisie longed to bridge it, to tell him that her heart ached to give itself to him fully. Yet the memory of his cold distance at supper stung afresh, tightening her throat. She swallowed hard, searching for words that would not betray her feelings.

"What a beautiful room," she finally said, letting her gaze wander to the soft draperies and the delicate patterns on the chairs.

The feminine grace of the place was unlike anything she expected of Caiden.

It comforted her, though it also raised new questions.

She turned back to him, waiting for his reply.

"It was me mother's sitting room," Caiden said, his voice gentler now, touched with something that sounded almost like reverence.

The flicker of the firelight caught in his eyes, softening the usual sternness of his expression.

Maisie's chest tightened at the glimpse of his vulnerability.

She wished she could step closer, to ease whatever burden weighed on him.

"I see," Maisie whispered, not knowing what else to say. The words seemed so small, so insufficient, compared to the moment. She clasped her hands tighter together, willing herself not to tremble. Every second of silence stretched longer, pulling at her resolve.

Caiden did not speak, only watched her with an intensity that made her feel bare to her very soul.

His gaze stirred a fire within her, one she fought so hard to contain.

She wanted nothing more than to surrender, to close the distance between them.

The weight of desire pressed on her, a sweet ache she could not ignore.

Kiss me, I beg ye.

Her body moved before her mind could stop it. She stepped closer to him, her hand trembling as she reached out toward his arm. Her fingertips were inches from touching him when he turned abruptly, his movement swift and firm. The rejection struck her with the sharpness of cold air.

"Follow me, lass," he said, his voice low but commanding.

He did not look back at her as he stepped away from the hearth. Maisie's heart clenched, torn between longing and confusion, but she obeyed. Her footsteps fell softly behind his, her thoughts tangled in the storm he left within her.

He had brushed her touch away as if it burned him, and the sting of it cut deeper than she wished to admit.

He seemed determined to keep her at arm's length, no matter how gently she tried to close the space between them.

The chill in his distance left her raw, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how much it hurt.

The hallway wound on with stone arches and torchlight flickering against carved walls, each turn making her feel as though she was being led into some hidden secret.

Caiden said nothing, his silence heavier than the stone around them, and it pressed upon her like a weight she could scarcely carry. At last, he pushed open a pair of great oak doors, and the air changed at once.

Maisie gasped as her eyes widened. The room stretched long and rectangular, its vaulted ceiling catching and carrying the glow of lanterns hung with silver chains.

Tall windows let the light spill in, painting pale lines across polished floors that gleamed like glass.

Along the walls hung painting after painting, each framed in gold or dark wood, their colors alive even beneath the dim night light.

"Oh, Caiden!" she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her mouth before breaking into a delighted laugh. "Ye dinnae tell me ye had such treasures hid away in here."

She ran to the first canvas, her gown brushing the floor as she bent forward, eyes wide with awe. "Look at the brush strokes, the colors! 'Tis like the sea itself caught in the frame."

"Aye, they've been here long before I took the title," he said quietly, his voice low but carrying through the hall. "Me grandsire commissioned half of them from when he was young. Those are gifts, but the rest are..."

Maisie turned to another painting, this one of a Highland glen bathed in morning light, a stag standing proud upon a craggy hill. The green seemed so alive she swore she smelled the damp earth after rain, the artist's hand so skilled it near tricked her eyes.

She clasped her hands together and laughed softly, spinning toward him. "How can ye walk by these each day and nae stop to marvel? They're like windows into other worlds."

She watched as he tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching though it never quite turned into a smile. "Mayhap I've grown blind to them, lass. They've been part of these walls since I was a bairn, and duty leaves little time for gazin' at paint."

Maisie darted across the floor toward a sculpture, her skirts flaring as she went.

A marble figure of a maiden stood with her arms lifted to the heavens, her face carved with such grace it near seemed she might speak.

The folds of her gown spilled down her form like water, each line chiseled with painstaking care.

Maisie reached out a trembling hand but stopped just shy of touching. "She's beautiful… like she's prayin' for the world to hear her."

"Aye," Caiden murmured from his place against the wall, his eyes shadowed. "Folk say the artist died carvin' her hands, and his apprentice finished the rest." He shifted slightly, though still he did not move closer, watching her with an intensity. "There's more beyond, if ye've the heart to look."

Maisie whirled about, her cheeks flushed, eyes shining with delight. "The heart?" she laughed, her voice echoing through the vast chamber. "I've never had such a feast for me eyes, Caiden. If ye leave me here till dawn, I'd still nae have me fill of it all."

"Then look as long as ye please, lass," he said quietly, though the words carried weight. "For if ye find joy in this place, mayhap it shall be worth more than all the gold that bought it."

Maisie spun once more, taking in every detail, the painted saints and stormy seas, the carved warriors frozen in stone, the endless line of artistry stretching down the gallery.

Her heart still ached from his coolness, but here, in this hall of beauty, she could almost forget the sting.

For now, she let herself be consumed by the wonder, even as she longed for him to stand beside her.

And though he stayed apart, she could feel his eyes on her, following her every move as if he too were caught in a painting, silent yet unwilling to look away.

As she expected she realized so many were by the artist Byrne.

Each painting bore the same careful hand, the same depth of soul that spoke louder than words could.

She bent closer to one canvas, her breath catching as the brushstrokes revealed a tender light upon a woman's face.

Her heart swelled with wonder, her eyes roaming from one masterpiece to the next in awe.

"Caiden," she cried softly, her voice quivering with delight, "what relation is this Byrne to ye? For it cannae be so distant as I thought, nae with this many pieces hangin' in yer care."

She turned to face him, her eyes wide, her hands lightly clutching her skirts as if to steady herself. The notion that these works had lingered quietly beneath his silence felt almost unbearable.

He shifted where he leaned against the wall, his expression darkened. "She's me mother," he said at last, the words rolling from his tongue like stones tumbling down a hill.

She watched his gaze move to the floor, as if speaking the truth aloud bore too heavy a weight.

Maisie gasped, her hand flying to her lips. "Why did ye nae tell me?" she whispered, the sting of surprise wringing her heart tight.

The revelation cut through her like a sudden gust, raw and sharp, for she had thought herself close to him. Yet here was a truth so dear, held back as though she were but a stranger.

Caiden offered no reply, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

Maisie lowered her gaze, her thoughts tumbling in fierce waves within her. Now she knew why the stolen painting haunted him so and why its loss carved deep into his soul. It was not just art to him, but blood, memory, and love he couldn't bear to lose.