Page 32 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I f she stayed, I would only destroy what little light she carried, and I couldnae bear to see her broken by me own hand .

Caiden sat slouched in his chair by the hearth, his hand braced against his temple as the ache in his chest gnawed at him. He had sent Maisie away, told her words he didn't even believe himself, yet he clung to the thought that it was better for her.

Still, the hollowness in his heart was sharper than he expected, cutting him deeper with every breath.

A knock came at the heavy oak door, dragging him from his thoughts. He straightened in his chair, his voice rough as he called.

"Come." The door creaked open, and Eric stepped inside, tall and broad, his hair falling into his eyes. He shut the door behind him with a thud, bowing his head slightly before speaking.

"Ye summoned me, Laird?" Eric asked.

"Aye," Caiden replied, his voice steady though his insides still churned. "I've a few tasks for ye. I want ye to put a man on the matter of the gallery. I need to ken who had access to it, especially the day the paintin' went missin'."

Eric's brows lifted slightly, and he crossed his arms. "So ye still think the thief walks among us then? Nae some outsider who slipped in and out unnoticed?"

Caiden's gaze hardened, his eyes shadowed with doubt. "I cannae rule out a hand inside these walls. Too many know the hidden paths of this castle, and fewer still are allowed near that gallery. It narrows the list, but it makes the betrayal cut deeper."

Eric tilted his head, his lips curling with a trace of a smirk. "Aye, then ye'd like me to sniff around, see who fits the part best? Folk daenae always hide their secrets well."

Caiden leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice low but firm. "Aye, and more than that, I want a guard set to keep an eye on Fowler."

At the mention of the butler's name, Eric's smirk faded. "The head servant? Fowler? He's been in yer service for years, has he nae?"

"He has," Caiden admitted, his jaw tight. "But I found him once in the sea cave. He claimed to have been out for a walk there, though I cannae say it was truth. And he has access to the gallery, more than most."

Eric let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "That doesnae sit well, I'll grant ye. A butler who strays where he shouldnae… aye, that smacks of trouble. Ye want me to keep a guard close on him then?"

"Aye," Caiden said, his tone brooking no refusal. "Day and night, discreetly. If he's involved, he'll slip sooner or later, and I'll ken the truth of it. I'll nae have betrayal festerin' under this roof."

Eric gave a curt nod, though a glimmer of amusement lingered in his eyes. "Very well, Laird. I'll see it done. Though I'll say this, Fowler's a sly one. If he's hidin' somethin', it'll take sharp eyes to catch him."

Caiden's gaze drifted toward the fire, the flames reflecting the storm in his mind. "Sharp eyes is what I need. I cannae afford to let this go unchecked, nae while that paintin' still lies in another's hands."

Eric shifted, planting his hands on his hips. "Consider it done. I'll pick the best man for the task, and Fowler'll nae move a step without me hearin' of it."

"The truth will come to light, one way or another," Caiden said.

Eric turned as though to leave the chamber at once. His boots had barely scraped the stone floor when Caiden's voice halted him.

"Hold, Eric," he said, his tone quiet yet firm, the kind that carried years of unspoken sorrow.

The man-at-arms straightened at once, waiting for the next order.

Caiden's hand rested heavy on the arm of the chair, his knuckles white with the grip he held.

His chest ached with the weight of what he had resolved, though he reminded himself again that it was for the best. The lass deserved a life free of the shadows that clung to him, shadows he could never escape.

To keep her here any longer would only mean more pain, and he could not bear to see her broken by his doing.

"There's somethin' else ye must do," Caiden murmured, his eyes dark as he looked past Eric to the fire crackling low in the hearth. "I've decided to let the lass return home." His words came rough, like they had torn at his throat on the way out. "Ye'll see to it that she is escorted, and soon."

Eric blinked in surprise, the lines of his face hardening as though he had not heard aright.

"Let her go? Laird, why would ye do such when it's plain to see the lass has brought a change upon ye?" His voice carried no challenge, only the deep concern of a loyal man. He stepped nearer, lowering his voice.

Caiden sighed, pressing a hand to his brow, weary beyond measure. "Change or nay change, I ken what I am. If she stays, I'll turn out just like me faither, aye, and like me brother as well. That path only leads to ruin, and I'll nae drag her down with me."

Eric's jaw tightened, his dark eyes steady upon his laird. "With all respect, I see naught of yer faither in ye, nor of yer brother's cruelty. Ye've stood against them both in yer own way, whether ye'll admit it or nae. The lass sees it too, I reckon, though ye'll not let yerself believe it."

Caiden gave a short, bitter laugh, one with no mirth to its sound. "Ye ken nothing, Eric. Ye look to me and see strength, but inside, the blood of my kin burns the same. I'll nae deny what runs through my veins."

Eric did not falter, though his laird's words cut sharp. "I ken enough to tell ye this: ye're not the man they were. Ye've carried the burden of their sins, aye, but ye've nae let it master ye. That, Laird, is proof enough that ye are different."

But Caiden lifted a hand, his expression closing like iron. "Enough. I willnae hear more on it. The lass leaves, and ye'll see it done." His voice left no room for question, though sorrow lingered in his eyes.

He rose from his chair, shoulders broad beneath the weight of his command.

"Ye'll escort her home but nae under our banners.

I'll have nay word of this reach the McGowans in advance.

Leave her at the entrance to their road, and ye'll watch till she's safe, but daenae let her nor the McGowan guard see ye. "

Eric inclined his head, the muscles in his jaw shifting as he accepted the order.

"As ye command. I'll see to all the tasks before departure, and I'll carry this one with the same weight as the rest." His voice bore no complaint, only the quiet loyalty of a man who would follow Caiden through fire if asked.

Without another word, he bowed low once more and turned for the door. His boots rang on the stone, fading as he made his way to ready the men and set the plan in motion.

Caiden stood rooted where he was, staring into the flames that devoured the last of the logs. In his heart, the ache deepened, for though he told himself it was for the best, it felt far too much like loss.

The hours dragged heavy, each moment slower than the last, until at last the sound of hooves stirred the silence.

From the high window of his chamber, Caiden watched as Eric rode out, with guards flanking him and Maisie at their center.

The lass sat tall upon her horse, though he could see the stiffness of her frame and the tilt of her chin.

Even from afar, her leaving cut him deeper than any blade could.

The wind caught the edge of her cloak, and for a fleeting instant she turned her face back toward the castle.

Caiden pressed a hand against the cold glass, as if by sheer force he might hold her gaze.

But the line moved forward, and soon the riders passed beyond the gates.

The world beyond swallowed her, and the weight in his chest grew near unbearable.

When the sound of their departure faded, silence roared louder than any battle drum.

Caiden staggered back, his breath coming rough and sharp, as though the very air betrayed him.

He poured himself a cup of whisky, the burn of it harsh yet welcome on his tongue.

One cup turned into another, until the fire in his throat dulled the ache of his heart.

By the time night had draped its cloak over the castle, his mind swam in a haze of amber. His steps carried him unsteadily through the corridors, though he could scarcely say why he walked them.

When he pushed open the door to Maisie's chamber, the air still carried the faint sweetness of her presence. It struck him harder than any blow he had faced in battle.

The room was neat, untouched save for the stillness that spoke of her absence.

Dresses lay folded upon the chest at the foot of her bed, the very gowns he had gifted her with his own hand.

Their colors, rich and fine, mocked him now, for she had not taken a single one.

The only gown missing was the plain dress she had worn the day he had captured her, the one that still bore the scent of her defiance.

He leaned against the doorframe, his breath ragged as his gaze fell upon the bed.

Empty now, it seemed too wide, too cold, and far too lonely.

His hand curled into a fist at his side, nails digging into his palm as the truth struck deep.

She had left behind every token, every gesture of what he had hoped might soften her captivity into something more.

Caiden let out a harsh laugh, though it broke midway, shattering into silence.

"Aye, Da," he muttered to the shadows, his voice low and bitter. "Ye raised me to be as unlovable as yerself. Ye forged me from steel and cruelty, and I've done naught but follow the same cursed path."

The whisky in his blood made the room sway, yet it did naught to ease the torment clawing inside him.

He sank onto the bed, burying his face in his hands as the weight of it pressed him low.

Memories of his father's harsh words and cruel hand struck like blows, each one shaping him into the man he now despised.

And though he had sworn never to become like him, the evidence lay all about him.

He had driven the lass away, just as his father had driven love from every soul he touched.

The silence pressed close, filling the chamber with its suffocating presence.

Caiden raised his head, staring at the gowns folded so carefully, untouched, unwanted.

Each fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, a reminder of how hollow his attempts at kindness had been.

To Maisie, they had meant naught, for beneath the silks and velvet he remained his father's son: cold, unyielding, and doomed to solitude.

He reached for the half-empty bottle at his side, taking another long pull until the edges of his vision blurred. The whisky numbed his body, yet his heart raged on, raw and unquiet.

"I should have let her be," he whispered hoarsely, though the room offered no answer. Only the memory of her eyes, bright with life and defiance, haunted him still.

When at last his strength failed, Caiden fell back onto the bed, the world tilting and spinning.

The scent of her lingered faintly on the pillow, sharp and sweet as wildflowers crushed underfoot.

He closed his eyes, wishing for the impossible, that when he woke, she might still be there.

But the darkness swallowed him, and whisky carried him into an oblivion where regret was his only companion.