Page 34 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
" W e found him. Vincent Mills and the paintin'," Eric said as he stood in the doorway of Caiden's study.
"Where is he now?" Caiden stood, steaming with anger.
"The dungeon," Eric replied.
Caiden raged as he made his way to the dungeons and Eric followed.
Two days had passed since Maisie returned home, and now they had caught the thief, the one responsible for taking the painting that had consumed him with obsession.
His boots echoed against the floor, each step feeding the fire of his anger.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of his dagger, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight along the walls.
Mills sat chained to the wall, his wiry frame tense, black hair falling in his eyes.
He lifted his head slowly as Caiden approached, cold blue eyes meeting his in a challenge.
The young thief did not flinch, though Caiden could sense the undercurrent of fear beneath the surface.
Eric stood silently behind, watching, waiting for Caiden's first move.
"Who are ye?" Caiden demanded, his voice low, dangerous.
"I'm nothin' but a good thief, Laird," Vincent replied smoothly, a faint smirk playing on his thin lips.
"And why did ye steal the paintin' from me?" Caiden's voice cut through the damp air like a blade.
"I dinnae steal it from ye," Vincent said, shrugging lightly. "It belonged to another fellow."
"Who?" Caiden's patience frayed, each second stoking the fire in his chest.
"I daenae ken the name," Vincent admitted, his tone casual, almost mocking. "I usually daenae introduce meself to the folk I steal from."
A dark shadow passed over Caiden's face. Every word made his anger surge, yet beneath it, a cold clarity began to settle. He pressed forward, his gaze piercing the thief's pale blue eyes.
"Why do ye still have it? Why did ye nae sell it?"
Vincent leaned back slightly, shrugging again. "I had a buyer lined up in McGowan territory, but I was delayed by a full day, and when I arrived… she was nowhere to be found."
The words struck Caiden like ice. He froze for a moment, the torchlight reflecting in his dark eyes. A storm of conflicting emotions churned within him: relief, rage, and a bitter understanding. Maisie had told the truth all along.
Caiden's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight.
He had doubted her, suspected her of deception, and yet here was proof that she had spoken honestly.
A cold, bitter satisfaction crept into his chest, mingling with the remnants of his anger.
He forced himself to keep control, to focus on the task at hand rather than the ache of trust betrayed and restored.
"Ye see," Caiden said, his voice steady but cold as ice, "ye daenae ken who ye have wronged. This paintin', it is nay mere trinket. It holds meanin' beyond what ye ken."
Mill's smirk faltered slightly, a shadow of doubt crossing his features. "And what makes ye think I care about meanin', Laird?" he asked, voice sharp but wary.
"Because ye are nae a careless man," Caiden replied, stepping closer, the chains rattling with Vincent's shifting weight. "Ye steal and scheme… but ye are bound now, and ye will answer for what ye've done."
Eric's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder of the authority and the danger surrounding the thief.
Vincent's wiry body tensed further, his smirk fading into a thin line of apprehension.
Caiden's mind raced as he processed every detail, every hesitation, every confession.
The clarity of the moment cut through the fog of obsession that had consumed him since the painting vanished.
"Ye've caused enough chaos," Caiden said, voice low and deliberate, filled with the weight of authority. "And yet, ye are lucky… that I ken now the paintin' was nae taken by those I trusted."
Vincent's gaze flicked up, his expression unreadable, but beneath the surface, Caiden could sense the subtle tremor of fear. "And what will ye do with me, Laird?" the thief asked cautiously.
Caiden stood over the thief, the weight of justice and fury heavy in his chest. He drew his sword with precise, deliberate motion, his dark eyes fixed on the wiry man before him.
With one clean strike, he severed Vincent's hand, the sound echoing sharply off the stone walls. Vincent screamed, a mixture of agony and disbelief tearing from his throat, his blue eyes wide with terror.
"Eric," Caiden said, his voice low but hard as steel, "take him to the infirmary. Patch him up proper, and see to it he lives so that he can tell everyone what happens to ye if ye steal from Laird McGibb."
A grim silence followed, broken only by Vincent's ragged breathing and the faint metallic scent that lingered in the damp dungeon air.
Eric nodded, his jaw tight, then moved to obey, guiding the wounded thief toward the infirmary. Vincent cried and cursed under his breath, clutching the stump where his hand had been, his wiry frame shaking with pain.
Caiden did not flinch; he remained calm, the cold discipline of a laird and a warrior steadying his actions.
Once Eric departed with the thief, Caiden's dark gaze lingered on the empty space where the thief had been.
He thought of the consequences, of the balance of fear and respect that must be maintained in his lands.
He had given warning, and that warning was final.
If Vincent ever dared to return to McGibb territories, he would not hesitate to take the other hand, and Vincent understood that completely.
The young thief's sobs echoed faintly down the stone corridor as he was carried away.
Caiden's heart did not waver; he reminded himself that mercy had been weighed against justice and that the painting and the safety of his people required this lesson.
Yet beneath the hardness, a shadow of discomfort lingered, a reminder of the cruel lessons instilled by his father.
He had become what he hated most in the clan: a man feared more than loved, shaped by a legacy of cruelty and necessity.
He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound of metal sliding into scabbard echoing in the quiet chamber. The storm in his mind subsided slightly as he leaned against the wall, the torches flickering against his stern features.
He closed his eyes briefly, the echoes of Vincent's screams fading into memory.
There was no satisfaction in the pain, only the grim acknowledgment that his actions ensured the safety of his lands and the people he was sworn to protect.
The responsibility pressed down on him like the weight of the castle itself, yet he bore it without complaint.
In that silence, Caiden steeled himself for the days ahead, knowing that rulership often demanded cruelty as well as courage.
Caiden carefully lifted the painting from the cloth that had protected it, the weight of its frame firm and grounding in his hands. He made his way up the spiral staircase.
When he reached the art gallery, the room felt colder than usual, the shadows of the evening stretching across the long rectangular space lined with paintings and marble sculptures.
He placed the recovered artwork back in its rightful spot, adjusting the frame until it sat perfectly aligned with the others.
"See, Mother," he whispered, his voice breaking the stillness, "I've fixed things and returned yer paintin'."
His fingers lingered on the frame, tracing the edges as if by touch he could summon her presence.
Yet even with the painting restored, a hollow ache gnawed at him, sharper than any wound inflicted in battle.
The one person he wanted beside him, the one who could make his cruel heart soften, was gone, and that absence left a void no restoration could fill.
He leaned back against the cool stone wall and drew the flask from his belt, pouring a generous measure into a goblet that had been left upon a side table.
The amber liquid glinted in the torchlight, and he drank deeply, the burn of the whisky sliding down his throat like fire, momentarily chasing the emptiness from his chest.
He sat there, staring at the painting, letting the memories of Maisie and her laughter fill the room and then fade into the shadows. Each sip blurred the lines of regret and longing, dulling the ache of her absence just enough to bear the silence of the gallery.
His mind wandered to the moments they had shared, the stolen touches, the heated glances, the unspoken understanding between them.
He remembered the way she had pressed her hand to his chest on the spiral staircase, how her pulse had raced under his fingers, and the thrill of holding back and yet giving in just enough.
The memory burned brighter than any torch in the gallery, and he cursed himself quietly, knowing that he had sent her away for her own safety.
She is a flame, fierce and untamed, and if I allow meself to remain near her, I would only burn her with the darkness I carry inside.
Caiden poured another measure of whisky, his hand trembling slightly as he set the goblet on the table beside him.
He let his gaze wander over the other paintings, imagining their subjects whispering advice or scolding him for his failings.
The sculptures, cold and unmoving, seemed to watch him silently, reminding him that art held permanence where human hearts did not.
Even surrounded by beauty, he felt emptier than ever, a laird stripped of his one joy, left only with a gallery of memories and a painting returned to its rightful place.
Minutes stretched into hours as he remained seated, the goblet empty and the room quiet save for the occasional crackle of the torch.
His hands rested on the table, fingers grazing the smooth wood as though grasping at something he could never hold.
The painting before him seemed to mock him with its serenity, vibrant and whole, while he remained fractured and alone.
Caiden finally slumped forward slightly, his head resting on his arm, staring at the artwork with a mixture of reverence and despair, letting the whisky and his grief merge into a numbing fog that carried him toward oblivion.
He knew he should feel triumph, a victory for recovering what was lost, but the triumph was hollow without her presence.
"Ye should be here, Mother… and her too," he muttered, his voice raw with emotion. "Ye would have liked her very much."