Page 6 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER SIX

C aiden let his gaze drift over the lass without shame, taking in every detail. She was far more beautiful than he'd seen in the dim light of sunset and night. Now in the shining sunrise, he saw that she had a face that might have belonged to some Highland queen from a bard's tale.

But it was her eyes, green as spring moss, that caught him most, eyes that gave away her every thought whether she willed it or not. Anger blazed there now, but there was something else too, something she likely hadn't noticed herself.

Her hair was loose from their earlier chase, strands tumbling around her shoulders in a wild, untamed manner that suited her far too well. The temptation to thread his fingers through it struck him, but he kept his hands to himself for the moment.

"Follow me inside," he said.

"I'd rather nae. I daenae agree to be taken to yer master, if that's what ye are thinkin'," she said.

With one swift motion, he lifted her from the ground as if she weighed no more than a child. Her surprised gasp amused him, and without pause, he slung her over his shoulder.

"Put me down this instant!" Her voice rang with indignation, her small fists pressing against his back.

He smirked, and his tone was dry as he replied. "I daenae take orders, lass. Least of all from someone who's done naught but cause trouble since I took her."

"I've done nothin' but try to get away from a brute who stole me from me home!" she shot back, twisting in his hold.

"Aye, and ye've failed," he said, the faintest hint of a smirk in his voice. "Best get used to it."

She wriggled again, her hands pushing at his back as if she thought sheer stubbornness might free her. The shift of her body made his jaw tighten, but for reasons she clearly didn't realize.

"If ye keep movin' like that," he growled low, "ye'll be stirrin' more than yer own temper."

Her body went rigid instantly. "Ye're a shameless beast," she muttered.

"Aye," he agreed easily, his voice rumbling in satisfaction. "And ye'd do well to remember that."

He carried her up the wide stone steps, the sound of his boots echoing in the enclosed corridor beyond the castle doors.

Servants moved out of their path without a word, though Caiden noticed more than one glance lingering on the lass slung over his shoulder.

He ignored them all, his focus on the warm, tense weight of her against him.

They reached the upper floor, where the air grew warmer from the heat of the hearths. At last, he pushed open the heavy oak door to his chambers, the hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, the room stretched wide, with thick woven tapestries along the walls depicting battles and hunts of old. A great fire burned in the stone hearth, the scent of pine and peat smoke curling through the air.

The bed dominated one wall, its carved posts rising high and draped with dark green velvet that matched the laird's crest embroidered in gold above the headboard.

A polished oak table sat near the window, set with a silver flagon and two cups, the light from the sea-glass windows catching on the metal and making it gleam.

Furs lay scattered across the floor, softening the cold of the stone.

Every detail spoke of wealth and power, but none of it seemed ostentatious, it was the room of a man who valued both comfort and dominance.

Setting her back on her feet, Caiden held her there a moment longer than necessary, his hands firm at her waist.

"There now," he said, his voice still low but edged with something sharper. "On yer feet, lass. And if ye've any sense, ye'll stop tryin' to run before I find a way to make ye stay that ye'll nae like."

Her chin lifted, her eyes flashing despite her flushed cheeks. "Ye'll nae frighten me into obedience."

Caiden's smirk deepened. "We'll see about that."

He leaned against the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he studied her.

"Well then, lass, I think it's time ye tell me what ye ken."

Her chin lifted defiantly, though her hands were clenched at her sides. "I'll tell ye once again, I've nay idea why ye took me."

"Aye, ye do," he said, his voice a low growl, as if her denial were nothing more than an irritating game. "Ye're complicit in the theft of me favorite paintin'."

Her face drained of color, her lips parting slightly in shock. "That's a filthy lie. I've done nay such thing."

Caiden's gaze hardened, though a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face at her reaction. "Ye were spotted exactly where me men were told the thief was hidin'. Daenae insult me by claimin' that's a coincidence. Unless ye start talkin', I'll be takin' more… persuasive measures."

"Aye, I was there to meet someone to buy a paintin'," she said quickly, her words tumbling out. "That's all! I was told it was by Byrne, from someone's private collection. I only kent where to meet them, nothin' else. I was nae there to steal it."

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "And ye expect me to swallow that without question?"

"It's the truth, whether ye believe it or nae," she shot back, her voice trembling slightly but refusing to lose its edge.

"How did this supposed seller contact ye?" he demanded, his tone sharp.

She reached into the folds of her gown, drawing out a folded piece of parchment. "This letter. It's all I received."

Caiden took it from her, his large hands dwarfing the delicate script on the page. After scanning it, he set it down, his expression unreadable. "I'll believe ye, for now."

"Then ye'll let me go?"

He gave a short, amused laugh. "Nae a chance. Ye're nae goin' anywhere till the thief is caught and I get me paintin' back. In fact, I'll use ye to catch him if needed."

Her brows shot up in disbelief. "Usin' me? And what exactly do ye think I'll be doin'?"

He stepped closer, the air between them heating. "Ye'll play yer role as the buyer perfectly. And ye'll nae leave me sight until the paintin' is back where it belongs."

"I will nae do that," she said.

He looked over her dress, seeing the fine weave, and finally asked, "What is yer name?"

"Why should I tell ye?" she said.

"Because I've asked and ye will answer me," he said.

Her breath came quicker. "And who do ye think ye are to be makin' such demands? To keep me prisoner like this? Who do these rooms belong to? Will ye be givin' me to yer laird as a prize, is that it? I refuse!"

He smiled then, a slow, dangerous thing. "Give ye to me laird?" His brow raised. Then he continued, "I'm Caiden Byrne, Laird McGibb. And this, lass, is McGibb Castle."

Without giving her another glance, he turned and strode to the door. His hand tightened on the iron handle, and he cast her a final look over his shoulder.

Then he slammed the door, leaving her alone with the echo ringing in her ears.

Amused, Caiden made his way to the kitchens and found Eric sprawled at the long table, a half-empty bottle of whisky at his elbow and a smirk on his face.

Without a word, Caiden took the bottle, poured himself a dram, and knocked it back in one swallow.

The burn did little to ease the tension knotted in his chest.

Eric's eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned back, watching his laird with a knowing grin.

"Somethin' got ye so heated ye've to cool yer blood with the drink, aye?" Eric teased, his tone light and prodding.

Caiden's jaw tightened, the shadows in his gaze warning the man off. "I'm in nay mood for yer fool's tongue," he said, his voice low and edged.

Still, he poured himself another whisky and set it on the table before taking a seat beside his man-at-arms.

Eric's grin dimmed slightly, but he still leaned in with curiosity. "What's the lass said, then? Does she ken where the paintin' is?"

Caiden swirled the whisky in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "The lass swears she kens nothin' of a theft," he said at last, though there was a weight in his tone. "She carries a letter that reads she was to meet a seller of a paintin', a Byrne."

"And ye believe this letter?" Eric asked.

"I daenae ken, but there must be somethin' to her," he continued, setting the glass down with a quiet thud, "else we'd never have been led straight to her."

Eric raised a brow, tapping a finger against the table. "And who is she, then?"

Caiden let out a humorless breath, leaning back in his chair. "She'll nae say her name, but the cut of her dress and the weave of the cloth tell me she's of high standin'."

That made Eric's eyes sharpen, the teasing replaced by something harder. "Do we dance on the edge of a clan battle, Laird?" he asked, his voice dropping. "If she's a woman of high status, a relation to a laird, they will take offense."

Caiden's gaze darkened, and the air between them seemed to grow heavier. "She'd better nae be a laird relation," he said, his words slow and deliberate, "else it'll be yer blunder that sets it alight. Ye were the one that tracked the thief after all."

Eric swallowed and took his own glass, downing the whisky in one long pull. The sharp scent of the drink hung between them, mingling with the smoke drifting from the kitchen hearth.

Neither man spoke for a moment, the quiet filled only by the muffled clatter of pots and the faint hum of voices.

Caiden poured himself another drink, but this time he only held it in his hand.

His thoughts were already elsewhere, back to the moment he'd set eyes on the lass. Her green eyes had struck him like an arrow, sharp and searching, seeming to pierce straight through to the truth of him.

He'd seen defiance there, yes, but also a flash of something softer she likely didn't want him to notice. It stirred a hunger in him that had little to do with answers about the painting.

He thought of the way her long legs had shifted against the saddle as they'd ridden, the lithe grace of her movements even when she fought him.

The elegant line of her neck had caught his gaze more than once, drawing his eyes like a magnet.

Her hair had been loose and wind-tossed, a wild halo that made her beauty all the more striking.

He could still remember the faint scent of her, something warm, like heather touched by the sun.

Caiden took a slow drink, letting the burn of the whisky anchor him.

Desire was a dangerous thing, and more than once it had led men into ruin.

She was a puzzle, but one he couldn't simply walk away from.

Not while she might hold the key to the painting or while his blood still stirred at the memory of her pressed against him.