Page 8 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

" I t's time to wake, lass. Ye've been sleepin' since yesterday."

The door burst open without warning. Maisie startled upright, her hair tumbling loose around her face as Caiden strode in as if he owned the very air she breathed.

"Heaven's sake! I could have been bare as the day I was born!" she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. "What do ye mean bargin' in on a lady?"

Caiden merely tilted an eyebrow, his mouth quirking in faint amusement.

"Och, that's what has ye fashin' yerself? Nae the fact I'm here at all, but the state of yer clothes?" he said, his voice steeped in mockery.

Maisie narrowed her eyes, heat prickling her cheeks at his gall. "'Tis a matter of decency, nae vanity," she shot back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "A beast would have more manners than to come bargin' in unbid."

Caiden stepped closer, his boots thudding softly on the thick rug.

"Aye, and if I'd waited for yer permission, we'd still be standin' on opposite sides of the door.

" His tone was cool, but there was an edge there, sharp as a blade.

"Ye'll dress quick. There's food to be had, and I have things to attend to. "

Maisie folded her arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And if I daenae feel like sharin' a table with the likes of ye?"

His jaw flexed, but he only leaned back slightly. "Then ye'll sit in the great hall and scowl at me while ye eat. Either way, lass, ye're comin' with me even if I have to carry ye."

Maisie muttered under her breath, but she rose and tugged on her gown. "Yer manners are a disgrace," she said.

"Ye're welcome," Caiden replied dryly, as if bringing her to breakfast was some grand favor. Then she saw as his gaze looked her over.

"Why do ye still wear that dress? It is covered in filth," he asked.

"I dinnae mean to, I fell asleep in it and since ye barged in here as I slept I dinnae have time to dress meself, did I?"

Caiden strolled to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress and tossed it onto the bed. "I'll wait outside the door. Be quick, now." He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Maisie huffed in annoyance. She didn't like being ordered about. But terrified that he would walk in on her in a state of undress, she undressed and donned the new gown as quickly as she could. She found a brush and ribbon on the table and brushed her hair and braided it, tying it with the ribbon.

"Better," he said as she stepped out of the door and turned on his heel for her to follow.

The walk through the corridors was silent. When they reached the great hall, she paused in the doorway, her indignation momentarily forgotten.

The vast chamber stretched out before her, its vaulted ceiling ribbed with dark oak beams carved in intricate Celtic patterns. Sunlight streamed in through tall, narrow windows, catching on banners of deep crimson and gold that hung proudly along the walls.

The long table ran nearly the length of the room, its surface polished to a gleam and set with silver platters.

Two great fireplaces roared at either end, their flames dancing and casting warmth across the flagstone floor.

The air smelled faintly of roasted meats, fresh bread, and the tang of the sea drifting in from the open windows.

Along the walls stood heavy sideboards laden with goblets, pitchers, and ornate serving trays, each piece glinting in the morning light.

Maisie's gaze rose to the grand chandelier overhead, wrought from black iron and hung with dozens of candles, their wax dripping lazily into the holders.

She had expected to see others gathered, lords, ladies, servants bustling about, but the hall was eerily empty.

Caiden gestured toward a chair with a flick of his hand.

She hesitated, suspicion prickling. "Is this some kind of trap?" she asked warily.

"If it were, lass, ye'd ken it by now," he replied, pulling out her chair with a mock flourish.

Maisie sat stiffly, her eyes still roving the hall, and the echo of their voices seemed to fill the space. For all its grandeur, the great hall felt less like a place of welcome and more like a stage, and she was not sure whether she'd been brought here to dine… or to be tested.

The spread before her was unlike anything she'd been served in her life.

There was a platter of fresh bannocks, their crusts crisp and golden, steam curling up from their soft insides.

Beside it lay a mound of tattie scones, thin and browned to perfection, and a trencher bearing thick rashers of back bacon glistening with their own fat.

A heavy black pot held creamy porridge, with a jug of honey and a small dish of dried currants for sweetness.

Maisie's gaze drifted to another plate where plump sausages sat beside fried eggs, their yolks bright as the sunrise. A dish of grilled tomatoes and mushrooms gave off a rich, earthy aroma, and in the corner a small wheel of oatcakes waited beside a crock of fresh butter.

"Ye tryin' to feed an army, or just me?" she asked, eyeing the feast.

Caiden poured himself a dram of strong, dark tea, his expression unreadable.

Maisie tried to keep her gaze fixed on the food, but her eyes betrayed her, drifting toward Caiden's face.

The sharp lines of his jaw, the way the firelight caught in his dark eyes, it all made her breath hitch in spite of herself.

She cursed inwardly, knowing such thoughts were foolish and dangerous. This man was her captor, not a suitor.

"Eat," he said simply, as if the command alone should bend her will. "Ye look like a lass that has an appetite."

A frown pressed onto her mouth as she realized that he did not see her as a petite dainty thing, but a large and tall woman, her worst fear about herself.

"Eat," he said again, his tone firm and low.

She met his gaze, her chin defiant. "I willnae take a bite until ye tell me why ye've kept me here."

His lips curved, but it was no smile, it was the sort of expression that promised trouble.

He rose from his chair, moving toward her with a slow, deliberate grace.

Standing over her, he was a wall of heat, his presence filling all the space between them. "If ye daenae eat, lass, I'll spoon feed ye meself. And what do ye think the staff would say to that?"

Her cheeks flamed as she snatched up her spoon, muttering under her breath. "Fine, but daenae think for a second this means I will be doin' as I'm told."

The porridge was warm and sweet on her tongue, though she would never give him the satisfaction of saying so.

He returned to his seat, watching her as though measuring every move.

"Tell me yer name?" he said.

She hesitated, dragging the spoon through her porridge.

"Maisie Lewis," she said at last. "Me sister is Lady McGowan, wife to Laird McGowan."

She watched as shock flickered over his face before his expression hardened again.

"I dinnae expect ye to be of a laird's household," he said.

She set her spoon down with a small clink. "Nay? So ye admit ye have the wrong person? Now will ye let me go? Ye cannae keep a lass from another laird's household without sparkin' battle."

His gaze locked on hers, unyielding. "I willnae be lettin' ye go." The certainty in his voice made her pulse skip.

"Why?" she demanded. "Ye ken I've had nothin' to do with this theft."

"There's a reason the thief contacted ye," he said, voice low and certain. "Ye'll stay until I figure out what that reason is. Ye are me only clue."

Maisie's jaw tightened, though her heart thudded faster at the glint in his eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

"Ye're makin' a fool's error," she shot back. "If ye think holdin' me here will bring ye answers faster, ye're wrong."

That dangerous glint deepened, his gaze narrowing. Something inside her twisted. Fear, yes, but also something far less simple.

Caiden leaned back in his chair, but the tension in him was still coiled tight. "Why do ye think I make such a fuss over a paintin', lass?"

She met his stare squarely. "Because ye're stubborn?"

Instead of laughing, his presence grew darker still. "Because nay one steals from me and walks away unpunished," he said, each word deliberate. "Daenae test me, Maisie Lewis. Ye'll find I've little patience for those who try."

She huffed, more to hide her unease than anything. "Fine. Ask yer blasted questions, then."

His voice was quiet but unyielding. "How did the thief ken to contact ye?"

Maisie rolled her eyes, though her fingers clenched in her lap. "It's nay secret me clan's holdin' an auction. I've bought art from collectors before, aye." She let her tone sharpen on that last part, knowing it would catch his attention.

His gaze narrowed further. "Why Byrne paintings?"

Maisie leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright as she spoke.

"Ye've never seen work like it. Byrne's brush does somethin' rare, makes the very light bend to the will of the canvas.

The blues fair shimmer, the reds, they're alive, like embers with breath in them.

" She gestured unconsciously, her hands painting shapes in the air as she described each hue.

Her voice quickened with excitement, and her cheeks were flushed from more than the fire's warmth.

"And there's nay harsh line, just a meltin' of shades like silk runnin' through yer fingers. Byrne kens how to make a scene breathe."

She barely noticed his steady gaze upon her until the words stumbled in her throat.

She caught the intensity in his stare, so unguarded it made her falter.

It wasn't the usual look of a man tolerating a woman's chatter.

There was somethin' different, warmer, heavier, like it settled in her chest and stayed there.

Her heart skipped and then quickened, sending heat rising from her neck to the tips of her ears.

She dropped her eyes to the table, suddenly aware of every movement she made.

The memory of her own laughter a moment ago seemed foolish now, too loud, too eager.

Folk often said she rattled on like a bairn with too much sugar, never kennin' when to hush.

And here she was, talkin' the ears off a man who, by all rights, shouldnae care a whit for the glow of a painted sky.

Inwardly, she thought that he must think her naught but a bratty bampot. A lass with no sense of restraint, flitting from one fancy to the next like a magpie after shiny things. That would be the tale in his mind, surely. Captive or no, she was making a spectacle of herself.

She tried to busy her hands with the bread on her plate, tearing it into neat pieces, though she had no hunger. Yet his presence pressed on her awareness, every silent second stretching.

Does he ken how much his stare unsettles me? Or worse, does he ken and enjoy watchin' me squirm?

Forcing a lighter tone, she gave a short, awkward laugh. "Ye'll be thinkin' me daft with all this carryin' on over a bit of paint and canvas."

Her voice was too bright, the sound of someone trying to make light of their own embarrassment. She risked a quick glance at him, hoping for some dismissal that would ease her nerves.

But Caiden didn't smirk or scoff. "Ye've a passion for it, lass," he said simply, as if that explained all.

And for a fleeting heartbeat, she almost believed that maybe, just maybe, he dinnae think her foolish at all.

Her chest tightened, not unpleasantly, and she found herself wanting to speak again. Yet caution held her tongue, unsure if she could bear that look fading from his eyes. So instead, she folded her hands in her lap, the restless urge to chatter fading into a quiet she couldn't quite name.