"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.
