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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Laird McGibb?"
Maisie whispered the name under her breath, as though saying it aloud might make the pieces of the puzzle fit together. But they didn't.
She stood in the center of the chamber, her hands still trembling from the encounter, her mind spinning like a leaf caught in the wind. This man who she thought was nothing but a brute bandit was in fact a laird.
How could a man of such station, a laird nay less, stoop to abductin' me as though I were some common thief?
Her gaze roamed the chamber, drinking in the carved wood paneling, the gilded edges of the fireplace, the thick rugs that muffled even the sound of her own restless pacing.
Her anger rose again, only to twist into something she hated admitting even to herself. She could still feel the press of his hand on her waist, the warmth of him behind her as they'd ridden through the gates.
Saints above, the man was infuriatingly handsome, all sharp lines and a presence that filled the room even when he was gone. She clenched her fists, willing the thought away.
What is wrong with me, letting' me mind wander toward such notions? A man like Caiden Byrne would never look at me that way, nae truly.
She caught sight of herself in the looking glass and thought she was too tall, always had been, taller than most men, which had earned her more teasing than admiration. She looked at her lanky limbs, always feeling her elbows stuck out from her body further than they should. She ran a finger down her neck, noticing just how long it was, but not feeling a like a swan. Dresses fit her too short just above the ankle, when they were not tailored for her, and stockings were always over the knee instead of up to her thigh.
Lairds have their pick of women, and it certainly wouldnae be someone like me.
She moved to the chair and sat, her mind shifting from herself to her sister. Lavina would be beside herself with worry by now, perhaps already organizing a search or pacing in front of the hearth with her brows drawn tight. Maisie's stomach clenched with guilt; her sister had warned her, told her she was out ofher depth meddling in such matters. Fool that she was, she had brushed off the warning.
Now she was paying for it. And worse, Lavina was paying it too, in worry and fear. Maisie could almost hear her voice now, half-scolding and half-pleading for her to think before acting. But it was far too late for thinking; her fate was no longer her own.
Rising, she crossed the chamber and approached the tall, arched window draped with velvet curtains. She pulled them aside and blinked at the sight before her, her breath catching in her throat. Below stretched the endless sweep of the sea, its surface glinting silver under the sunlight, the sound of the waves faint but steady even from this height.
The salty tang of the breeze reached her, carrying with it the sharp truth, she was far, far from home. Here, in this grand, foreign castle, she was alone. And for all her stubborn spirit, Maisie knew the road back to them would not be easy to find.
A knock sounded on the heavy wooden door, sharp enough to make Maisie flinch. She turned, wary, and called out a hesitant, "Aye?"
The door opened to reveal a young maid with dark hair tucked neatly beneath a linen cap, her eyes quick and polite.
"Me lady, I am Leslie. Ye're to follow me, please," the lass said, her tone gentle yet leaving no room for argument.
Maisie rose from the chair and trailed behind her, each step echoing softly against the stone floor as they walked down the corridor. The air here smelled faintly of wax and the sea, the mingled scents tugging at her senses in strange contrast as she took in the rich furnishings of the castle.
They stopped before a carved oak door, and when the maid pushed it open, Maisie's breath caught. This was no cell, no cold corner meant for a prisoner; this was a chamber fit for a favored family member.
"These are to be yer chambers, me lady," the maid said. "I have provided fresh water in the pitcher for washin' up. I will return with some drink and refreshment for ye."
Stepping inside, Maisie turned to the maid in disbelief.
"There must be some mistake," she said quickly, her voice low but urgent. "I doubt the laird meant for me to be in here."
The maid, unflustered, only shook her head. "His orders were clear, me lady," the maid replied, clasping her hands neatly in front of her. "Ye're to stay in these chambers, and there is clothin' for ye in the wardrobe." With that, and without waiting for another protest, she curtsied and stepped out, the door closing softly behind her.
Maisie was left staring at it, her words swallowed before she could speak again.
