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.
