"Yer sister?" Maisie asked.
"Aye, she is nae at the castle at the moment, she'll be returnin' soon from the village, where she's been tendin' to the healer's work the last few days. I think ye would like her very much and she would be pleased with ye as well," Isabelle said.
Maisie nodded faintly, "I will be happy to meet her as well."
"Good then it is settled. As soon as she returns, I shall tell her to find ye and not waste a moment, then we shall all be greatly acquainted," Isabelle smiled.
Maisie was only half in this conversation as her eyes darted toward him once more despite her oath not to look. He was laughing at something a clansman had said, the sound rolling low and deep through the hall. But then, as if sensing her gaze, his head turned, and their eyes nearly met. Heat flooded her face, and she snapped her attention to Isabelle, heart pounding like a drum.
The hall erupted in cheers as servants carried in platters of fish and loaves of steaming bread. Tankards were raised, songs began, and the great room spun with life.
Maisie forced a smile to her lips for the benefit of those beside her, but her heart was far from the merriment. It beat instead to the rhythm of her own confusion, a tangle of anger, shame, and secret yearning.
She told herself she blamed him, blamed Caiden for every moment of unrest she now suffered. If he had not taken her from her kin, she would not be here, torn between loyalty and a heart that betrayed her with every thud. He had set her adrift in this storm, and she would never forgive him for it. And yet, deep within, she knew it was not so simple.
Her thoughts returned again and again to that moment, the press of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the strength of his hand steadying her as though he feared to let her go. It was madness to think of it, madness to wish she had turned her face away. She hated him for putting her in such a place, hated that her body remembered what her mind despised. Closing her eyes, she prayed the hall's noise would drown out the storm inside her, but no such mercy came.
Maisie opened her eyes and looked toward Caiden, expecting his eyes to be burning through her, but what she saw made her eyes go wide.
There, Laird McGibb leaned back in his chair, his tousled brown hair catching the glow of the firelight. A maid stood close beside him, her hand brushing the sleeve of his tunic far too boldly, her laugh light and careless.
Maisie's heart plummeted, sinking low into her belly like a stone dropped in water.
She looked away quickly, her throat tight, the air seeming too thick to breathe. Jealousy struck swift and sharp, though she had no right to claim it. What was she to Laird McGibb but a captive in his castle, another lass he could play with as he pleased? Anger flared inside of her, attempting to replace the ache rooting itself deeply.
Turning back to Isabelle, she summoned her courage.
"Tell me, Lady Isabelle… does the laird have an intended?" The question left her lips before she could rein it back, her voice hushed but urgent. "A wife, or a betrothal, perhaps?"
Isabelle tilted her head, studying Maisie with a flicker of amusement tempered by sincerity.
"Nay, nay wife, nor betrothal that I ken of," she said. Her tone was calm, as if she were accustomed to such inquiries. "Though, there are whispers enough. Folk say he must keep a mistress, how else could a man of his age bear to walk alone?"
Maisie felt her breath catch, unease stirring low in her chest. The thought of Caiden with some secret woman, kept apart from the eyes of the hall, made her stomach twist. She glanced again toward him, but the maid was already sweeping away. Still, the sting of jealousy lingered, stubborn and raw.
"I should nae have asked," Maisie murmured, cheeks hot once more. Her fingers tangled in the folds of her skirt, restless and uncertain. "It is nae me place to wonder about such things." She wished she could sink into the stone floor beneath her, unseen, unheard.
Isabelle reached for her hand with a soft smile. "Ye need nae fret, lass. Curiosity does nae shame ye, it makes ye honest. Ye want to ken about this place and its ruler." Her grip was warm, grounding, a balm against Maisie's restless spirit.
Maisie blinked at her, surprised by the openness. Isabelle was nothing like she had expected: not haughty, not cold, but kind in a way that disarmed her. For the first time since entering Castle McGibb, Maisie felt the faintest spark of trust.
Still, her heart beat heavy with doubt. If Caiden truly carried no betrothal, no wife, then why did the sight of that maid's bold laugh twist her so painfully? She swallowed hard, forcing her thoughts back to Isabelle's words. And yet, the questions would not leave her.
Who is this possible mistress?
"Eat, lass. It's good food," Isabelle said.
Maisie's stomach twisted with hunger, yet the memory of Caiden's careless remark, that she seemed a lass with an appetite, burned at the edges of her pride. With a careful hand, she reached for the serving spoons and placed but the smallestportions upon her trencher, willing her face to appear calm though her insides churned.
The fare of the table tempted her greatly, rich with the sea's bounty. There was salt herring, laid out in neat rows, their silver skins glistening beneath the firelight. Platters of mussels steamed in their shells, touched with butter and garden herbs that filled the hall with a briny fragrance. A bowl of Cullen skink, thick with smoked haddock, onions, and cream, sat beside roasted fish fillets dusted with peppercorns. The scent of oatcakes and bannocks, warm from the griddle, mingled with the sharper tang of dried kelp.
Maisie's hunger flared, but she kept her motions deliberate, breaking off a corner of oatcake and dipping it daintily into the broth. Isabelle, watching her with a knowing smile, leaned close enough that her curls brushed her shoulder.
"Ye must nae starve yerself, dear heart. There's nae shame in eatin' when the food's set before ye. I swear, the Laird keeps a hall like a king's feast more oft than nae."
Maisie forced a faint smile, nodding as though satisfied with her tiny meal.
Inside, however, she felt hollow, empty not only of food, but of confidence. She dared not be seen as greedy or wanting, not when Caiden's words haunted her. Her gaze flicked toward the high table, where laughter rang and wine spilled freely. The maid had returned and lingered near the laird, her bodice lowered far more than propriety should allow, her handbrushing too close to his sleeve. Maisie's chest tightened, a heat rising in her throat that had naught to do with hunger.
