"Tell me, Isabelle," Maisie ventured, her voice careful as she forced herself to cut a small piece of haddock. "Is this rumor about the laird having a mistress about one of the maids perhaps?"
"I daenae ken who. Only that men have needs and it is not uncommon for a laird to have a mistress, or several," Isabelle said.
Maisie coughed, nearly choking on her bannock. "Excuse me," she said taking a drink of her wine. The thought of him bedding more than one woman suddenly made her gasp for air.
Maisie felt her stomach lurch, the haddock turning to stone in her mouth. The thought of Caiden lying close with another, laughing softly in her ear, made Maisie's insides ache with a pang sharper than jealousy alone. She lowered her eyes again, stabbing her oatcake with unnecessary force.
Isabelle studied her with the wisdom of one who saw far more than she spoke aloud. "Ye look troubled, Maisie," she said softly, her tone kind. "But daenae fash yerself too much over tales and gossip. Men like the laird draw whispers like gulls to a fishing boat. It doesnae make all of it true."
Around her the hall roared with cheer, but all she could hear was the echo of her own unsettled feelings. The feast might havebeen fit for a queen, yet for Maisie it tasted of longing, doubt, and the salt of the sea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Can I bring ye anythin' else, me laird?" the voluptuous maid named Tilly asked.
"Nay, all is well," he said.
"I am glad ye are satisfied, but if ye should need anythin' from me, anythin' at all. Ye ken that I will give it freely," she whispered.
Caiden nodded his head in understanding. It was not new for women to offer themselves to him, but he did not have an interest. His appetite for such things had left him long ago.
He sat at the long table in the great hall, the warmth of the hearth fire doing little to ease the unrest in his chest. His eyes strayed toward Maisie, seated across the room beside Isabelle, her gaze fixed anywhere but his.
Every time his glance caught hers, she turned quickly away, as though the sight of him was a danger she dared not face. The more she ignored him, the more the sting sharpened, though he tried to school his expression into indifference.
"Stubborn lass," he muttered.
He shifted his goblet between his hands, the rich wine forgotten as frustration gathered within him. It was his own fault, he had kissed her, broken his own vow, and now paid the price for it. He had long sworn never to let a lass slip beneath his skin, never to risk the part of himself he kept locked away. Yet here sat Maisie, proving how weak his resolve had grown, a living reminder of how dangerous it was to care.
Yes, he had known women before, fleeting moments, nothing more. But this was different, and that truth unsettled him more than he wished to admit.
Why has this lass buried herself in me soul? This is nae what I want, nor what I deserve.
With Maisie, it wasn't just the taste of her lips or the warmth of her breath, it was the way she made him feel. If she lingered near him too long, she would see beyond the surface, to the shadows he carried and the truths he dared not speak.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to tear his gaze away, yet it slid back to her like iron drawn to a lodestone. She laughed softly at something Isabelle said, though the sound never once reached his ear. That laugh cut him deeper than her silence, remindinghim she would rather offer her smiles to anyone but him. And still, curse him, he could not stop wanting her all the same.
She should nae be chained to someone like me… me history is cruel and will rear its head again.
When their eyes did lock, her lashes swept down, and she looked quickly to her trencher, pretending sudden interest in her food. The deliberate slight pulled a low groan from his throat, one he had not meant to loose so loudly.
Eric, seated on his right, caught the sound and leaned close with a smirk.
"Havin' trouble with the lass already?" he asked, voice low but laced with amusement.
Caiden ground his teeth, knowing full well he should have hidden his reaction better.
"The lass is stubborn," Caiden muttered, his hand tightening around the handle of his cup.
He had dealt with many a hard-headed soul, yet none seemed to grate on him as she did. Her defiance clung to him, needling at his pride and patience both. He felt the old ache of battle wounds would have been easier endured than the sting of her indifference.
Eric's grin widened, and he lifted his cup in mock salute. "Aye, well, I've a way with the ladies, ye ken. Perhaps ye'd do well to let me teach ye a trick or two." His tone was light, teasing, but it cut close, for he knew Caiden would never admit to needing help in such matters. The man's confidence with women was notorious, and he wore it now like armor.
"I've nay need of yer help," Caiden snapped, glaring at his trencher as though it were to blame. "The lady is but a captive, and I've nay other interest in her." He forced the words with deliberate coldness, though they rang hollow in his own ears. If Eric heard the lie, he gave no sign save the twitch of his grin.
The man-at-arms lifted both hands in feigned surrender, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. "That may be, me laird. But I'd wager this, get the lass alone for a game of wits. Only then will she loosen her tongue and tell ye what she kens about the paintin'. That's how ye deal with a stubborn lass in me own experience."
Caiden exhaled sharply, the muscle in his jaw working. "Ye think to advise me like some lovesick swain? Enough of yer prattle, Eric."
