He watched as she lifted her eyes, meeting his with defiance and a flicker of heat he felt deep in his chest. He took her measure as carefully as he would the next move.
Maisie tipped her head, letting a curl slip against her cheek. "Ye make everythin' sound like a warnin'," she said softly, sliding her queen across the board with deliberate grace. Her fingers lingered on the piece, the touch slow. He thought perhaps she wanted him to notice. He did.
He captured one of her pawns with a rook, his hand brushing closer to hers than necessary. "Aye, sometimes warnings are worth heedin', even when ye think ye ken better." He smirked faintly, though his chest tightened at the way her lashes lowered. Every move she made felt like a provocation, one he longed to answer.
"Tell me, why is it ye're so obsessed with findin' this missin' paintin'? Ye've the look of a man haunted by it." She pushed a bishop forward, bold, her gaze fixed on him instead of the board. He stilled, the question sharper than any dagger.
He let a silence hang, then spoke, voice lower. "It was me mother's favorite." His jaw flexed, the memory stirring a part of him he rarely let show. He moved another piece, almost absently.
"I ken the feelin'. I started paintin' after me sister wed. The house grew quiet, too quiet, and me brush became the only thing that filled it." Her eyes shone with a faint longing, and he leaned forward before he realized it.
"And what drew ye to paintin'?" His tone was cautious, though his chest thudded as if her answer mattered more than it should.
She lifted her knight, then paused, her fingers lingering as if she weighed more than a move. When she finally spoke, her words slipped into him like a thread pulling tight.
"It was Byrne who inspired me most. The strokes held a life in them. Everythin' else seemed dull beside it. I... I miss it sorely." Her voice dropped with the admission, and her gaze fell, avoiding his.
Caiden's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. Byrne. The name struck him harder than the queen she had cornered against his knight. He leaned back, searching her face for any sign of jest.
She looked up, cautious yet curious. "Is Byrne some auld relation of yers? It bears the same family name. So, I can only think it is." Her tone was gentle, but the question landed like a blade at his ribs. He could not let her see more than he wished.
His jaw hardened, the warmth between them cooling like a doused flame. "It is a relation," he said sharply, his voice clipped and unyielding. He shifted a piece on the board without looking, unwilling to meet her gaze. "And that is all I've to say of it."
The silence that followed was thick, as though the very fire in the hearth hesitated. He forced his eyes to the board, though the game no longer mattered. Every move she made still echoed in him, tugging at walls he had built long ago.
"I think of me own relations. I miss them. I miss me sister and me nephew. I miss the wee lad so much. He'd come clingin' to me skirts, beggin' me to play the silliest games, hidin' in cupboards and laughin' like a loon when I'd find him. And when he grew tired, I'd hold him close till he fell asleep in me arms."
The wistful tone in her words made Caiden shift, unsettled yet drawn.
He studied her face with keen attention, noting the way her smile held a touch of sorrow. "Ye've a strong bond with the bairn, then?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying a rare gentleness. "Nay bitterness nor distance between ye?"
Maisie shook her head with certainty, her eyes bright.
"Aye, we're close," she said, her tone resolute. "He kens he can always come to me, and I'll never turn him away. It matters, ye ken, that a child feels safe, that they ken they're wanted."
Her words settled deep in Caiden's chest, pressing against places he had long kept locked.
Caiden's mind churned as he glanced away, his thoughts darkening. He thought of Arran, his own nephew, his blood, who now scarcely met his gaze, as if Caiden were a monster to be avoided.
Is it possible to bridge that gulf, to learn how to soften me sharpness through this lass before me?
Yet even as he wondered, he knew Maisie's kindness was a thing apart from his own coldness, and mayhap the boy would never look upon him the same.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Ibelieve it is yer turn," Maisie said.
"So it is," Caiden replied.
Maisie watched Caiden from across the chessboard as he made his move, his dark brows drawn tight as if the weight of the world pressed upon his shoulders. He seemed moody this night, more restless than she had seen him before, though his voice carried no sharpness. A shiver ran along her spine, a curious thrill she could neither welcome nor deny, desire tangled with fear, both warring in her chest. She cursed herself silently for finding aught about him attractive, for he was still a man that abducted her.
"Ye've grown quiet, lass," Caiden murmured, shifting one of his pawns forward with steady precision.
His hand brushed hers as she reached for her knight, the touch fleeting yet enough to send sparks racing through her arm.
She tried to steady her breath, tried not to let him see the way her lips parted in surprise.
"Daenae let me distract ye," he added, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed a quiet intent to do just that.
