CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"After Caiden found me and me two young sons in a dire state, he had us brought to the castle without hesitation. I will be eternally grateful for his help," Norah said.
Maisie sat very still, her mind twisting, for it was hard to reconcile this tale with the hard, sharp man who had shouted at her only moments ago.
Her thoughts tangled as she stared at Norah's fair face. "How could a man be cruel and then be sweet?" she murmured, her words tumbling before she could stop them.
Norah then lowered her gaze and confessed, "Lass, Isabelle told me ye are here because the laird thinks ye have a connection to a thief."
Maisie's brows furrowed as her heart twisted with unease. "Aye, and I tell him I daenae, but he doesnae believe me," she whispered.
She watched as Norah's eyes grew sad as she nodded, and silence weighed heavily between them.
"I can only say that the paintin' was precious to Caiden. It belonged to his mother. She passed only a few months ago, and the loss has hollowed him," Norah said.
Maisie's breath caught as she understood at last why Caiden clung so tightly to his pursuit. The picture wasn't only a treasure; it was a piece of his grief. The revelation settled like a stone in Maisie's chest. She thought back to the moments when Caiden's fury had flared, and she realized it was not just temper but sorrow behind his eyes.
Perhaps he is nae the heartless brute I think him to be, though his sharp tongue often gives me doubt.
The notion unsettled her, leaving her torn between anger and reluctant sympathy.
Finally, Maisie broke the silence, her voice low. "Why did ye wish to speak with me here, in private, Norah?" she asked, suspicion tugging at her. She had expected accusation or some hidden motive. Yet the lady's answer surprised her.
Norah smiled faintly, shaking her head. "It wasnae me intention to draw ye here," she explained gently. "I came to the study only to greet ye proper, but when I heard the raised voices, I thought ye'd need rescuin' from Caiden's temper." Her tone was light, yet her words carried a knowing truth.
For a moment, Maisie only blinked at her, stunned, then a sudden laugh burst from her lips. "Och, ye've the right of it," she admitted, covering her mouth as the laughter spilled free.
Relief mixed with a strange warmth in her chest, easing the sting of the earlier quarrel.
She was not ready to forgive him, nor to forget the way his lips had brushed hers, leaving her in turmoil. Yet now she understood his burden, and that knowledge lingered with her.
A few moments later, Maisie followed Norah through the dimly lit corridor. The silence of the castle pressed around them, broken only by the light patter of Hugh's feet and Arran's stifled yawn.
Norah stopped before the tall door of carved oak. "Rest well, lass. Ye'll need yer strength," she said softly as Maisie bent to bid the boys a gentle goodnight.
The bairns clung to Norah's skirts, their eyes heavy with sleep, but they both whispered a farewell to Maisie. Her heart softened at the simple kindness, so rare in the uncertain place she found herself. Then, with a final nod to Norah, she slipped into her chamber and closed the heavy door behind her.
Inside, the room was hushed, the fire in the hearth burning. Maisie unpinned her hair, watching the tresses tumble over her shoulders as she set the comb aside. She removed her gown, hanging it up with care, and donned the nightdress laid neatly on the chair.
Never had she dreamt that captivity might come hand in hand with such gentleness. A man like Caiden, feared and cursed as cruel, could not be reconciled with the memory of his hand steadying hers over the chessboard. The warmth of his touch haunted her still, sparking feelings she scarcely wished to name.
Maisie lay back against the pillows, staring into the flickering shadows cast by the fire. She pressed a hand to her breast, willing herself calm, though her thoughts betrayed her with every turn.
How can I feel both fear and longin' for the same man?
She turned onto her side, the sheets cool against her skin, yet her body refused the stillness of sleep. Every time her eyes drifted closed, the memory of Caiden's dark gaze returned, searing her with its intensity.
She recalled the strength in his voice, the sharpness of his temper, and yet, beneath it all, a sorrow he carried alone. A sorrow she now understood, tied to the memory of his mother and the stolen painting.
Maisie sighed, curling tighter into herself, as if the quilts could shield her from the tangle of her own thoughts. She ought to despise him, yet her heart whispered treacherous words of tenderness. Each breath she drew seemed louder than the last, echoing in the quiet of the chamber. And still, she remained wide awake, lost in a battle against her own restless longing.
The night wore on with no peace to be found. The fire burned lower, until only embers glowed red against the dark, but Maisie's mind refused its rest. She lay staring at the ceiling beams, hearing faint echoes of the wind rattling at the windows. Sleep, when it came at last, was broken and shallow, haunted by dreams of Caiden's hand brushing hers once more.
"Ye swing like a milkmaid, lad," Caiden barked. The circle of men roared, shouting encouragement and jests alike in the training yard.
Caiden's blade clashed hard against Ewan's, the ring of steel echoing through the training yard. Sweat trickled down his brow, but his focus was sharp as he pressed the younger man back a step.
Another soldier hollered, "Watch yerself, Ewan! The laird'll have ye on yer arse!"
