Alone now, Caiden turned his boots to the churchyard, the old stones crunching beneath his tread. The air felt cooler there, hushed as though even the wind dared not disturb the resting souls.
He passed through the iron gate, its hinges groaning like an old man's bones, and strode between rows of weathered stones. Moss climbed over names half-forgotten, yet his eyes sought only one marker among them. His mother's grave stood near the far wall, sheltered by the wide arms of a yew tree. Caiden slowed, his breath unsteady.
Kneeling before the stone, he brushed away the damp leaves that had settled across the carved letters. His calloused fingers lingered on her name, the grooves worn smoother than he remembered. A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, but the ache did not ease. He bowed his head, as if the weight of his shame pressed it down.
"Mother," he muttered, his voice low and rough, "I've come again, though I cannae say I bring ye any honor." His gaze fixed on the earth before him, dark and silent, holding comfort. "I've tried to change, to be a better man, yet I've naught to show for it. Folk whisper that I'm like me faither, cruel and hard, and I fear they speak true."
His words faltered, but he forced them onward. "I told meself I could be somethin' different, a life ye'd be proud of. But I've failed ye, Mother, again and again. Even the lass who might've softened me heart looks on me as though I were naught but stone. How can I ever claim to love when I cannae show kindness without falterin'?"
The silence stretched around him, broken only by the distant cry of a gull. Caiden's jaw tightened, and he pressed his fist against his knee, his knuckles whitening. "I let yer paintin' slip from me very hands," he confessed, his voice cracking like old wood. "The one ye cherished, loved, gone, stolen, because I couldnae guard it."
He shut his eyes, remembering the painting. She used to tell him that light upon the water held hope, no matter how dark the storm. Now that light was lost, and the guilt clawed at his chestlike talons. "I've failed to keep safe the very memory of ye," he whispered, his throat raw.
"I ken I'm nae worthy of a wife," he went on, his voice low and bitter. "What woman deserves a man who lets the past haunt him so? Who clings to anger and pride when he should show gentleness? I'm cursed with me faither's temper, cursed with his coldness, and I cannae drive it out."
His shoulders sagged, the weight of confession pressing them down. "They all see it," he said, almost to himself. "Eric, the lasses, even the men who serve, aye, they ken well enough what I am. I try to mask it, to lead with strength, but strength without mercy turns to tyranny. I cannae bear the thought that I'll end as he did, feared and hated."
Caiden laid his hand flat against the stone, as though by some miracle her touch might return through it.
"Tell me, Mother," he pleaded softly, "how did ye endure him? How did ye smile when his shadow darkened every chamber? Ye had a light that never dimmed, yet I've naught but shadows inside me."
A sharp breath escaped him, heavy as a sigh yet rough as a growl. He raked a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling despite his efforts to still them. The churchyard seemed to press close, the air thick with judgment he could not flee. He stared at the carved name, wishing it might speak back, wishing for some balm to the emptiness.
He stood and made his way to the seashore. The path wound down to the stony beach, where the tide breathed in and out with steady force. The cave yawned dark and wide at the edge of the rocks, a place where he often came as a boy. Yet tonight, the flicker of a figure inside caught his eye, a shadow where none should be. He stepped forward, his voice sharp as it echoed against the stone.
"Fowler?" he called, his tone edged with suspicion. The servant startled, turning quick, his cap pulled low as though ashamed to be caught. Caiden's brow furrowed, the salt air stirring his temper. "What in God's name are ye doin' here?"
Fowler bowed his head low, his hands clasped in front of him. "This place… it grants a man silence." His gaze slid to the cave walls, never daring to meet Caiden's eyes. "I've come to think."
Caiden let out a slow breath, but his shoulders stayed rigid, distrust curling in his chest. "There's been word of seedy folk in these parts," he warned, his voice cold as the tide. "Best ye keep yer thinkin' for the castle, lest trouble finds ye here."
Fowler bowed again, deeper this time, his frame small beneath the stone arch. "Aye, Laird. As ye command." With that, the man slipped past him, footsteps scattering loose pebbles before fading into silence. The cave swallowed the hush again, leaving Caiden alone with the echo of his own thoughts.
The sea's roar filled the space around him, but it could not drown the turmoil that clawed inside. He pressed a hand against the damp stone, eyes closing as the lass's face rose sharp inhis mind. Her voice, soft yet defiant, lingered in his memory, tugging at parts of him he had long thought dead. It unsettled him, this heat that burned whenever she stood too close.
He had let her go the night before, not because her words had swayed him, but because he had seen the edge of himself. Desire had gripped him with a force near violent, his restraint fraying with every breath she took. If he had kept hold a moment longer, he feared what he might have become. The shame of it gnawed, a reminder of the blood that cursed his line.
The men of his clan had a darkness in them, one he had sworn never to unleash. He had seen what cruelty did, how it twisted a man's love into ruin. And yet, standing in the shadows of the cave, he knew how near he had come. The lass had not the faintest idea of the danger he posed to her.
His hand curled into a fist, pressing against the stone till his knuckles whitened. He could not allow himself to sink deeper, could not risk her safety for the weakness of his own hunger. Better she return home than fall prey to the monster within him. Better to cut the thread now than let it bind them both to misery.
The sea rushed relentlessly against the rocks, as though mocking his resolve. His chest ached with the war between want and fear, each pull sharper than the last. He longed to hold her, to know her warmth without restraint, but the cost was too steep. His mother's face rose in his memory, sorrowful, as though to remind him of the promise he had once made to her, that he would not treat anyone like his father had treated her.
"Nay more pain," he whispered into the dark, the words caught in the salt-laden wind. "Nay more." His voice trembled, though his jaw clenched to steady it. She deserved freedom, not the chains of his shadowed blood.
Caiden turned from the cave at last, his steps heavy with decision, upon the wet stones. He would tell Maisie in the morning, clear and final, that her time at the castle was done.
She would return to her home, untouched by the ruin he carried within. And he, he would remain as he had always been, alone against the sea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Maisie wandered slowly through the castle gardens, her fingers brushing the dew-damp petals of the roses. She welcomed the solitude. Here, with the sky stretching endless and the earth open beneath her feet, she could breathe as herself and think.
Her thoughts turned inward, heavy as the clouds that lingered beyond the turrets. Though she knew what she did with Caiden was wrong, there was no regret stirring in her heart. Instead, she felt a strange pride, as though the choices that had led her here had shaped her into someone more real, more alive. Freedom had come at a cost, yet she could not wish herself back to who she was before she arrived at McGibb castle.
She thought of her mother's stern lessons, of her insistence on propriety, and she wondered if love itself could ever be considered dishonor. Yet the more she weighed it, the clearer her resolve became.
To deny me heart now would be to live hollow, and I have nay wish to waste me days in empty virtue.
