He had brushed her touch away as if it burned him, and the sting of it cut deeper than she wished to admit. He seemed determined to keep her at arm's length, no matter how gently she tried to close the space between them. The chill in his distance left her raw, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how much it hurt.
The hallway wound on with stone arches and torchlight flickering against carved walls, each turn making her feel as though she was being led into some hidden secret.
Caiden said nothing, his silence heavier than the stone around them, and it pressed upon her like a weight she could scarcely carry. At last, he pushed open a pair of great oak doors, and the air changed at once.
Maisie gasped as her eyes widened. The room stretched long and rectangular, its vaulted ceiling catching and carrying the glow of lanterns hung with silver chains. Tall windows let the light spill in, painting pale lines across polished floors that gleamed like glass. Along the walls hung painting after painting, each framed in gold or dark wood, their colors alive even beneath the dim night light.
"Oh, Caiden!" she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her mouth before breaking into a delighted laugh. "Ye dinnae tell me ye had such treasures hid away in here."
She ran to the first canvas, her gown brushing the floor as she bent forward, eyes wide with awe. "Look at the brush strokes, the colors! 'Tis like the sea itself caught in the frame."
"Aye, they've been here long before I took the title," he said quietly, his voice low but carrying through the hall. "Me grandsire commissioned half of them from when he was young. Those are gifts, but the rest are..."
Maisie turned to another painting, this one of a Highland glen bathed in morning light, a stag standing proud upon a craggy hill. The green seemed so alive she swore she smelled the damp earth after rain, the artist's hand so skilled it near tricked her eyes.
She clasped her hands together and laughed softly, spinning toward him. "How can ye walk by these each day and nae stop to marvel? They're like windows into other worlds."
She watched as he tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching though it never quite turned into a smile. "Mayhap I've grown blind to them, lass. They've been part of these walls since I was a bairn, and duty leaves little time for gazin' at paint."
Maisie darted across the floor toward a sculpture, her skirts flaring as she went. A marble figure of a maiden stood with her arms lifted to the heavens, her face carved with such grace it near seemed she might speak. The folds of her gown spilled down her form like water, each line chiseled with painstaking care.
Maisie reached out a trembling hand but stopped just shy of touching. "She's beautiful… like she's prayin' for the world to hear her."
"Aye," Caiden murmured from his place against the wall, his eyes shadowed. "Folk say the artist died carvin' her hands, and his apprentice finished the rest." He shifted slightly, though still he did not move closer, watching her with an intensity. "There's more beyond, if ye've the heart to look."
Maisie whirled about, her cheeks flushed, eyes shining with delight. "The heart?" she laughed, her voice echoing through the vast chamber. "I've never had such a feast for me eyes, Caiden. If ye leave me here till dawn, I'd still nae have me fill of it all."
"Then look as long as ye please, lass," he said quietly, though the words carried weight. "For if ye find joy in this place, mayhap it shall be worth more than all the gold that bought it."
Maisie spun once more, taking in every detail, the painted saints and stormy seas, the carved warriors frozen in stone, the endless line of artistry stretching down the gallery.
Her heart still ached from his coolness, but here, in this hall of beauty, she could almost forget the sting. For now, she let herself be consumed by the wonder, even as she longed for him to stand beside her. And though he stayed apart, she could feel his eyes on her, following her every move as if he too were caught in a painting, silent yet unwilling to look away.
As she expected she realized so many were by the artist Byrne. Each painting bore the same careful hand, the same depth of soul that spoke louder than words could. She bent closer to one canvas, her breath catching as the brushstrokes revealed a tender light upon a woman's face. Her heart swelled with wonder, her eyes roaming from one masterpiece to the next in awe.
"Caiden," she cried softly, her voice quivering with delight, "what relation is this Byrne to ye? For it cannae be so distant as I thought, nae with this many pieces hangin' in yer care."
She turned to face him, her eyes wide, her hands lightly clutching her skirts as if to steady herself. The notion that these works had lingered quietly beneath his silence felt almost unbearable.
He shifted where he leaned against the wall, his expression darkened. "She's me mother," he said at last, the words rolling from his tongue like stones tumbling down a hill.
She watched his gaze move to the floor, as if speaking the truth aloud bore too heavy a weight.
Maisie gasped, her hand flying to her lips. "Why did ye nae tell me?" she whispered, the sting of surprise wringing her heart tight.
The revelation cut through her like a sudden gust, raw and sharp, for she had thought herself close to him. Yet here was a truth so dear, held back as though she were but a stranger.
Caiden offered no reply, his silence speaking louder than any words could.
Maisie lowered her gaze, her thoughts tumbling in fierce waves within her. Now she knew why the stolen painting haunted him so and why its loss carved deep into his soul. It was not just art to him, but blood, memory, and love he couldn't bear to lose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Caiden led her carefully down the long, rectangular gallery, the soft light from the high windows catching the dust motes in the air. He held her hand firmly, though not harshly, and he could feel the heat of her palm against his.
The walls were lined with portraits and landscapes, except for the empty space at the far end. It seemed almost to hum with absence, a silence that pressed heavier than any words.
"This is where the paintin' was," Caiden said, his voice low, carrying a weight.
