Her sobs echoed softly against the stone walls, a quiet confession to the loss she could not speak aloud. In that moment, Maisie understood that no comfort, no bath, no warm fire could fill the hole that longing and heartbreak had carved into her soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"We found him. Vincent Mills and the paintin'," Eric said as he stood in the doorway of Caiden's study.
"Where is he now?" Caiden stood, steaming with anger.
"The dungeon," Eric replied.
Caiden raged as he made his way to the dungeons and Eric followed.
Two days had passed since Maisie returned home, and now they had caught the thief, the one responsible for taking the painting that had consumed him with obsession. His boots echoed against the floor, each step feeding the fire of his anger. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his dagger, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight along the walls.
Mills sat chained to the wall, his wiry frame tense, black hair falling in his eyes. He lifted his head slowly as Caidenapproached, cold blue eyes meeting his in a challenge. The young thief did not flinch, though Caiden could sense the undercurrent of fear beneath the surface. Eric stood silently behind, watching, waiting for Caiden's first move.
"Who are ye?" Caiden demanded, his voice low, dangerous.
"I'm nothin' but a good thief, Laird," Vincent replied smoothly, a faint smirk playing on his thin lips.
"And why did ye steal the paintin' from me?" Caiden's voice cut through the damp air like a blade.
"I dinnae steal it from ye," Vincent said, shrugging lightly. "It belonged to another fellow."
"Who?" Caiden's patience frayed, each second stoking the fire in his chest.
"I daenae ken the name," Vincent admitted, his tone casual, almost mocking. "I usually daenae introduce meself to the folk I steal from."
A dark shadow passed over Caiden's face. Every word made his anger surge, yet beneath it, a cold clarity began to settle. He pressed forward, his gaze piercing the thief's pale blue eyes.
"Why do ye still have it? Why did ye nae sell it?"
Vincent leaned back slightly, shrugging again. "I had a buyer lined up in McGowan territory, but I was delayed by a full day, and when I arrived… she was nowhere to be found."
The words struck Caiden like ice. He froze for a moment, the torchlight reflecting in his dark eyes. A storm of conflicting emotions churned within him: relief, rage, and a bitter understanding. Maisie had told the truth all along.
Caiden's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight. He had doubted her, suspected her of deception, and yet here was proof that she had spoken honestly. A cold, bitter satisfaction crept into his chest, mingling with the remnants of his anger. He forced himself to keep control, to focus on the task at hand rather than the ache of trust betrayed and restored.
"Ye see," Caiden said, his voice steady but cold as ice, "ye daenae ken who ye have wronged. This paintin', it is nay mere trinket. It holds meanin' beyond what ye ken."
Mill's smirk faltered slightly, a shadow of doubt crossing his features. "And what makes ye think I care about meanin', Laird?" he asked, voice sharp but wary.
"Because ye are nae a careless man," Caiden replied, stepping closer, the chains rattling with Vincent's shifting weight. "Ye steal and scheme… but ye are bound now, and ye will answer for what ye've done."
Eric's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder of the authority and the danger surrounding the thief. Vincent'swiry body tensed further, his smirk fading into a thin line of apprehension. Caiden's mind raced as he processed every detail, every hesitation, every confession. The clarity of the moment cut through the fog of obsession that had consumed him since the painting vanished.
"Ye've caused enough chaos," Caiden said, voice low and deliberate, filled with the weight of authority. "And yet, ye are lucky… that I ken now the paintin' was nae taken by those I trusted."
Vincent's gaze flicked up, his expression unreadable, but beneath the surface, Caiden could sense the subtle tremor of fear. "And what will ye do with me, Laird?" the thief asked cautiously.
Caiden stood over the thief, the weight of justice and fury heavy in his chest. He drew his sword with precise, deliberate motion, his dark eyes fixed on the wiry man before him.
With one clean strike, he severed Vincent's hand, the sound echoing sharply off the stone walls. Vincent screamed, a mixture of agony and disbelief tearing from his throat, his blue eyes wide with terror.
"Eric," Caiden said, his voice low but hard as steel, "take him to the infirmary. Patch him up proper, and see to it he lives so that he can tell everyone what happens to ye if ye steal from Laird McGibb."
A grim silence followed, broken only by Vincent's ragged breathing and the faint metallic scent that lingered in the damp dungeon air.
Eric nodded, his jaw tight, then moved to obey, guiding the wounded thief toward the infirmary. Vincent cried and cursed under his breath, clutching the stump where his hand had been, his wiry frame shaking with pain.
