Caiden did not flinch; he remained calm, the cold discipline of a laird and a warrior steadying his actions.
Once Eric departed with the thief, Caiden's dark gaze lingered on the empty space where the thief had been. He thought of the consequences, of the balance of fear and respect that must be maintained in his lands. He had given warning, and that warning was final. If Vincent ever dared to return to McGibb territories, he would not hesitate to take the other hand, and Vincent understood that completely.
The young thief's sobs echoed faintly down the stone corridor as he was carried away. Caiden's heart did not waver; he reminded himself that mercy had been weighed against justice and that the painting and the safety of his people required this lesson. Yet beneath the hardness, a shadow of discomfort lingered, a reminder of the cruel lessons instilled by his father. He had become what he hated most in the clan: a man feared more than loved, shaped by a legacy of cruelty and necessity.
He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound of metal sliding into scabbard echoing in the quiet chamber. Thestorm in his mind subsided slightly as he leaned against the wall, the torches flickering against his stern features.
He closed his eyes briefly, the echoes of Vincent's screams fading into memory. There was no satisfaction in the pain, only the grim acknowledgment that his actions ensured the safety of his lands and the people he was sworn to protect. The responsibility pressed down on him like the weight of the castle itself, yet he bore it without complaint. In that silence, Caiden steeled himself for the days ahead, knowing that rulership often demanded cruelty as well as courage.
Caiden carefully lifted the painting from the cloth that had protected it, the weight of its frame firm and grounding in his hands. He made his way up the spiral staircase.
When he reached the art gallery, the room felt colder than usual, the shadows of the evening stretching across the long rectangular space lined with paintings and marble sculptures. He placed the recovered artwork back in its rightful spot, adjusting the frame until it sat perfectly aligned with the others.
"See, Mother," he whispered, his voice breaking the stillness, "I've fixed things and returned yer paintin'."
His fingers lingered on the frame, tracing the edges as if by touch he could summon her presence. Yet even with the painting restored, a hollow ache gnawed at him, sharper than any wound inflicted in battle. The one person he wanted beside him, the one who could make his cruel heart soften, was gone, and that absence left a void no restoration could fill.
He leaned back against the cool stone wall and drew the flask from his belt, pouring a generous measure into a goblet that had been left upon a side table. The amber liquid glinted in the torchlight, and he drank deeply, the burn of the whisky sliding down his throat like fire, momentarily chasing the emptiness from his chest.
He sat there, staring at the painting, letting the memories of Maisie and her laughter fill the room and then fade into the shadows. Each sip blurred the lines of regret and longing, dulling the ache of her absence just enough to bear the silence of the gallery.
His mind wandered to the moments they had shared, the stolen touches, the heated glances, the unspoken understanding between them. He remembered the way she had pressed her hand to his chest on the spiral staircase, how her pulse had raced under his fingers, and the thrill of holding back and yet giving in just enough. The memory burned brighter than any torch in the gallery, and he cursed himself quietly, knowing that he had sent her away for her own safety.
She is a flame, fierce and untamed, and if I allow meself to remain near her, I would only burn her with the darkness I carry inside.
Caiden poured another measure of whisky, his hand trembling slightly as he set the goblet on the table beside him. He let his gaze wander over the other paintings, imagining their subjects whispering advice or scolding him for his failings. The sculptures, cold and unmoving, seemed to watch him silently,reminding him that art held permanence where human hearts did not. Even surrounded by beauty, he felt emptier than ever, a laird stripped of his one joy, left only with a gallery of memories and a painting returned to its rightful place.
Minutes stretched into hours as he remained seated, the goblet empty and the room quiet save for the occasional crackle of the torch. His hands rested on the table, fingers grazing the smooth wood as though grasping at something he could never hold. The painting before him seemed to mock him with its serenity, vibrant and whole, while he remained fractured and alone. Caiden finally slumped forward slightly, his head resting on his arm, staring at the artwork with a mixture of reverence and despair, letting the whisky and his grief merge into a numbing fog that carried him toward oblivion.
He knew he should feel triumph, a victory for recovering what was lost, but the triumph was hollow without her presence.
"Ye should be here, Mother… and her too," he muttered, his voice raw with emotion. "Ye would have liked her very much."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Maisie sat upright in the parlor, the delicate china cup warming her hands as she sipped the tea offered by one of the suitors. The sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the dust motes in the air and glinting off the polished wooden table.
Around her, the men spoke politely, offering compliments and veiled attempts at wit, each trying to impress her with their charm. She nodded and smiled in return, keeping her thoughts to herself, though her heart remained elsewhere.
She did not want to meet with them, but Lavina thought it might do her good to get back into routines.
One gentleman, tall and well-dressed, leaned forward and asked her opinion. "What are yer thoughts on a recent shipment of linen arrivin' at the castle?"
Maisie responded with measured politeness. "I praise the quality," she said and subtly steered the conversation toward art topics.
As she spoke though, her mind wandered to Caiden, the way he moved through his castle, the intensity of his gaze, and the reckless courage that had drawn her in from the moment she arrived. Compared to him, these suitors seemed pale and predictable, their words and gestures hollow in her imagination.
Another man, younger and eager, tried to engage her with tales of hunting and falconry, hoping to appeal to her sense of adventure.
Maisie nodded along, though she could barely summon interest, imagining Caiden on the shores instead, how alive he seemed, how fearless, how he had made her feel more than anyone ever had.
She caught herself smiling faintly at a memory of him touching her on the spiral staircase and quickly hid it behind a polite sip of tea.
Duty kept her calm and composed, but inside, her thoughts burned with longing she could not voice.
Maisie knew her sister Lavina observed quietly from across the room, noticing the polite nods and measured responses.
She knew her duty demanded she entertain these men, consider alliances, and uphold the family's honor, yet her heart refused to follow where reason led. So, she sat, sipping her tea, listening politely, and allowing the suitors their moment, while her thoughts remained with the laird of McGibb Castle and the fire that still lingered in her chest.
