Chapter 17
"Ye're pullin' too tight again," Aisla said with a laugh, reaching over to loosen the thread in Maia's hands. "The weave needs to be snug, aye, but nae so tight it'll tear when someone uses the blanket."
"Sorry," Maia muttered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I've never done this before. We had servants who did all the weavin' at Castle MacMahon."
"Well, here we believe everyone should ken the basics.
" Aisla settled back onto her stool, her own hands moving with practiced efficiency through the loom.
"Even the laird kens how to mend his own clothes if he needs to.
Says it's important to understand the work that goes into keepin' a household runnin'. "
Maia watched Aisla's hands move, trying to memorize the pattern.
They were in one of the castle's workrooms—a large, airy space filled with looms and spinning wheels and baskets of wool in various stages of processing.
Several other women were scattered throughout the room, all working on their own projects while chatting and laughing with one another.
It was nice. Comfortable. The kind of casual female companionship Maia had only ever experienced with Mollie, and even then, their time together had always been stolen, always shadowed by the threat of discovery.
Here, no one looked at her strangely. No one whispered behind their hands or made cruel comments about her size. The women had simply welcomed her, shown her where to sit, handed her materials, and patiently corrected her mistakes without making her feel foolish.
"There," Aisla said approvingly as Maia managed several rows without pulling too tight. "Ye're gettin' the hang of it. By the time this blanket is finished, ye'll be an expert."
"I doubt that," Maia said, but she was smiling. "But I'm willin' to keep tryin'."
"That's the spirit." Aisla paused in her work to study Maia's face. "Ye seem happier today. Did somethin' happen?"
Maia felt warmth bloom in her chest, remembering the lake. Remembering Ewan's words about her uncle being a fool, about her being strong for surviving. Remembering the way he'd looked at her when he'd told her she was free to wander as she pleased.
"Ewan took me to the lake a few days ago," she said softly.
"It was... it was wonderful. Just bein' outside, touchin' the water, seein' the mountains.
" She didn't mention the rest—the conversation about their parents, the way her heart had stuttered when he'd smiled at her, the overwhelming urge she'd had to kiss him again.
"And he told ye about the new freedoms," Aisla said knowingly. "Aye, he mentioned that. Said ye were nae to be treated as a prisoner anymore—that ye could go where ye pleased, as long as ye dinnae try to escape."
"I willnae," Maia said firmly. "I have nay reason to."
It was true. Where would she go? Back to her uncle, who'd made it clear in word and deed that she was worthless to him? To some distant clan who'd see her as nothing more than a political pawn?
Here, at least, she had freedom. Had Kian's laughter and Aisla's friendship and Ewan's—
What? What exactly did she have from Ewan?
Protection, certainly. A comfortable room and fine food and the promise that she wouldn't be locked away.
But there was something else too, something she couldn't quite name.
The way he looked at her sometimes, like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
The way he'd defended her against Laura without hesitation.
The way his voice had gone rough when he'd called her strong.
"Well, I'm glad ye're settlin' in," Aisla said, returning her attention to the loom. "And I'm glad ye're here. It's nice havin' another woman around who isnae afraid to speak her mind. Gods ken Laura never did anythin' but simper and scheme."
At the mention of Laura, Maia's hands stilled on the threads. "Do ye think, do ye think she'll come back? Even though Ewan banned her?"
"Nae if she has any sense." Aisla's expression hardened. "The laird made it very clear she was nae welcome. And her father—well, he's nae pleased about the situation, but he kens better than to push too hard. The McGill clan is powerful, and we've done nothin' to deserve his daughter's spite."
Aisla returned to her weaving. "Now stop worryin' about nonsense and focus on yer stitches. Ye're pullin' too tight again."
Maia tried to focus on the blanket, tried to lose herself in the rhythm of the work.
All she knew was that being here—weaving a blanket in McGill colors, surrounded by women who treated her like a friend instead of an inconvenience—felt more like home than Castle MacMahon ever had.***
The letter crumpled in Ewan's fist, the parchment crackling with the force of his grip.
"That bastard," he growled, the words coming out low and dangerous. "That absolute bastard."
Leon shifted uncomfortably in his chair across the desk. "I take it the response from MacMahon wasnae what ye were hopin' for?"
"Read it." Ewan threw the crumpled letter across the desk. "Read it and tell me if ye think I should be calm about this."
Leon smoothed out the parchment and began to read, his expression growing progressively darker with each line. When he finally looked up, his jaw was tight.
"Christ, Ewan. This is—"
"An insult," Ewan finished coldly. "A deliberate, calculated insult."
Leon read aloud from the letter, his voice carefully neutral:
"'Laird McGill, I received yer demands regardin' the return of me niece.
I must inform ye that I will nae be meetin' yer terms under any circumstances.
The girl is of nay value to me—indeed, ye've done me a favor by removin' her from me household.
She was nothin' but a burden, a useless mouth to feed who contributed nothin' to the clan's wellbein'. '"
Ewan's hands clenched into fists on his desk. He'd already read those words a dozen times, had memorized every cruel syllable. But hearing them spoken aloud made the fury surge fresh and hot through his veins.
Leon continued:
"'If ye're expectin' me to pay ransom for her return, ye're a fool. I'd sooner see her rot in yer dungeons than waste good coin on her worthless hide. In fact, I'd be willin' to pay ye to keep her, if only to be rid of her entirely'."
"Keep going," Ewan said through gritted teeth.
"'As for yer threats of war, bring it. Me clan is prepared to defend our borders, and we willnae be intimidated by yer posturin'. Ye want reparations for the raid? Come and take them. But ken that if ye do, ye'll be startin' a conflict that will end in blood and fire for both our clans.'"
Leon set down the letter. "And then he signs it. Nay apology, nay attempt at negotiation. Just—"
"Just confirmation of everythin' Maia tried to tell me," Ewan finished bitterly. "That he doesnae care about her. That she's worthless to him. That he'd rather see her dead than admit she has any value."
Leon was quiet for a moment. "So what do ye want to do?"
"What I should have done the moment I read this piece of shite." Ewan stood, pacing to the window.
The afternoon sun was slanting through, painting the study in shades of gold, but he barely noticed.
"I want to organize a raid. A proper one this time, nae just a quick strike.
I want to hit his borders hard enough that he feels it.
Hard enough that his clan starts questionin' whether he's fit to lead them. "
"Ye want war." Leon's voice was careful, neutral.
"I want justice." Ewan turned back to face him. "He killed three of our men. Burned two cottages. Stole our livestock. And when I took his niece, the one person who should have been precious to him, he called her worthless. Told me to keep her or kill her, he doesnae care which."
"And that's what has ye so furious," Leon said quietly. "Nae the refusal to pay reparations. Nae the threat of war. But because of the way he talked about her."
Ewan didn't bother denying it. "Aye. That's what has me furious."
"Ewan."
"Organize a raidin' party," Ewan interrupted, his voice hard with command. "Fifty men. We'll hit three of his border villages simultaneously—nothin' major, nay burnin' or killin' unless they resist. Just take livestock, supplies, anythin' of value. An eye for an eye, exactly as he gave us."
Leon studied him for a long moment. "And what about the lass?"
"What about her?"
"If we escalate this conflict, if we start open warfare with MacMahon, what happens to her? She's still his blood, even if he doesnae value her. His clan will nae take kindly to us attackin' while we're holdin' their lady."
"Then they can take it up with their laird," Ewan said coldly. "He's the one who started this. He's the one who refuses to make amends. And he's the one who just told me in writin' that he doesnae give a damn what happens to his niece."
He moved back to his desk, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. "I'll draft a response. Tell him that since he's made it clear he has nay interest in Maia's return, she'll be remainin' here as a guest of Castle McGill. Indefinitely."
"A guest," Leon repeated. "Nae a prisoner?"
"She hasnae been a prisoner for days now." The words came out more defensive than Ewan had intended. "She's free to move about the castle, free to go outside, free to do as she pleases. The only thing she cannae do is leave."
"So she's a prisoner," Leon said dryly. "Just a well-treated one."
Ewan ignored that. "Organize the raid for three days from now. I want it fast, efficient, and with minimal casualties on either side. We're sendin' a message, nae startin' a massacre."
"Aye, me laird." Leon stood, but he didn't immediately move toward the door. "Can I speak freely?"
"Have ye ever done otherwise?"
"This is different." Leon's expression was serious now, all traces of his usual humor gone. "Ye're fallin' for her. For Maia. And that's cloudin' yer judgment."
"I'm nae."
"Aye, ye are." Leon held up a hand to forestall Ewan's protest. "And I'm nae sayin' it's wrong. She seems like a good woman. Kind. Brave. The way she stood up to Laura for Kian, that took courage. But ye need to think about what happens next."
"What do ye mean?"
"I mean that if MacMahon truly doesnae want her back, if he's willin' to let ye keep her, what then? She cannae stay here as yer 'guest' forever. Eventually, people will talk. Questions will be asked about her status, about what yer intentions are."
"Let them ask," Ewan said flatly.
"And what will ye tell them?" Leon's gaze was piercing. "That she's yer prisoner? Yer mistress? Yer ward? Because those are the only options people will accept, and all of them put her in a difficult position."
Ewan knew Leon was right. Knew that the situation with Maia couldn't continue indefinitely in this strange limbo. But he didn't want to think about that now. Didn't want to examine too closely what it would mean to formalize her status, to make a decision about her future.
"For now, she stays here," he said. "As me guest, as me ward, as whatever label makes people comfortable. But she's under me protection, and anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly."
He paused.
"She has choices. More freedom than she's had in six years."
"But nae the freedom to leave."
"Nay," Ewan admitted. "Nae that. Nae yet."
Leon sighed. "Just—be careful, friend. I've seen what happens when a man tries to keep a woman against her will, even with the best intentions. It never ends well."
"I'm nae keepin' her against her will," Ewan protested. "She's happy here. She said as much."
"For now, maybe. But happiness that depends on havin' nay other options, that's nae true happiness. That's just makin' the best of a bad situation."
After Leon left to organize the raid, Ewan sat alone in his study, staring at MacMahon's letter.
Worthless. Useless. A burden.
The words made him want to commit violence. Made him want to ride to Castle MacMahon and drag Callen Ferguson out of his chair by his throat, make him take back every cruel word he'd ever said about Maia.
But beneath the fury, beneath the righteous anger, there was something else.
Possession.
Maia was his now. MacMahon had made that clear by refusing to negotiate for her return, by declaring her worthless and unwanted. He'd given up any claim to her, had effectively told Ewan to do whatever he wanted with her.
And what Ewan wanted, what he'd been wanting since that first night in her tower room, was to keep her.
Not as a prisoner. Not as leverage. But as—
Mine.
The word echoed in his head, primal and possessive and entirely inappropriate. She wasn't a thing to be owned, wasn't property to be claimed. She was a woman who deserved freedom and choices and a life of her own.
But God, he wanted to keep her anyway. Wanted to wake up every morning knowing she was here, safe and protected and happy. Wanted to taste her lips again and again until neither of them could remember what it was like to be apart.
It terrified him. This wanting. This need, this overwhelming need to claim Maia, to mark her as his, to ensure she never left—it felt dangerously close to his father's madness.
But it's nae the same. I daenae want to hurt her. I want to protect her. I want her to be happy.
Still. The intensity of his feelings was unsettling.
Ewan stood and moved to the window again, looking out at the courtyard below. He could see Kian playing with some of the other children, their laughter drifting up. Could see servants moving about their tasks. Could see—
Maia.
She was crossing the courtyard with Aisla, both women carrying baskets of what looked like wool.
They were laughing about something, their heads close together in the way of friends sharing secrets.
As Ewan watched, Maia said something that made Aisla double over with laughter, and Maia's whole face lit up with joy.
She looked happy. Genuinely, truly happy in a way he suspected she hadn't been in years.
Because she's here. Because she's free of her uncle. Because ye gave her that.
He turned away from the window and picked up MacMahon's letter again, reading those cruel words one more time.
Then he fed it to the fire, watching it curl and blacken and turn to ash.
MacMahon had called Maia worthless. Had declared her a burden he was glad to be rid of.
Well then. If MacMahon didn't want her, Ewan would keep her.
And God help anyone who tried to take her away from him.