Heathcliff eased up. Taking a few silent steps, he broke into an expectant grin just before tapping the footman on the shoulder.
The man spun around, meeting Heathcliff’s drawn fist. The footman went down with one facer, and Heathcliff felt a pinch of disappointment. Surely it should have taken two? There was no sport in pulling one punch, was there? He didn’t wait to determine an answer to his question and cast a glance toward the disappearing horse. A loud whistle rent the air, and Heathcliff watched as the animal slowed his pace. The would-be rider ran forward and mounted quickly, disappearing into the night.
Damn.
He hated when someone got away. It always complicated matters.
Always.
He glanced down at the unconscious footman, then kicked him for good measure.
The man groaned, and Heathcliff twisted his lips, wishing for a loch in which to dunk the scoundrel to wake him up, just so he could dispatch him once again into unconsciousness.
He was spoiling for more of a fight; it was anticlimactic, really, just one swing.
Well, he couldn’t bloody well stay out all night in the field behind Kilmarin. He frowned, then knelt down. “Get up you bastard,” he growled, shaking the footman.
He moaned, but didn’t make any movement.
Heathcliff swore under his breath. “Get up!” he roared this time, slapping the footman’s face with the back of his hand. “Wake up.”
The footman rolled to his side and spat before slowly attempting to rise.
Heathcliff stood and kicked him in the ribs. “Faster, you fool,” he growled.
The man groaned, then panted on all fours before biting out a low oath.
“Hell will be a holiday for you when I’m finished with you. Up, you coward.” Heathcliff stood back, his hands fisted, itching for the footman to resist in any way.
“Who the hell do you thin—”
“Your judge and jury. Let’s go.” Heathcliff grabbed the footman by the back of his shirt and all but carried the lean man to the house.
“When the duke—”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse about the Duke of Chatterwood,” Heathcliff said, his blood chilling at the thought.
The man ceased his words and fought Heathcliff’s tight grip, but it was of no use.
Heathcliff pushed him forward, sending him sailing into the dirt. “Try that again, I dare you,” he threatened. “Get up. Move it, you leech.”
The footman stumbled forward as if to run, but Heathcliff was quicker. Reaching forward, he horse-collared the man and sent him flying backward. He landed in the darkness with a loud thud, the sound of air leaving his lungs in a loud swoosh.
“I’ve got all night and a bad temper, so please, do continue.” Heathcliff spoke in a politely detached tone before stalking toward the man still sprawled in the dirt, gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him.
“Are you going to cooperate, or do you wish me to continue toying with your efforts at escape?”
The footman rose to his knees, coughing. “What—” He froze.
Heathcliff realized he was facing the moon, which had served to illuminate his face to the man before him.
“Bloody hell,” the man whispered.
“Both can be arranged. Now up,” he commanded.
The footman reluctantly rose to his feet, and Heathcliff could hear him swallow. Just to be sure he wouldn’t try to escape again, he grabbed the back of his shirt, pushing the man forward, toward the servants’ entrance.
When they reached the door, he kept a firm hold on the man, wary of him making a desperate mistake. Inside, there would be several candlesticks and other blunt utensils one could wield as a weapon, if necessary. He’d like to avoid that if possible. It was one thing to engage in fisticuffs outside in the open, but inside his house . . . well, he’d rather not alert Mrs. Keyes . . . yet.
“Down the hall,” Heathcliff whispered, keeping his tone menacing yet quiet as they made their way to the servants’ hall and toward the kitchens. There was a storage room just beyond it that had always reminded him of a dungeon. Kilmarin wasn’t rustic enough to boast its own prison, but that storage room would suffice in a pinch.
Once he passed the kitchen, he counted three doors in the hall and then opened the one that led to the storage room. After unlatching the door, he shoved the man inside, then shut it. Thankfully the old room bolted from the outside. For that reason, Mrs. Keyes had never let him play in it as a lad, much to his disappointment. But he found the mechanism supremely helpful at the moment.
He made sure the latch was secure and backed up as the footman rammed his body into the door on the other side, as if trying to break through it.
“Your body will break before the door will, lad,” Heathcliff said. “Your punishment has only just begun.”
He grinned at the truth of his statement, then started asking questions.
And as the answers poured forth, his grin faded, then disappeared.
Because he realized he was about to get everything he wanted.
And nothing he deserved.
Chapter Twenty-three
It was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that was a dull roar in one’s ears, the kind that made thoughts seem loud. And her thoughts were deafening. She should be resting, allowing her body and mind a much-needed reprieve from the planning and plotting of her future, or rather, her sister’s plotting for her future. She should be focusing on the masquerade that would take place in three days.
Three days and life would be different.
She wished she had a different word for it. Maybe bright, or blissful, or some other poetic adjective one dreams of using when considering the future. But no, all she could use was the word different.
Because if her sister’s well-laid plans came to fruition, Miranda would have one or perhaps more potential suitors. And that could easily lead to marriage, which meant there would be no more stolen kisses with the viscount.
No more gentle touches in the hallway, no more knowing, heated glances from across the dinner table, and it broke her heart.
Not that he’d done any of those things in the past week or so. No, he’d been painfully distant, utterly circumspect, and completely aloof. She’d never understand how it was that men could switch off their emotions so easily. It was practically impossible for her, which was only proven once again by the fact that she was wide awake, surely past midnight, and thinking about him.
Missing him.
Because while they had their stolen moments, there had been something more.
He’d become her friend.
And she had the sinking thought that the friendship had meant far more to her than to him.
And maybe the kisses had as well.
It was a horrible circle she kept traveling within her heart.
She sighed heavily, then rolled over in her bed. The fire crackled, the sound loud against the stillness of the room.
How she wished she could just sleep, have a few moments without dealing with the unknown.
A muted thump came from just beyond her door, and she froze, listening. She could barely make out the sound of quiet footsteps passing by her room in the hall, and she wondered.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one sleepless tonight.
Maybe Heathcliff was just as restless as she.
And she wanted to know the answer, needed to know. As she rose from her bed, she told herself sternly that she’d simply peek outside, nothing more. And if it was the viscount, well . . . she’d address that problem when and if she met it.
She darted to the door quickly, knowing she had to hurry if she were to catch whoever it was before they disappeared into the dark hall. The door handle was cool against her hand as she twisted it.
“Dear Lord.” The words were spoken before she could temper them.
Heathcliff spun on his heel and froze, his gaze startled and somewhat wild. But his eyes were the least shocking aspect of the scene before her. His sho
ulders were caked with dirt and mud, a thin red line trailed from his left shoulder to his midback, but she lost sight of it when he spun to face her. His hair was disheveled, and mud was splattered across his face, looking like large freckles in the candlelight.
Belatedly, she realized he wore nothing but his breeches and boots. Blinking, she awaited some sort of explanation for his state of undress and dishevelment. Was he hurt?
“Ach, Miranda, you about scared the wits out of me.” His shoulders relaxed, and he frowned. “What are you doing about?”
Miranda glanced down the hall. Seeing no one, she came out of her room and approached him. “I could ask the same of you. Whatever has happened to you? Are you injured?” she asked, her gaze searching his body for any indication either way.
“I’m well enough.” He shrugged the words as if they were of little consequence.
It was almost laughable. Even in the gothic novels she’d read in secret, she’d never come across a hero—or a villain, for that matter—in such a state. Now that she was assured he wasn’t injured, or at least not much, she was coming to appreciate the view.
She took another step closer, studying his chest and noting how it rose and fell with each breath. It was hypnotic, and she had to force herself to look up to meet his gaze.
“Miranda . . .” He whispered her name, but his tone wasn’t endearing or charming. It was intense, with something that sounded suspiciously like fear.
Her heart sped up its cadence.
“Yes?” She halted her steps and waited for him to continue.
He glanced at the floor, then at his hands, flexing them. His brows drew together as he studied his hands, as if just now seeing the dirt marring them. Miranda glanced at them as well, noting the several splits in his knuckles that were caked with dried blood.
Had he engaged in fisticuffs? If so, with whom? And at this late hour?
“I should wait till Lucas gets his sorry arse here,” he muttered, as if the words were meant for his ears alone.
“Pardon?” That got Miranda’s attention. Why in heaven’s name was her brother-in-law coming to Kilmarin in the dead of night?
“We have a bit of a . . . situation,” he hedged, then glanced down the hall, narrowing his eyes. “Ach, to hell with it all.” A low groan rumbled from his chest, and he gave her his back, striding toward a nearby door. He opened it quietly but with an impatient tug.
“Wait,” Miranda called out, taking a step forward.
“Get in.” He gestured with his chin to the barely illuminated room.
Miranda halted her steps, swallowed, then took a hesitant step forward.
He arched a brow impatiently as his gaze slid from hers down the hall once more.
She increased her pace and walked into the room, instinctively knowing these were his private chambers.
They smelled like him, cedar and cinnamon and something wild she couldn’t name, but associated with the man who was now closing the door behind her, leaving them utterly alone.
Her heart sounded deafeningly in her ears as he passed her, brushing close enough that she could feel the heat from his bare skin. It made her want to lean in, to touch him and find out if he felt as firm, and as soft, as he appeared. She wasn’t even sure how that was possible, to be firm and soft at the same time, but there was no other way to describe the smooth planes of his chest and the corded muscles traveling down his arms.
He knelt before the low-burning fire. Lifting a log, he placed it on top of the coals, sending several sparks flying into the air before they burned out, disappearing. The dry wood caught fire quickly, and he stood and faced her, his expression unreadable, even in the increasing light of the room.
She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know where to begin. There were so many questions, but all she could do was breathe.
“It would seem you have a decision to make,” he started, his gaze shifting from her, to the floor, then back to the fire as he continued. “Your father knows you’re here. How, I haven’t a clue. I’m assuming he knew wherever your sister was, you’d be nearby. Regardless. . .”
Miranda felt her breathing catch.
Her father knew where she was hiding? He’d be furious! He’d be irate and utterly determined to collect her back to London. She and Liliah had made a fool out of him in the eyes of the ton; he’d not take that lightly. He was far too prideful to allow such a slight.
“I see you understand the magnitude of the situation.” Heathcliff’s voice broke through her thoughts.
She sighed, then took another shaking breath. “I do.”
He regarded her curiously, his dark brows hooding his eyes as his lips parted just before he spoke. “Do you . . . that is, do you wish to return to London?”
Miranda stood up straighter, her brows knitting with confusion over such a . . . well, a stupid question. “London? Just so my father can lord over me and marry me off to whoever will give him the most benefit?”
Heathcliff’s gaze was masked. “How is that any different from marrying for position? For wealth? The ton is famous for its alliances.” His tone was harsh.
“You are a part of that world, Viscount Kilpatrick,” she bit out. “But as a man, you have the right, the privilege of securing your own future and fortune. I do not. I . . .” She took a step forward. “I am at the mercy of the men around me. My father, my brother-in-law, even you.”
He flinched slightly.
She frowned. “What is it? What are you not telling me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He shook his head. “You’re just more naive than you know.”
She tipped up her chin ever so slightly. “How so?”
He sighed, running his hand through his hair as he walked to a brocaded chair by the fireplace. He lowed himself into it and twisted his neck.
Miranda tamped down the urge to tap her toe impatiently, but it would have been useless; she was barefoot, and the movement wouldn’t have made a sound.
She glanced down anyway, realization slowly flooding her. Her legs tingled, then her arms, her fingers feeling as if little needles were pricking her a thousand times before she gathered the courage to look up.
Heathcliff was watching her, waiting for her to react to the knowledge she was just now understanding.
“I . . . see.”
And she did. She was in her night rail, in a gentleman’s room, and he was in a state of undress, and if all that evidence wasn’t damning enough, it was night, and she remembered her brother-in-law was expected as well.
A witness.
“Did you plan this?” she asked, feeling numb. She was compromised without actually being compromised. Leave it to her to let such an event be so utterly anticlimactic.
“No, yes, I—” He stood, his movements fitful as he paced the room for a moment before continuing to speak. “I’m open to suggestions if you don’t wish to . . .” He hesitated, then looked at her.
“Wish to?” she asked, arching a brow.
At least he had the grace to appear slightly abashed. “Marry me.”
The words should have brought euphoria, but they were forced; he’d chosen this, but only because he saw no other option. That much was clear.
She shoved all her emotions to the side. “I don’t remember being asked,” she bit out.
He frowned. “Surely you understand that this,” he gestured between the two of them, “is more than damning.”
“No one has seen us,” she shot back, not that she wanted him to alter his plans, but she couldn’t quite help pointing out the obvious. Plus, she didn’t like the idea of forcing his hand, and this certainly smacked of force.
For her.
For him.
“Even if no one ever knew about this.” He nodded to her. “Certainly you understand that there simply isn’t enough time to find you a proper husband—”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t be a proper husband?”
“You bloody well know I’m wouldn’t be,” he snapped. “B
ut you don’t have a choice anymore. Improper or not, I’m all you’ve got, lass.”
“Because my father knows I’m in Scotland?”
“Because the only way you’re going to be safe is if you’re married. Your sister said as much a week ago, and so did Lucas. We all know it, and now . . . we haven’t another choice. Unless you wish to go back to London with yer father.” His brogue was thick and rough, reminding her of scratchy yet warm wool blankets against her skin.
She took a deep breath through her nose. “Will I never have a choice in life? At every turn, it is stolen from me, and I wish . . .” She almost bled her heart out before him, but she paused and closed her eyes.
It was no use.
“I’m sorry, Miranda,” he murmured softly.
She glanced at him. “It’s not your fault,” she admitted.
“No, but I’m certainly not helping.” He shook his head and placed his hands on his hips, drawing her attention back to his dirt-smeared chest.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened? I’m assuming it has something to do with this news of my father . . .” She tipped her head and sighed, weary.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to his recently vacated chair by the fire.
She padded to it and sat down on the soft cushion, the heat from the fire warming her as he told his tale.
And as she listened, she could almost pretend this was where she wanted to be.
In his room, listening to the soft, deep timbre of his voice while the fire crackled.
She could almost pretend she was wanted.
That he wanted her.
Maybe even as much as she wanted him.
Chapter Twenty-four
Heathcliff heard Lucas’s voice before he heard the footsteps down the hall. He’d secreted Miranda back in her room a half hour earlier so he could attempt to clean up the mess that was his body. And even though it had only been a half hour, he missed her.
Oh, he always missed her when she wasn’t with him. Hadn’t he just been musing about avoiding thinking about her? So that meant she was the only thing he could think of. He gave a wry chuckle. This was different, though.
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