His gaze still fixed on her face, he spoke in a maddeningly calm voice, “If ye were intending on haunting me chambers, ye could’ve done it in something more… decent.”
Her breath caught. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him incredulously.
“Decent?” she echoed. “This is a nightgown. It is worn atnight. Did ye expect me to sleep in a ballgown?”
His jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared.
“Why are ye here?” he demanded.
The question, sharp and dangerous, hung between them. There were a dozen ways she could answer. She could test the waters with half-truths, deflections, or light words.
But William MacLean did not test the waters. He shattered them. He was blunt to the point of brutality, and she knew that anything less than honesty would be time-wasting.
So she did the one thing she knew she should not—she stepped toward him.
The movement was slow. One step at a time. For the briefest moment, she caught his gaze dip. Just a fraction, but low enough to register the way curves quivered with every step she took.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. But she did her best to ignore it, lifting her chin before meeting his eyes squarely.
“Were ye almost killed?” she asked.
The effect of her question was immediate. It could be seen in the way his eyebrows rose slowly, as though he had not expected those words to come out of her mouth.
His eyes flickered with both surprise and calculation, before realization dawned in them. And that was when she understood.
Myles.
He was not supposed to tell her what had almost happened that night.
Yet, she held her ground, awaiting William’s response, even though her heart raced faster.
William studied her for a long moment before answering, “It would take more than that to destroy me.”
His words held no bravado. They were not intended to be boastful. They only held pure certainty. A fire that matched the one in his eyes. Dark, dangerous, and unwavering. She had never seen anything like it, and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
“If ye have any sense left,” he continued, “ye’ll pack yer belongings and leave first thing in the morning.”
Her frown deepened, her annoyance rising at his words.
“I am certain I made meself clear before,” she said coolly. “Yer words hold nay power over me.”
His fingers slowly curled at his sides till his knuckles turned white. Still, she did not back down. If anything, she stepped closer until only a hairsbreadth remained between them.
She could feel his warmth now, and it made her heart pound so hard she was sure he could hear it.
“Besides,” she added softly, refusing to look away, “I didnae come here for that.”
His eyes darkened.
“I came here because I have questions. About the assassin. About whether ye have any idea who?—”
“That,” he cut in with a rough growl, the sound vibrating through her, “is none of yer business.”
Her lashes fluttered at the intensity of his gaze.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to fan her cheeks. “Worry about yerself instead.”
It sounded like a dismissal, but there was something else in his tone. Not the sharp-edged command she had grown used to. Not anger. But something else. Something that was almost… tender.
