He hoped she wouldn’t back down from the challenge.
Even though it was the wiser of the two options.
“That’s left to be decided.” She inclined her head, but he read a fire in her expression that was daring, yet at the same time restraining, as she tossed his previous response back to him. She wasn’t giving away her secrets.
The lady would have been a good gambler.
Her wit pleased him. “That’s a fair answer. After all, we did just meet.” He spoke as he traced along the jawline of the mare. “But I must say, I wasn’t quite expecting your level of expertise in discourse. It was a pleasure to converse with you this evening.”
“I almost feel insulted,” she responded with a saucy grin. “But because I’m in your employ, I’ll simply accept it as a compliment.” She met his gaze, held it for a moment too long, then glanced away while a lovely pink tinted her cheeks.
So the lady wasn’t a gambler after all. He wasn’t sure why, but he appreciated that about her. It was better to read people, to know what they were thinking, rather than be left in the dark.
But it was also dangerous.
Because you couldn’t unsee the truth.
Like the truth she had just revealed; she was attracted to him.
Which was one of the most dangerous things she could have revealed.
Dangerous for her.
Dangerous for him.
“I’ll leave you to your evening, then.” She smoothed her skirt and turned to leave.
Before she could move a step, he reached out and grasped her hand. She froze at the contact and turned back to him. “Yes?” she asked, her tone wary.
He released her at once, but his hand burned from the contact, sending a pulsating energy up his arm and into his chest. “I interrupted you.” He took a step back, needing to remove himself from temptation.
Ha, irony was thick in his life.
“It is your horse, and your stables, my lord,” she reminded him.
“Actually, Lady is . . . was my father’s horse,” he answered, feeling the dark cloud of his past creep up around him.
“Was.” Miranda nodded once. “My condolences for your loss.”
“It was long ago.” He spoke too quickly for it to be believed.
She studied him then. “I take it you were close with your father?”
He hitched a shoulder, regretting his inclination to keep her from her departure. He’d already revisited the past enough for one day—one decade. “Yes,” he answered.
She nodded, and when a few moments had passed without further questions, he relaxed his posture.
“It is good to at least know her name,” she remarked.
It took him a moment, then he realized she meant the horse. “Yes, Lady. Not exactly original, but adequate.”
“Isn’t that so much of life? Adequate, but not original?” she murmured, her gaze lingering on the horse as if lost in thought.
Heathcliff reflected on her words, finding them refreshingly observant. The burning curiosity that seemed never to remain dormant for long in regard to this woman ignited once more. “How do you mean?”
She blinked up at him, as if remembering her words. “Oh, I suppose nothing of import.” She shook her head delicately, a curl coming down from her loose chignon at the nape of her neck, trailing along the delicate structure of her clavicle.
The innocent curl almost distracted him from the subject matter of their conversation, yet he dragged his gaze upward. “I find it hard to believe you’d say anything of little import, Miss Miranda. Rather”—he took a slight step toward her, watching as her breath caught—“you strike me as someone who puts an inordinate amount of thought into her words. It’s intriguing.”
