She would marry.
It wouldn’t be him.
She’d move on.
So would he.
A few stolen kisses didn’t equal love, even if his heart was capable of such a miracle, which it wasn’t.
He sighed, bone weary, and sat down on his bed, hands on his knees as he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head.
It didn’t work.
With a reluctant sigh, he rose from his bed and walked to a tall wooden cabinet. He pulled the brass knob, then narrowed his gaze on the contents.
Brandy.
But what he really wanted was whisky. Real Scottish whisky, the kind that would burn all the way down his throat, burn away the thoughts that plagued him.
But his whisky was in his office. He’d already taken off his waistcoat and shirt, leaving on only his breeches. He cast a weary glance at the clothing on the settee. “Hell with it.” He strode to the door and walked out into the hall. The cool air felt comforting against his bare chest, and he relaxed slightly. He would often run about Kilmarin in nothing but his breeches when he was in residence alone, but with ladies about, he had taken to being more of a proper gentleman. Much against his will.
A certain freedom enveloped him as he took the stairs. Damn, he hated clothing.
The cravat most of all, bloody confining thing.
He nostalgically considered wearing his kilt, a beautiful plaid of blue woven with green and red. Best of all, you didn’t have to wear anything beneath it.
He crossed the marble floor of the foyer and headed down the hallway toward his study, pausing at the door when he heard soft footsteps.
Probably a maid, but he didn’t wish to be seen half naked in the hall at midnight.
During the day, he would have given a quick smile and ducked into his study. But night held its secrets. Night tempted, was always far more dangerous than day, so he carefully inched back into a dark corner and waited for the person to pass or go away.
Only a few candles flickered, illuminating very little in the dark hall while Heathcliff waited. The footsteps sounded nearer, then they halted altogether. He was about to step out when they resumed once more. A footman, one of their newer staff, walked by, checking behind himself for several moments before passing down the hall, then taking a servants’ door that led outside.
Heathcliff listened, and when there was a telltale squeak of the door leading outside, he left the shadows. He started toward his study, then paused. Something felt off; he couldn’t name it, but it went against his instincts, so he abandoned his pursuit of whisky and pursued the errant footman instead. He quickened his steps to make sure he didn’t lag too far behind, and once he made it to the same door he’d heard used before, he opened it only enough to fit his body through, avoiding the squeak. The night air was chilly against his chest, and he belatedly wished he had donned at least his shirt, but it was too late now. He leaned against the stone of the wall and watched the moon-illuminated horizon of Kilmarin. Movement caught his eye by the stables, and he ducked down, while heading in that direction. He kept his steps soft, quiet, stealthy. The tall grass tickled his chest as he grew closer to the stables, and just before he reached the door, he stepped around the corner, out of sight. He had expected the footman to materialize on a horse, but when Heathcliff looked around the corner of the stable, a dark shadow walked up a path that led to an intersecting road.
This was curious.
It would be foolish to follow close behind. It was entirely possible the footman was meeting a lover, but Heathcliff had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and now he was resolute in his pursuit.
Something, he knew, wasn’t right.
Perhaps even worse. Wasn’t it his duty to find out what it was?
He waited till the footman had a good head start, but not enough that he could easily disappear in the night, and Heathcliff followed. The cricket’s song was loud in the night, covering the soft sound of his footsteps. The half-moon’s glow was just enough light to allow him to keep his target in sight. Just as the path met the road ahead, Heathcliff saw a shadowy figure. Then he heard a horse’s impatient nicker.
Interesting.
He increased his pace, wanting to be near enough to overhear any possible exchange of words. He bent lower in the tall grass, keeping his movements swift and silent as he approached where the footman had stopped.
Heathcliff slowed, taking the most silent of steps, his ears alert for the softest whisper of a voice as he drew nearer, and nearer. Kneeling down in the grass, he waited, not daring to draw closer with such a lack of cover. The night was dark, but not dark enough for him to risk moving closer. The horse and rider did nothing that would indicate any clue to their identity or purpose, but Heathcliff closed his eyes and listened.
He filtered out the noise of the crickets.
He ignored the sound of the wind rustling the dry grass.
He centered his attention on the soft voices the wind carried.
