“Are you sure?”
It was a man’s voice, that much was certain, and he assumed it was the rider, not the footman. Yet he wondered if he’d recognize the footman’s voice. Probably not.
“Certain,” the other person answered—the footman, Heathcliff assumed. The voice sounded younger, green and unsure.
“And you have proof?”
Heathcliff was expecting such a question; it usually followed when one wanted to confirm information. Hell, he’d asked for proof countless times himself. There was no honor amongst thieves, or gamblers, for that matter.
“You said if Lady Heightfield took residence somewhere other than London to follow. She visits Kilmarin every day, and always with the governess—”
“Governess?”
Heathcliff felt bile rise in the back of his throat.
He had been expecting . . . well, he wasn’t sure, but not this. Maybe a disgruntled lord who had lost his fortune at Temptations seeking revenge, but not this.
Not someone chasingher.
He didn’t need to hear anymore; he needed to take action. Creeping forward, his hands tingled with the need to fight, to feel the shattering of bone beneath his knuckles. It had been too long since he’d had a good brawl; this would be . . .fun.
Restless no longer, he planned his attack. He’d have the element of surprise for only a few moments; it was best to first spook the horse to eliminate the rider from escaping. The footman would be the least of the threats, so he’d turn his attention to the would-be rider. He counted silently in his head, creeping around the back of the horse, pausing when the beast’s ears perked up.
Leave it to animals; they always knew. The night had gone still, as if the heavens were holding their breath for whatever came next. The horse stamped his foot impatiently, causing the bridle to jingle. The sound carried across the windswept moor, and Heathcliff paused, listening to see if either man had been alerted by the horse’s uneasy reaction. One breath, then two; the men continued to speak in soft, angry tones.
Heathcliff raised his hand and gave a swift smack to the horse’s hindquarters. It gave a startled whinny and sidestepped, knocking into Heathcliff and sending him sprawling into the dirt, then took off. The force of the horse’s hindquarters was impressive, and he begrudgingly felt respect for the startled animal as he lifted his head to watch what happened next. The horse was now several yards away, increasing his pace while one of the men gave chase, yelling epithets into the night. Heathcliff kept his body low as he scanned the night for the second man. Sure enough, only a yard away stood what he assumed to be the wayward footman, his back to Heathcliff as he watched the horse bolt.
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—”
