“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, evenyou.”
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.
