She glanced down anyway, realization slowly flooding her. Her legs tingled, then her arms, her fingers feeling as if little needles were pricking her a thousand times before she gathered the courage to look up.
Heathcliff was watching her, waiting for her to react to the knowledge she was just now understanding.
“I . . . see.”
And she did. She was in her night rail, in a gentleman’s room, and he was in a state of undress, and if all that evidence wasn’t damning enough, it was night, and she remembered her brother-in-law was expected as well.
A witness.
“Did you plan this?” she asked, feeling numb. She was compromised without actually being compromised. Leave it to her to let such an event be so utterly anticlimactic.
“No, yes, I—” He stood, his movements fitful as he paced the room for a moment before continuing to speak. “I’m open to suggestions if you don’t wish to . . .” He hesitated, then looked at her.
“Wish to?” she asked, arching a brow.
At least he had the grace to appear slightly abashed. “Marry me.”
The words should have brought euphoria, but they were forced; he’d chosen this, but only because he saw no other option. That much was clear.
She shoved all her emotions to the side. “I don’t remember being asked,” she bit out.
He frowned. “Surely you understand that this,” he gestured between the two of them, “is more than damning.”
“No one has seen us,” she shot back, not that she wanted him to alter his plans, but she couldn’t quite help pointing out the obvious. Plus, she didn’t like the idea of forcing his hand, and this certainly smacked of force.
For her.
For him.
“Even if no one ever knew about this.” He nodded to her. “Certainly you understand that there simply isn’t enough time to find you a proper husband—”
“You’re saying you wouldn’t be a proper husband?”
“You bloody well know I’m wouldn’t be,” he snapped. “But you don’t have a choice anymore. Improper or not, I’m all you’ve got, lass.”
“Because my father knows I’m in Scotland?”
“Because the only way you’re going to be safe is if you’re married. Your sister said as much a week ago, and so did Lucas. We all know it, and now . . . we haven’t another choice. Unless you wish to go back to London with yer father.” His brogue was thick and rough, reminding her of scratchy yet warm wool blankets against her skin.
She took a deep breath through her nose. “Will I never have a choice in life? At every turn, it is stolen from me, and I wish . . .” She almost bled her heart out before him, but she paused and closed her eyes.
It was no use.
“I’m sorry, Miranda,” he murmured softly.
She glanced at him. “It’s not your fault,” she admitted.
“No, but I’m certainly not helping.” He shook his head and placed his hands on his hips, drawing her attention back to his dirt-smeared chest.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened? I’m assuming it has something to do with this news of my father . . .” She tipped her head and sighed, weary.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to his recently vacated chair by the fire.
She padded to it and sat down on the soft cushion, the heat from the fire warming her as he told his tale.
And as she listened, she could almost pretend this was where she wanted to be.
In his room, listening to the soft, deep timbre of his voice while the fire crackled.
She could almost pretend she was wanted.
That he wanted her.
Maybe even as much as she wanted him.
