arrogant and surly, two men blocked his path.
“You there!” Miles snapped. “Do you know who I am?”
“I’m betting you’re Miles Marshall.”
“You’re correct,” he snarled. “Get out of my way.”
To his great surprise, neither of them budged. One of them grabbed him, and the other pawed over Miles’s person, apparently searching for weapons. He was so offended he shook with outrage.
When he was released, he blustered into his sitting room, but there was an imposing man seated on a chair in the center. He was dressed all in black, and he looked ominous and threatening.
There were others scattered about. They all seemed to have been waiting for Miles, as if they were aware he was on the premises, as if they’d been warned that he was headed up the stairs.
“Who the hell are you,” Miles said to the man in black, “and why are you in my home?”
“Hello, Miles,” the man blandly replied.
“Stand up when you address your betters,” Miles told him.
“My betters?”
The man bristled as if he might leap up and attack Miles, but a man behind him laid a hand on the fellow’s shoulder, silently urging him to calm down.
“Don’t you remember me, Miles?” the man in black asked.
“Why would I? I don’t bother myself with the lower classes, and it’s Master Miles to you.”
The man pushed himself to his feet, and it took forever for him to reach his full height. He was several inches taller than Miles, broad in the chest, his arms and legs muscled from strenuous endeavor. He exuded danger and menace, and Miles quickly stepped back.
He assessed the man’s eyes, those very black Drummond eyes. For a moment, he felt dizzy and off balance, as if the world had tipped off its axis.
The last time Miles had seen Damian, they’d been on the lane that led to the village. Damian and his grandfather had been living with the vicar, and every morning he’d sent supplicants to the manor to beg for mercy.
Miles had taunted Damian over his pitiable, whiny grandfather, had thrown rocks at him and chased him away. In his mind, Damian hadn’t aged since that day, but this man wasn’t the boy Miles recalled. There was naught about him that resembled that child in the slightest.
How could that boy have morphed into this powerful, daunting brigand?
“What do you want, Drummond?”
“So you remember me after all.” Sarcastically Drummond added, “How nice.”
“Speak your piece, then get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I own Kirkwood now.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“You should read your mail once in a while. You should show up for your court hearings.”
Miles scowled. There had been process servers hounding him for months in London. It was the reason he’d sneaked away to hide at all those parties in the country. For a bit of time whenever he’d turned a corner, he’d had either a judgment or a summons slapped into his hand.
He recognized that his fiscal condition was precarious, but he’d refused to appear in court and let a paltry creditor shame him. Not having the patience for conflict, he always ignored horrid situations and nothing awful ever occurred when he did. He’d figured this situation would resolve itself too if he simply declined to respond.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m saying that I own Kirkwood so I am not going anywhere. But you are.”
“Where am I going?”
“You, your mother, your sister, and your cousin, Miss Fogarty, are moving to the estate agent’s house today.”
“We most certainly are not. That place is a hovel. It’s been shuttered for two decades. Ever since…”
His voice trailed off as he realized—while staring down Walter’s grandson—he couldn’t finish with, ever since we tossed Walter out on the road.
“We’re not moving there,” he insisted.
“Yes, you are. The servants have already packed your belongings.”
“What do you expect us to do?”
“I expect you to spend a week begging me for
“You there!” Miles snapped. “Do you know who I am?”
“I’m betting you’re Miles Marshall.”
“You’re correct,” he snarled. “Get out of my way.”
To his great surprise, neither of them budged. One of them grabbed him, and the other pawed over Miles’s person, apparently searching for weapons. He was so offended he shook with outrage.
When he was released, he blustered into his sitting room, but there was an imposing man seated on a chair in the center. He was dressed all in black, and he looked ominous and threatening.
There were others scattered about. They all seemed to have been waiting for Miles, as if they were aware he was on the premises, as if they’d been warned that he was headed up the stairs.
“Who the hell are you,” Miles said to the man in black, “and why are you in my home?”
“Hello, Miles,” the man blandly replied.
“Stand up when you address your betters,” Miles told him.
“My betters?”
The man bristled as if he might leap up and attack Miles, but a man behind him laid a hand on the fellow’s shoulder, silently urging him to calm down.
“Don’t you remember me, Miles?” the man in black asked.
“Why would I? I don’t bother myself with the lower classes, and it’s Master Miles to you.”
The man pushed himself to his feet, and it took forever for him to reach his full height. He was several inches taller than Miles, broad in the chest, his arms and legs muscled from strenuous endeavor. He exuded danger and menace, and Miles quickly stepped back.
He assessed the man’s eyes, those very black Drummond eyes. For a moment, he felt dizzy and off balance, as if the world had tipped off its axis.
The last time Miles had seen Damian, they’d been on the lane that led to the village. Damian and his grandfather had been living with the vicar, and every morning he’d sent supplicants to the manor to beg for mercy.
Miles had taunted Damian over his pitiable, whiny grandfather, had thrown rocks at him and chased him away. In his mind, Damian hadn’t aged since that day, but this man wasn’t the boy Miles recalled. There was naught about him that resembled that child in the slightest.
How could that boy have morphed into this powerful, daunting brigand?
“What do you want, Drummond?”
“So you remember me after all.” Sarcastically Drummond added, “How nice.”
“Speak your piece, then get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I own Kirkwood now.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“You should read your mail once in a while. You should show up for your court hearings.”
Miles scowled. There had been process servers hounding him for months in London. It was the reason he’d sneaked away to hide at all those parties in the country. For a bit of time whenever he’d turned a corner, he’d had either a judgment or a summons slapped into his hand.
He recognized that his fiscal condition was precarious, but he’d refused to appear in court and let a paltry creditor shame him. Not having the patience for conflict, he always ignored horrid situations and nothing awful ever occurred when he did. He’d figured this situation would resolve itself too if he simply declined to respond.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m saying that I own Kirkwood so I am not going anywhere. But you are.”
“Where am I going?”
“You, your mother, your sister, and your cousin, Miss Fogarty, are moving to the estate agent’s house today.”
“We most certainly are not. That place is a hovel. It’s been shuttered for two decades. Ever since…”
His voice trailed off as he realized—while staring down Walter’s grandson—he couldn’t finish with, ever since we tossed Walter out on the road.
“We’re not moving there,” he insisted.
“Yes, you are. The servants have already packed your belongings.”
“What do you expect us to do?”
“I expect you to spend a week begging me for
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