Romancing the Duke (10 page)

A distant wailing rattled her to the bones.

That was it. She was getting out of bed. That noise was definitely not her imagination.

Izzy shook Miss Pelham’s shoulder. “Miss Pelham. Miss Pelham, wake.”

“What is it, Miss Goodnight?” The young woman turned over lazily, hair mussed from sleep. It gave Izzy a small sense of satisfaction to see Miss Pelham with her hair mussed.

Then the moaning began again, and she lost all interest in coiffures.

“Did you hear that?” Izzy asked.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“It’s a very loud nothing. Hush. There it is again.”

Miss Pelham frowned and listened. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Thank God. I’m not going mad.

“What could it be? I’ve heard that there are wild cattle in the park, but that noise sounds much too close.”

They listened to it again—that low, broken howl.

Miss Pelham sat up. “A shepherd blowing his horn?”

“At this time of night? Over and over?” Izzy shuddered.

“Well, it’s not a ghost. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither did I until I moved in here.”

Miss Pelham sighed. “There’s only one way to find out. We’ll investigate.”

“Must we?” Izzy asked. “On second thought, I can live without knowing. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“You are the one who woke me, Miss Goodnight. I don’t think you’ll sleep well until we’ve put the mystery to rest.”

Izzy was afraid she’d say that. “Perhaps someone is just playing tricks on us.”

“It’s certainly possible.” Miss Pelham reached for her dressing gown. “I wouldn’t put it past the duke. No doubt he wants to lure us out of our bedchambers in our shifts. Be sure to close your dressing gown with a very tight knot.”

“He’s blind. How would he be able to tell?”

“He’d be able to tell.”

Yes, Izzy supposed he would.

Though Izzy wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of skulking through the castle at midnight again, she felt more confident knowing that Miss Pelham would be joining the sally.

Once they’d each knotted their dressing robes and donned boots, they lit candles. Izzy patted her pocket. Empty. Snowdrop must be out hunting or curled in her nest.

Lucky Snowdrop.

They took the stairs together, proceeding slowly in the dark. One after the other. Sometimes Miss Pelham would speed up and turn the corner before Izzy, and her figure and candlelight would drift from view. Then Izzy would hasten to catch up, sure she could feel ghostly fingers on the back of her neck.

“Do you see anything that way?” Miss Pelham asked, once they emerged into the corridor.

Izzy held the candlestick high with her right hand and peeked through the fingers of her left. “No.”

“Nothing to this side, either.”

The noise came again.

“Not to worry, Miss Goodnight. Old buildings like these make all sorts of strange sounds. No doubt it’s just timbers settling, or a door creaking back and forth on rusted hinges.”

Both those explanations sounded reassuringly plausible.

They emerged into the courtyard, and were nearly across it when an immense figure emerged from the shadows, stopping them in their path.

“Duncan,” Izzy gasped, pressing a hand to her thumping heart. “You scared us.”

The valet held his lamp aloft, illuminating the stark lines of his face. “What are you ladies doing out of bed?”

Once again, a keening howl rose up into the night, lifting every hair on Izzy’s arms with it.

“That’s what we’re doing out of bed,” she said.

“What can it be?” Miss Pelham asked.

Duncan shook his head. “Likely cats wailing or foxes having a fight. Whatever it is, I’ll scare it off. You ladies should return to your chamber.”

“We’re coming with you,” Izzy said.

They’d ventured this far. She’d rather face whatever it was with Duncan present than make that walk back to their chamber alone.

“Really, Miss Goodnight. It’s not—”

Before he could finish his warnings, Miss Pelham shrieked and pointed. “A ghost!”

A white, filmy apparition came streaking out of the tower. It writhed and howled, twisting its way across the courtyard like a wraith.

It wasn’t a ghost.

It was Magnus.

Poor wolf-dog Magnus, caught in a Holland cloth they’d hung up with the washing. He was moving so swiftly, it took Izzy a few moments to discern the reason for his distress.

But she ought to have guessed at the cause.

Snowdrop.

The ermine had gone hunting, all right—hunting for big game.

She was attached to the end of Magnus’s tail, holding on by the strength of her vicious teeth. The dog caromed around the courtyard, whipping and howling in an effort to shake her off.

“Oh, the poor thing.” Laughing, Izzy set off in pursuit. “Duncan, can you catch him?”

It took some doing, but eventually they managed to corner the beasts. Duncan held the dog still while Izzy pried Snowdrop’s jaws from his tail.

“There. You little menace.”

Miss Pelham winced as she studied the bite wound on the dog’s tail. “I’ll see to bandaging the poor dear. It’s a deep wound. In my kit, there’s some salve that will help. It’s in the great hall. Duncan, we’ll need bandages.”

Duncan started off before she even finished. “Of course, Miss Pelham.”

Izzy cradled the ermine in her hands. “I’ll take Snowdrop back up to the turret and make sure she can’t escape, and then I’ll join you.”

The plan established, they parted and went their separate ways.

Izzy mounted the stairs, Snowdrop tucked securely in the pocket of her dressing gown. The ermine seemed to have tired from the chase, and she went to sleep at once.

“The duke will be most put out with you,” Izzy chided, locking the animal into her gilded ball. “And put out with me, no doubt.”

Where
was
Rothbury, anyhow? He couldn’t possibly have slept through all that howling. And even if he could, he ought have noticed that the commotion involved his own dog.

Despite her questions, Izzy’s steps were light and carefree as she made her way back down to the great hall. Now that their keening, wailing ghost had been unmasked and proved to be something so benign, she felt a new sense of bravery welling in her chest.

She truly could do this. She could make this place her home.

And then . . .

While breezing down the corridor, Izzy caught a glimpse of something in one of the vacant rooms.

A glimpse of something pale and writhing.

And moaning.

Her heart made an impulsive attempt to escape her body by way of her throat. But she didn’t run away. She inched closer, holding the candle tight.

Slowly, the ghostly apparition came into focus.

Izzy blinked. “Your Grace?”

Chapter Ten

D
amn, damn, damn.

Ransom winced as her familiar voice sliced through his throbbing skull.

She
would
have to find him here, see him like this. Down on the ground, his knees cut out from under him. Crippled by searing pain.

Why had he ever agreed to a duel with swords? He should have insisted on pistols. He’d be dead now, of course. But in times like this, dying seemed preferable to one more minute of this burning, shooting pain.

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you unwell?”

She padded across the floor and crouched at his side.

“Go away. Leave me.” He rolled onto his side, curling his knees to his stomach and pressing his skull against the cool, smooth stone.

“Are you having some sort of attack?”

“Just . . .” He flinched as a fresh burst of pain ripped from his eye socket to the back of his skull. “Just a headache.”

It wasn’t just a headache. It was a headagony. The pain ripped from the back of his skull, curving around one side of his scalp to stab him just behind the eye.

Again and again and again.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“By leaving.”

“I won’t do that. You didn’t leave me when I swooned.”

“Different,” he muttered. “Wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t kindness. I know, I know. Something about vermin. If you don’t want me, shall I fetch Duncan?”

“No.” He managed to pronounce the word with gunshot force, but it had a wicked recoil. White streaks of pain flared behind his eyelids.

She didn’t leave him. “Do you need water? Whisky? Some sort of powder?”

He gritted his teeth and gave a tight shake of his head. “Nothing works. Have to wait it out.”

“How long?”

“An hour, perhaps.”

An hour that would feel like a lifetime. A lifetime of being stabbed through the base of his skull with a spike. Repeatedly.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said.

Her hand settled on his shoulder, and the touch sent a shiver through him.

Ransom was accustomed to dealing with pain on his own. In his early life, he hadn’t been given a choice. His mother had died less than an hour after his birth. His father had showed no patience with tears he might shed over stubbed toes and scraped knees. If he hurt himself or fell ill, the old duke thought he should overcome the pain on his own. The nursemaids and house staff were forbidden to give him so much as a hug. No coddling. No small mercies. His father had insisted on it.

And his father had been right. By learning to recover on his own, Ransom had grown into a strong, independent man. Untouchable. Invincible.

Right up until the moment a short sword caught him across the face.

Her fingers brushed over his ruined brow.

“I don’t need you here,” he said.

“Of course you don’t. You’re a big, strong, manly duke, and you don’t need anyone, I know. I’m not here for you. I’m here for me. Because I need to stay.”

With a sigh, he gave in. He hadn’t the strength to argue it further.

She settled beside him and drew his head into her lap. “There, now. Be easy. Be calm.”

Her fingers drifted through his hair, tracing delicious furrows on his scalp. Each caress seemed to stroke away a bit of the pain.

Her touch was like magic—or the closest thing to a miracle a man like him could ever credit. She found the sharp edge of his pain and dulled it with gentle sweeps of her fingertips.

And her voice. That deep, sweet river of her voice, carrying him away from the pain.

It was so foreign to him, this unsolicited tenderness. Incomprehensible. And much as he craved it, it scared him like hell. With every caress he permitted, he was piling up debts he could never repay.

You don’t deserve it
, came that dark, unforgiving echo. He’d heard the words so many times, they were part of him now. They lived in his blood, resounding with each hollow beat of his heart.
You don’t deserve this. You never could.

Her thumb found a knot at the base of his skull and pressed. He moaned.

She immediately stilled. “Am I distressing you?”

“No. Yes.” He turned so that his head lay in the cradle of her lap, and he stretched one arm about her waist, shameless. “Just . . .”

“Yes?”

“Don’t stop.” He sucked in his breath as a fresh wave of pain nearly knocked him cold. “Don’t stop.”

“I
won’t stop,” she promised.

Izzy’s heart twisted. There was something so moving about seeing a man so big, so powerful, curled up like a puppy on the floor, damp with perspiration and writhing in evident pain.

His arms laced tight about her waist.

She’d been alone for a long time. In some ways, since well before her father died. And she was well-enough acquainted with loneliness to understand that the worst part wasn’t having nobody caring for you—it was having nobody to care for.

Izzy didn’t know if these gentle sweeps of her fingertips could erase his pain—but they were dismantling the safeguards around her heart.

She soothed her touch over his brow and scalp, making shushing noises and whispering what she hoped were comforting words.

What happened?
she longed to ask.
What happened tonight? What happened all those months ago?

“Speak,” he said.

“What shall I speak of?”

“Anything.”

How strange. Izzy found herself on the receiving end of questions daily, but she was never asked to talk about . . . anything on her mind. Now that he’d requested it, she didn’t even know what to say.

She stroked his hair again.

“Talk of anything,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you must. One from Mudpuddlia.”

She smiled. “I’d rather not. My life’s work was helping my father. But that doesn’t mean I’m a little girl living in his tales. To be sure, I enjoy a romantic story, but I also like newspapers and sporting magazines.”

She dropped her touch to his neck and began to work loose the knots of muscle there, working in gentle circles.

He groaned.

She stilled her fingers. “Shall I stop?”

“No. Just keep talking. Which sport?”

“When I was a girl, I followed all of it. My father was just a tutor then, and I was a girl who read anything she could lay hands on. One of his pupils passed along stacks of magazines. Boxing, wrestling. Horseracing was my favorite. I would read every article, study every race. I’d pick horses, and my father would place the bets. We could always use the extra money.”

She reclined her weight on one outstretched arm and settled in to tell him all about the year she picked the winners in both the Ascot and Derby, sparing no detail of her bloodline research and odds calculations. He just wanted her to keep talking, and so she did.

“Anyhow,” she finished, minutes later, “we did well with it.”

“It sounds as though
you
did well with it.” He released a long, heavy sigh and turned onto his back, so that he faced her.

“Is the pain any better, Your Gr—” She cut herself short, unable to complete the proper form of address. She held his head in her lap, and she’d just babbled on about her boring life. This was the least ducal or graceful moment imaginable. What point was there in formality?

She thought of all those letters she’d pored over that morning. How they all began with “Your Grace” or “May it please the duke” or something similarly cold.

He needed someone to treat him like a
person.
Not an untouchable duke but a man worth caring for. And as she could imagine Duncan would prefer to swallow bootblack before breaking with his traditional role, Izzy decided that person would have to be her.

“Ransom,” she whispered.

He didn’t object, so she tried it again.

“Ransom, are you better?”

He nodded, putting one hand over his eyes and massaging his temples. “Better. Somewhat.”

“Do you have these headaches often?” she asked.

“Not so often anymore. They’re just . . . sudden. And vengeful. This one cut my legs out from under me. At least when it’s over, the pain leaves as swiftly as it arrived.”

He began struggling to a sitting position. “Don’t tell Duncan,” he said. “He’ll insist on sending for a doctor.”

“Maybe a doctor would be a good idea,” Izzy replied.

Ransom shook his head, wincing as he did. “No. There’s nothing they can do.”

He pushed to a standing position. Izzy stood, too. And then watched, cringing, as the six-foot-tall column of duke slowly pitched to the right.

“Oh, dear.” She lunged into action, using both hands and all her body weight to prop him back up. “You should rest, Your Grace.”

“So should you.” His hand stroked up and down her arm. “What are you doing out of bed anyhow?”

“I . . . er . . .” She hesitated, not knowing how to explain the “ghost hunt,” and not wanting to tell him her weasel had nearly bitten off his poor dog’s tail.

But he didn’t appear ready to comprehend the story anyhow. “Are you certain you’re well?”

“It’s always this way.” He steadied himself with one hand on her shoulder. “Even after the pain is gone, my mind doesn’t work properly for an hour or two. It’s like being drunk.”

She smiled at the heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder. At last, he was accepting a small measure of assistance from her, unforced and unprompted.

“Well, at least you’re a friendly drunk,” she said. “There’s that. In fact, I think I might like you much better this way.”

“I like you too much.” His slurred, mumbled words were almost too low to hear.

They were too ludicrous to be trusted.

I like you too much.

Izzy flushed with heat. He couldn’t really mean that. He wasn’t himself right now. That was all.

“You really should rest,” she said. “Let me take you down to the great hall so you can sleep.” She started to drape his arm over her shoulders like a yoke.

He turned to face her. Instead of draping over her shoulders, his arm slid around her back. “At least kiss me good night.”

Heavens. He truly
was
behaving as if he were drunk. He probably wouldn’t even remember this encounter in the morning.

In which case . . . Why not?

Stretching up on her toes, she kissed his unshaven cheek. “Good night, Ransom.”

“No, no.” He drew her close, and together they wobbled back and forth. “Not what I meant. Isolde Ophelia Goodnight, kiss me. With every ounce of passion in your soul.”

“I . . .” Flustered, she swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I even know how.”

The quirk of his lips was shameless. “Use your imagination.”

Now
that
was an invitation she’d been waiting a lifetime to hear.

She pressed her lips to his, softly. He remained still, letting her do the kissing. She laced her arms around his neck, leaning close. She brushed lingering kisses over his upper lip, then the bottom. Just lightly, tenderly. Again and again.

These kisses . . . they were confessions. Tastes of everything she had stored inside her. Everything she could give a man if he was brave enough to accept. Kiss by kiss, she was baring herself to the soul.

Here is my soft caress.

Here is my patience.

Here is my understanding.

Here is my tender, beating heart.

He whispered her name, and the raw emotion in his voice undid her. His hands cinched the fabric at the small of her back. As though he needed her. Not only to remain standing, but to go on existing at all. “
Izzy.
”

Light footsteps sounded from the far end of the corridor.

“Miss Goodnight?” Miss Pelham’s voice.

Izzy pulled away from the kiss. His brow rested against hers. This was madness.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

They couldn’t be discovered like this. It would require too many explanations that would embarrass them both. “Miss Goodnight, are you there?” Miss Pelham was closer now.

“Your Grace. I must go.”

He held her tight, forbidding her to move. His breathing was still labored.

And then, suddenly, he lifted his head. His eyes, unseeing as they were, seemed to narrow.

He’d jolted back to himself, she could tell. A sudden lightning bolt had filled him with realizations: who he was, and who she was, and every reason he shouldn’t be holding her.

With familiar brusqueness, he released her. “Go.”