“Yes, me, too. I’m a full-blooded Moranglian. A convert to the wondrous enchantment that is The Goodnight Tales.” He stretched out on the sofa, folding his arms beneath his head and facing the ceiling. “You warned me the first few years were rubbish. I’ll give you, you were right on that score. Juvenile and predictable, for the most part.”
“Predictable?” Against all logic, Izzy was a bit miffed.
He went on talking. “But then, somewhere into Cressida’s second kidnapping, the story started to change. Like a good whisky aging in a barrel. There were deeper layers, more shadings of emotion. And the words painted such vivid pictures. I could see it all happening in my mind. So clearly, as if it were taking place before me, but the story kept taking me by surprise. By the time we reached the end—or the Not The End—I was riveted to my barstool. The tavern didn’t even exist. I found myself wishing I were half the man Ulric is. I don’t mind saying, I’m rather taken with Cressida.”
She whimpered with despair.
“But the biggest shock of all had nothing to do with the characters or the storyline.” He sat up, facing her. His dark eyes seemed to focus on hers. “It had to do with you.”
Her heart quivered in her chest.
Oh, God. He knew.
“Yes,” he said, confirming her fears. “I know the truth.”
That was it, then. Her charade of thirteen years was up. He knew everything.
Which left Izzy with only one possible response.
Run.
Chapter Twenty-three
With a painful gasp, Izzy broke the icy veneer of her panic. She tore from the great hall and dashed up the spiraling staircase.
“Izzy.”
She rushed on.
He chased after her. “Izzy, stop. Don’t run from me, damn it. Don’t ever run from me.”
She stumbled to a halt in the corridor, putting one hand to the wall for strength.
He was right. Lady Emily Riverdale had run from him. She’d done it because of Izzy’s stories, and in doing so, the girl had ruined Ransom’s life.
If Izzy could give him nothing else, she owed him this. The chance to confront her, face-to-face.
So she stopped running. And turned to face the truth.
“Ransom, I . . . I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.”
“Oh,” he said, “I think you can.”
He caught her by the waist and steered her into the nearest room—which happened to be the newly refurnished, never yet used ducal chamber.
He kicked the door shut behind them.
“You did dream up all those outlandish stories, after all. So it’s clear that you can imagine quite a lot of things.” As he spoke, he backed her toward the bed. “So perhaps you can put yourself in my place, as I sat there—first in the vicarage, then the inn, then that sticky tavern—slowly coming to the certain realization that the author of these tales was not Sir Henry Goodnight. It was, and always had been, you.”
The edge of the mattress hit her in the back of the knees, and she fell backward onto the bed. He fell with her, caging her with his limbs and using his weight to pin her to the mattress.
“So, tell me.” His voice was as dark and hollow as a cave. “Can you possibly imagine how I felt? Can you put a name to that intense emotion that filled my chest so completely, it pained my ribs?”
“Anger,” she guessed, feeling faint.
He shook his head. “Wrong.”
“Rage? Betrayal?”
“Wrong, and wrong again.” He touched her lips, tracing their shape with his thumb. “It was pride. Oh, my Izzy. I was so damned proud of you, I thought my heart would burst.”
Her heart stopped beating altogether.
“Proud of . . .” She cleared a lump from her throat. “What do you mean? How could you be proud of me?”
“Stop that nonsense. Don’t pretend anymore, not with me.” He swiped away her tear. “I was proud because you wrote it. You wrote all of it.”
“Yes, and that means it’s all my fault. My work is to blame for Lady Emily’s elopement. Your injuries and blindness. The fact that you’re now on the brink of losing everything. It’s my fault, all of it.”
“Then all I can say is . . .” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Bless you. Thank you.”