She hadn’t known. She couldn’t have known, sheltered as she’d lived, and he couldn’t have guessed. But he’d just articulated everything she’d been wanting for so long. To be noticed. Not merely known as a girl in some precious stories, but noticed, as a woman.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. “And you’re mad if you think I’ll back down from this now.”
They stood in tense silence.
“That’s it,” he said, at length. “You’re leaving this place the same way you came in.”
He ducked, caught her by the legs, and threw her over his shoulder—with the ease of a man who’d tossed many a woman over his shoulder. This was definitely not his first go at lady-tossing.
But it was definitely Izzy’s first time being tossed, and she had no idea how to respond. Beat her fists against his back? Kick and scream? Later, she’d think of a dozen things. Witty retorts and clever rejoinders. Right now, all the blood was rushing to her head, and her mind was a hot, throbbing blank.
He bounced her weight, plumping her backside with his forearm. “There’s so little to you.”
The dismissive words jarred her tongue loose.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “There’s a great deal to me, Your Grace. More than you know. More than anyone supposes. You can carry me outside, if you like. I’ll come back in. Again, and again. As many times as it takes. Because this is my castle now. And I’m not leaving.”
Chapter Four
Ransom shook his head. A brave speech, for a tiny scrap of a woman currently slung over his shoulder. Miss Goodnight could say whatever she wished. The truth of it was, she was a defenseless, near-penniless, unmarried woman, and he was a duke. The decisions were his to make.
What remained of his logic—and that smarting finger on his right hand—insisted she was a problem. With his impaired vision, Ransom depended on an elaborate mental map of the place. That map included every room, every stair, every stone. It did not have room for scampering weasels or distracting, tempting women.
She needed to leave.
But now that he had her in his grasp again, with her breasts pressed against his back and her sweetly rounded bottom resting on his forearm, other parts of him—parts located far from his brain—were making other suggestions. Dangerous suggestions.
Which meant she really needed to leave.
Even before his injuries, he didn’t allow women close. Oh, he took a great many women to bed. But he always paid them handsomely for the indulgence—with pleasure, gold, or both—and then he bid them farewell. He never woke beside them in the morning.
The one—and only—time he’d sought a more lasting arrangement, it hadn’t ended well. He’d landed here in this decrepit castle, blinded and broken.
But then, there was a part of him—a withered, neglected corner of his soul—that had grown painfully aware of how small and alone she was. And that for all her brave words, she was trembling.
Good Lord, Goodnight. What do I do with you?
He couldn’t let her occupy this castle. Any sort of “sharing” arrangement was out of the question. But was this truly all that was left of him? A cruel, unfeeling brute who would cast a defenseless young woman out into the night?
He didn’t want to believe that. Not yet. He didn’t surrender anything lightly, and that included what few shards remained of his broken soul.
He set Miss Goodnight back on her feet. As he lowered her to the floor, her body slid down his, like a raindrop easing down the surface of a rock.
Ransom knew he’d regret the words he was about to speak. Because they were the decent thing to do, and if there was one thing he’d learned in his life, it was that every time he did the decent thing, he paid for it later.
“One night. You can stay one night.”
He’d been a fool to waste all that time arguing legalities. The castle itself would do the convincing. Once she’d spent a night in Gostley Castle, she wouldn’t be able to run away fast enough.
Miss Isolde Goodnight was about to have a Very Bad Night indeed.
You can stay one night.