“Nothing wrong with it,” he said. “They’re all out. Won’t be back until morning. It’s safe now.”
Oh, it was anything but safe. Now it was nightfall, and she was stuck in this haunted, infested castle. In the arms of this tormenting, intriguing, devious duke. She didn’t know what to do with him. She didn’t even know what to do with herself.
Flailing her hands and stammering were all that came to mind. Neither idea seemed useful in the least.
And then . . . she felt a little scratching sensation.
Just behind her ear.
And all she could do was shriek.
Ransom was just about to release her when she latched onto him with sudden force.
“Help me.” Her whisper trembled. Her body did, too.
“What is it?” he asked.
“B-b-bat.”
He almost smiled despite himself. “The b-b-bats are all gone, Miss Goodnight.”
“No, they’re not. They’re not. There’s one caught in my hair.”
“There’s nothing in your hair. That’s an old wives’ tale. Bats don’t get caught in people’s hair.”
“There. Is. One. In. My. Hair,” she pronounced in distinct syllables, each word rising a halftone in inflection. And then, in one frantic high-pitched squeal: “Getitout!”
To be sure, bats didn’t normally get caught in people’s hair. But he’d forgotten, hers wasn’t normal hair. This curly mane of hers could snare a rabbit. Perhaps a horse.
Ransom worried, as he plunged his fingers into her dense, wavy locks, that this hair could possibly ensnare him.
It had his curiosity entangled, that was certain. These locks must be dark. She sounded dark-haired, with that sultry voice, and most girls with hair this aggressively curly were dark. And if her hair was dark, her eyes were probably dark, too.
Before he could quash it, an image bloomed in his mind’s eye. A raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty with plump, red lips.
“Keep still,” he said.
That goes for you, too, he told the stirrings in his groin.
He wove his fingers into her roots near the scalp and shook the curls apart. “Did that free it?”
“No. It’s still there. I can feel it.” A shudder ran through her.
“I see how it is. You’re a strong, independent woman of property. Right up to the moment something creeping or crawling comes along. Then it’s, ‘Oh, dear! Oh, help!’ ”
She growled.
“It’s small,” he told her, having found the thing. “No bigger than a titmouse. Far more frightened of you than you are of it.”
She sighed. “Why do people always say that? It’s never helpful.”
“I’d tell you to distract yourself by focusing on my face, but that wouldn’t help. You swooned the last time.”
“I didn’t swoon because of your—”
He made a shushing noise and worked his fingers downward, separating and shaking free the tangled hair. He didn’t want to hear her explanations or apologies.
With his free hand, he held her shoulder. He stroked his thumb up and down, soothing.
Just to keep her still, he told himself.
Not because he cared.
He wanted her fearful. He wanted her to run away from this place, and from him. The way any young woman with sense would do.
He most definitely didn’t want her to stay in his arms, warm and trusting, with her heart beating faster than a bat’s wings.
He felt the moment the bat untangled itself and flapped free. The weight was gone from her hair, and now the unburdened locks filled his hand, soft and wild and sensual.
“There,” he said. “It’s flown away.”
“You knew that would happen,” she accused. “The sunset. The bats.”
He didn’t try to deny it. “Consider it repayment for the weasel.”
“Oh, you . . . You . . .”
“Cruel bastard?” he suggested. “Heartless rogue? Blackguard? Villain? I’ve been called all of the above and more. My favorite is ‘knave.’ Fine word, ‘knave.’ ”
“You ill-mannered wretch I importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.” She pushed away from him and rose to her feet. “You can keep all the bats to yourself. I’m leaving.”
Really? She was leaving already?