“See?” he said. “You’ve already turned the wrong way.”
Izzy stayed quiet, determined not to admit fault. “I’m not lost. I’m exploring.”
He made a disbelieving noise.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid of rats. The bats are gone for now. And I don’t believe ghosts are real.”
“Do you believe I’m real?” he asked.
If she were honest, Izzy had her doubts. He seemed so larger-than-life. Even she, with her wild imagination, had never dreamed up anyone quite like the Duke of Rothbury.
As they moved down the corridor, his hand never left her waist. Her skin burned beneath his touch.
She poked her candle into a series of cavernous, mostly empty rooms. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a thorough search of these and choose another to make my bedchamber.”
“And how would you propose to do that? You’ll need fabrics, furnishings, servants. I’m not advancing you any wages. You haven’t any funds.”
A sad truth. Izzy had considered that, of course. “While I’m making my survey tomorrow, I’ll catalog any items of value. Surely there’s something in this place worth selling.”
His denial was swift. “If there were anything worth selling, it would have been looted ages ago. There’s nothing of value here. Nothing worth saving.”
Nothing of value? Nothing worth saving?
He didn’t include himself in that assessment, did he?
Concerned, she turned to look at him. The flickering glow of the candle danced over the handsome planes on the left side of his face. But the scar on his right side defied illumination, shunned the taper’s golden warmth. At night, his wound appeared even wider, more dramatic.
It looked unhealed.
“What makes you so sure?” she asked.
“I know every inch of this castle,” he said. “From the lowest cellar to the highest tower.”
A small, darkened arch beckoned to her left. Her eye was drawn to it, and to the coy whisper of a staircase beyond. A naughty little pigtail of intrigue, spiraling out of view.
“There’s an arch to the side,” she said. “If you know the castle backward and forward, what’s up there?”
“Thirty-four stairs and a circular room at the top, some six paces across.”
“My,” Izzy said, impressed. “That was a very specific answer.”
“Count for yourself if you doubt me.”
She left his side and followed that small, curling staircase up and up, lighting the way with her candle. The way was narrow, and even as slight-figured as Izzy was, she had to climb at an oblique angle. Broad-shouldered Rothbury fell behind.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”
He was right. Exactly thirty-four steps later, she emerged into a small, round room. There were no bats. No rats. No ghosts. Just a single slit of a window. She crossed the uneven stone floor in cautious steps and poked her head through the rectangular opening.
Oh.
Oh, her heart.
She had to press a hand to her chest to keep it from jumping out of her body and crashing to the ground below.
How glorious.
The turret was high above the castle, offering a view unimpeded by trees or hills. A patch of sky had cleared just overhead. She was floating among the stars.
Glowing taper in hand, she could almost imagine she was a star. Isolated. Insignificant amid the multitudes. Yet every bit as afire with heat and heart.
Strange, how contemplating the vastness made her feel a little less alone. From far enough away, on some other world, perhaps she would appear to be part of a constellation.
“This is it.” She spoke the words aloud, so there could be no taking them back. “This is mine. I don’t care about the bats, the rats, the ghosts. This turret is going to be my bedchamber, and this castle will be my home.”
The duke joined her, having climbed the thirty-fourth stair. “For the last time, you can’t stay here.”