“You needn’t be anxious, Your Grace. We will do whatever it takes to sift through the papers and legalities. In the meantime, I promise, I won’t be much trouble.” She gave his chest a gingerly pat.
His hand closed on her forearm and pushed it away. “What you’ll be in the morning, Miss Goodnight, is gone. I will see you back to your bedchamber now. And when morning comes, I will find you somewhere else to stay.”
Izzy relented, saving her strength for tomorrow. In the morning, he would try to make her leave. He might scare her, shout at her, ply her with threats or kisses.
She would be strong as these castle walls.
She would not give one inch.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Ransom awoke with a surplus of inches—all of them straining against his breeches falls.
Hazy, dreamlike images lingered in his mind. Images of dark hair spilling through his hands and a lush mouth moving under his. A soft hand splayed against his chest.
He turned on his side and groaned. God, that kiss. That stupid, ill-conceived, arousing, soul-rearranging kiss.
She could not spend her nights in this castle. He had to find her other lodgings. Today.
Sitting up, he pushed both hands through his hair. A bath was in order. Preferably a cold one.
“Duncan,” he called.
No answer. No valet-sounding noises, either.
He made his way out to the cistern just off the courtyard and drew a bucket of water. Then he stripped to the waist, lifted the bucket high, and poured its freezing contents straight over his head and torso.
Lust be drowned.
The cold shock of his dousing was just starting to wear off when Magnus joined him by the cistern. Ransom drew some water for the dog and gave him a scratch behind the ears.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Damn. One day, and he’d know that voice anywhere. Husky. Soft. Much too close. How did this woman keep sneaking up on him?
“Goodnight,” he muttered.
Her footsteps crossed the courtyard, destroying his calm beat by beat.
Ransom braced himself for his first sight of her.
No one knew it but Duncan and a few useless surgeons, but his injury hadn’t left him completely blind.
Oh, he was mostly blind, most of the time—blocky shapes and shadows were the best he could make out. And sometimes, he was fully blind. Everything was a dark, murky gray.
But then there were a precious few hours of the day when he was only partly blind.
In those hours, he had the vision of a nonagenarian with no spectacles. He could make out vague contours and a few muted colors. A tree might appear as a fuzzy, irregular patch against the sky, its foliage a gray-green shade, like mold on cheese. If he stared at the page of a book, he could force a dark square of text to separate into lines. But he couldn’t make out any words or letters. He could get a vague idea of a face—the most prominent features standing out, like the simple face of a child’s rag doll. Two button eyes, a slash of mouth. No subtleties of expression.
That was how much he could see at his best. And for once, that seemed like a blessing. He might have been addled by the feel, scent, and taste of Miss Goodnight last night . . . but at least he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the sight of her. At best, she’d appear to him as an anemic, pale column with dark hair. Bland and uninspiring.
He was counting on it.
But as she entered his view, she had the wretched luck to pause just in front of the castle’s eastern archway, which was flooded by morning sun.
His first glimpse of Izzy Goodnight was to see her bathed in gold. The sunlight showed him, in blazing relief, a slender, gracefully curved silhouette and a corona of wild, loose hair that seemed to be afire.
Holy God.
If he’d been standing, he might have dropped to his knees. He was sure he heard a choir singing. This was the kind of beauty that one could rightly call “striking.”
As in, he felt struck by a brick.
Move, he silently begged her. Take two steps to the right. Or the left. No, no. Just leave entirely.
“I didn’t think you were awake,” he said.