She went on, “When we’re not at work with your correspondence, the castle will keep me fully occupied. There’s a great deal to be done here. Rooms to survey. Vermin to purge. A proper bedchamber to furnish.” She dropped into a chair nearby. “Bread?”
She touched his hand with a hunk of bread. He took it, resentfully, and tore off a bite with his teeth.
He was beginning to think he’d have to go back to his first strategy—tossing her over his shoulder and toting her away. The problem was, considering how much he enjoyed tossing her over his shoulder, he wasn’t sure they’d get very far.
“But before I can think of anything else”—her head turned, and that mass of unbound curls became a fiery whirlwind—“I must find my hairpins. Do you know where you placed them yesterday?” She reached and prodded the cushions to his side. “Maybe they’re in the sofa.”
He tried—and failed—to ignore the scent of rosemary.
“Aha.” She jumped with discovery, and her arm brushed his. “Here’s one of them. And another.”
Damn her hairpins. He pushed to his feet. “You’re not staying here.”
“Your Grace, you’ve made a valiant effort at scaring me off, but you’ve thrown your worst at me, and it didn’t work. Don’t you think it’s time to give up?”
“No.” He jabbed a finger in his chest. “I don’t give up. On anything.”
“You don’t give up?” She laughed a little. “Forgive me, but from what I can gather, you were injured many months ago, and you haven’t left this castle since. People in London think you’re dead. Your post has gone unanswered, your servants aren’t allowed to serve you, and you haven’t done a thing to improve your living conditions in a moldering, decrepit castle. I don’t know what definition of ‘giving up’ you’re using, Your Grace, but this looks rather like mine.”
Ransom fumed at her. How dare she? She had no idea what he’d been through. She had no notion of how hard he’d had to work in those first few months to regain the simplest of capabilities. The ability to walk without stumbling. To count higher than thirty. Damn, it had taken him ages just to relearn how to whistle for his dog. And he hadn’t needed any cosseting, nor any managing female to cheer and goad him on. He’d done it on his own, step by excruciating step. Because the alternative was to sit down and die.
He ground out his words. “I . . . don’t . . . give up.”
“Then prove it.”
Easy, Izzy told her galloping heart. Go easy now.
The next few minutes called for extreme caution.
In truth, she needed to watch her every step, move, word, and breath with this man . . . but this was different.
Rothbury stood over her. He was shirtless, wet, wild-haired. Handsome as sin and angry as Lucifer. A duke accustomed to having his way. Now she’d not only defied him, she’d directly challenged him.
His words were low and even, but they smoldered like a fuse burning toward gunpowder. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
He propped his hands on his hips. One of his pectoral muscles twitched angrily. As if registering an indignant harrumph. A little rivulet of water slalomed through the golden brown hairs on his chest.
Izzy clutched her hairpins so hard, they bit into the soft flesh of her palm.
She rose to her feet. Because that’s what one did when moved to genuine awe.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” she replied, speaking as calmly she could to his incensed left nipple. “But there are things that need proving. Such as the validity of the property transfer and the . . . and the . . .”
Oh, heavens. Now her own nipples decided to have their say in this conversation. Standing this close to him brought back all the memories of their embrace last night. Distracting sensations coursed through her body. Not to mention all those pent-up emotions she’d poured into their kiss.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I have a strong hand, literacy in several languages, only two of which are dead—and an abundance of discretion. I will help you sort through all your affairs, and we’ll solve the mystery of just how this castle was sold.”