Ransom shook his head, wincing as he did. “No. There’s nothing they can do.”
He pushed to a standing position. Izzy stood, too. And then watched, cringing, as the six-foot-tall column of duke slowly pitched to the right.
“Oh, dear.” She lunged into action, using both hands and all her body weight to prop him back up. “You should rest, Your Grace.”
“So should you.” His hand stroked up and down her arm. “What are you doing out of bed anyhow?”
“I . . . er . . .” She hesitated, not knowing how to explain the “ghost hunt,” and not wanting to tell him her weasel had nearly bitten off his poor dog’s tail.
But he didn’t appear ready to comprehend the story anyhow. “Are you certain you’re well?”
“It’s always this way.” He steadied himself with one hand on her shoulder. “Even after the pain is gone, my mind doesn’t work properly for an hour or two. It’s like being drunk.”
She smiled at the heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder. At last, he was accepting a small measure of assistance from her, unforced and unprompted.
“Well, at least you’re a friendly drunk,” she said. “There’s that. In fact, I think I might like you much better this way.”
“I like you too much.” His slurred, mumbled words were almost too low to hear.
They were too ludicrous to be trusted.
I like you too much.
Izzy flushed with heat. He couldn’t really mean that. He wasn’t himself right now. That was all.
“You really should rest,” she said. “Let me take you down to the great hall so you can sleep.” She started to drape his arm over her shoulders like a yoke.
He turned to face her. Instead of draping over her shoulders, his arm slid around her back. “At least kiss me good night.”
Heavens. He truly was behaving as if he were drunk. He probably wouldn’t even remember this encounter in the morning.
In which case . . . Why not?
Stretching up on her toes, she kissed his unshaven cheek. “Good night, Ransom.”
“No, no.” He drew her close, and together they wobbled back and forth. “Not what I meant. Isolde Ophelia Goodnight, kiss me. With every ounce of passion in your soul.”
“I . . .” Flustered, she swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I even know how.”
The quirk of his lips was shameless. “Use your imagination.”
Now that was an invitation she’d been waiting a lifetime to hear.
She pressed her lips to his, softly. He remained still, letting her do the kissing. She laced her arms around his neck, leaning close. She brushed lingering kisses over his upper lip, then the bottom. Just lightly, tenderly. Again and again.
These kisses . . . they were confessions. Tastes of everything she had stored inside her. Everything she could give a man if he was brave enough to accept. Kiss by kiss, she was baring herself to the soul.
Here is my soft caress.
Here is my patience.
Here is my understanding.
Here is my tender, beating heart.
He whispered her name, and the raw emotion in his voice undid her. His hands cinched the fabric at the small of her back. As though he needed her. Not only to remain standing, but to go on existing at all. “Izzy.”
Light footsteps sounded from the far end of the corridor.
“Miss Goodnight?” Miss Pelham’s voice.
Izzy pulled away from the kiss. His brow rested against hers. This was madness.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
They couldn’t be discovered like this. It would require too many explanations that would embarrass them both. “Miss Goodnight, are you there?” Miss Pelham was closer now.
“Your Grace. I must go.”
He held her tight, forbidding her to move. His breathing was still labored.
And then, suddenly, he lifted his head. His eyes, unseeing as they were, seemed to narrow.
He’d jolted back to himself, she could tell. A sudden lightning bolt had filled him with realizations: who he was, and who she was, and every reason he shouldn’t be holding her.
With familiar brusqueness, he released her. “Go.”