Then she made a strange, small sound.
“Tsh.”
“What was that?” he asked.
“What was what?”
“That noise you made. It sounded like a flea in the throes of passion.”
“Oh, that. It was nothing. Just a sneeze.”
He stopped. “That wasn’t a sneeze. No one sneezes like that.”
“I do, apparently.” She sniffed. “Oh, dear. I’m going to do it again.”
Another muffled, high-pitched paroxysm, like a mouse shushing a vole. Then another.
“Tsh. Tsh.”
Ransom winced at each one. “Good God, that’s disturbing.”
She sniffed. “It’s not meant to be.”
“That can’t be healthy. If you need to sneeze, sneeze properly.”
She did it again. Three of them this time. Little twitchy sounds.
“Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! This is just how I sneeze,” she moaned. “I can’t help it. This castle is dusty. And the turret has a draft.”
Now this was a problem. She couldn’t do any secretarial work if she fell ill. And Ransom couldn’t survive this cohabitation much longer unless she stayed in her room the whole night.
Very well. He would permit her a few afternoons of housecleaning. And tonight, he vowed, she would be warm and comfortable in her bed, and, most importantly, far away.
He made a mental note.
Procure some blankets. Thick ones.
He did procure blankets. Thick ones.
But the next morning, there she was again. “Good morning.”
And once again, Ransom jolted awake, with an aching cockstand and furious temper. He swore for a minute straight.
“Reading more history books?” he muttered.
“Writing a letter.” Her pen scratched across the page. “I do have correspondence of my own, you know. Would you rather fight one hundred rat-sized elephants or one elephant-sized rat?”
He shook his head, trying to clear it. “What?”
“It’s a question. If you had the choice, which would you rather do battle against? A hundred elephants the size of rats, or one rat the size of an elephant?”
“You seem to be under the impression that you’re making sense. You’re not.”
“It’s not a practical question, of course,” she said. “It’s just for discussion. Lord Peregrine and I have been corresponding for years. In his letters, he always poses these silly conundrums, and we debate them back and forth.”
“Wait, wait. There’s some lecherous old stick who writes you these letters directly? Why don’t you tell the presumptuous rogue to go to the devil?”
“It’s not like that. He’s bedridden, poor thing. And he doesn’t think of me as a woman, I assure you.”
So this Lord Peregrine fellow had the imagination to picture battles with elephant-sized rats and rat-sized elephants, but he couldn’t possibly think of Izzy Goodnight as a woman? On that point, Ransom was skeptical. Even if a man was bedridden, he was still a man.
With his injuries, there were many who’d consider Ransom an invalid. He was still a man. Every morning that he woke to the husky softness of her voice, his cock went granite-hard in response.
“So which would it be?” she went on. “The plague of tiny elephants or one giant rat? And as a corollary, what weapons would you choose?” She tapped her pen nib against the table. “I’m torn, myself. The giant rat would seem easier to kill if I could thrust a sword straight in its heart. But then, what if I missed? Then I’d be facing an enraged, wounded, giant rat.”
Ransom had to give this Lord Peregrine one thing. His letters were excellent at withering lust.
“Tiny elephants would seem less lethal,” she went on. “How much damage could two hundred miniature tusks wreak on a person, anyhow? Perhaps they’d tire themselves out if I had good shin-plates. What do you think?”
“I think you’re debating what sort of armor to wear to a miniature-elephant attack. I think that’s madness.”