“Oh, there’s a cock crowing, all right,” he muttered.
She smiled, and he heard it. Or felt it, somehow. The warmth was inside him before he could shut it out.
She said, “But that’s what I like most, you see. No one ever talks that way to me. You’re so crude and profane. I . . . I know it’s absurd, but I can’t help it. I find it perversely delightful.”
She liked crude? She wanted profane?
Very well, then. Crude and profane he could give her.
“Listen to me. When a man wakes, he wakes wanting. He wakes hard and rude and aching with need.” He shifted, pressing his massive erection against her hip. “Do you feel that?”
She gasped. “Yes.”
“It wants in you,” he said.
“In . . . in me.”
“Yes. In you. Hard, deep, fast, and completely. Now don’t wake me at this hour again unless you’ve found the perfect retort to that.”
She didn’t answer.
Good.
He hoped this time she was well and truly alarmed. Because he was alarmed. The pent-up need in his body felt near some kind of breaking point, and he had enough broken parts already.
The most frightening part of all?
He couldn’t seem to let her go.
In all his years of bedding women by night, Ransom made certain he never woke up with them in the morning. Now he was waking up to this woman—this strange, eccentric, tempting woman—every morning, and he wasn’t even getting the pleasure of bedding her first.
It was intolerable. Unjust. And very worrisome. Because he was starting to grow accustomed to her.
Damn, he was starting to like her. It felt so easy, sitting here, wreathed in the aromas of tea and morning mist. One arm about her slender waist, whilst with the other hand he teased her—
Bloody hell.
Somehow, he’d wound a lock of her hair about his finger. There it was. Right This Moment. And he had no recollection of doing it, either.
What was he coming to, when a woman sat in his lap, he gave her a stern what-for . . . and then ten seconds later, oopsy-daisy and la-di-dah, he went and twirled a finger in her hair?
That was not ducal behavior. It certainly wasn’t normal behavior for him.
He tried to nonchalantly withdraw his finger from its embarrassing predicament, but he recoiled too quickly. The curling strand of hair tightened around his knuckle like a slipknot.
He tried again, pulling harder. Panic began to build in his chest.
Dear God, it wouldn’t let him go.
“Stop,” she whispered, shushing him. “Do you feel that?”
He felt a lot of things. Far too many things.
“It almost seems as if the ground is trembling.”
Oh. That. Yes, now that she mentioned it, he did feel the shiver in the soles of his feet. The ground was trembling. Someone was approaching in the drive.
Not just someone, but many someones.
He discerned not only hoofbeats but the smoother clack of carriage wheels.
Ransom shut his eyes and quickly reviewed England’s recent military history. The Danes, Napoleon, the Americans . . . all those conflicts had been settled, last he knew. But then, he had been living in isolation.
He asked, “In the past seven months, has England entered any new wars?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she answered. “Why?”
Because by now the vibration had become so intense, he could have believed the castle was under siege.
She clutched his arm. “Goodness. What is that?”
“Am I going mad, or . . . ?” He trained his ear. “Was that a trumpet?”
“It was,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”
He didn’t miss the ominous note in her voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She leapt from his embrace and began pacing the floor. “I knew it. I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”
He stood and took her by the shoulders, holding her in one place. He might be blinded, weakened, and on the verge of madness—but while there was still life in him, no harm would come to a woman living under his roof.
“Be calm,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re on about. At once.”
“It’s them. They’ve found me.”