“It’s just a half mile down the road,” she said. “That way. The stables here at the castle are small, but the inn in Woolington can offer you fresh water, hay. There’s a smith, if you need him. And a pub that serves a fine breakfast. The village would be most happy for your custom.”
Sir Wendell bowed. “An excellent suggestion. Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Pelham. Miss Abigail Pelham. My father is the local vicar.”
Yes, indeed, Ransom silently concurred. Thank you, Miss Pelham. By this point, he didn’t care who convinced these people to go. Just so long as they went.
As the knights gathered and made plans to depart, one of the young ladies approached them on the stairs. “Miss Goodnight, please. While the men take the horses to the village, might we stay here? We would so love to have a visit with you. Perhaps a chance to see your castle?”
“I’m afraid the castle isn’t fit for visitors just yet,” Miss Goodnight answered quickly, and sweetly. “But perhaps you’d be so good as to join me for a walk in the castle park? There are some romantic-looking ruins I’ve been yearning to explore.”
“Oh! That sounds divine.” The girl motioned to her friends, and all dozen of them rushed up the stairs.
A girl in some shade of blue or violet sidled up on Ransom’s right. “You will walk with us, won’t you?”
“Yes, you must join us.” A young woman in white took his left side, boldly threading her arm through his.
Before he knew what was happening, Ransom was swept along as they set out on a walk through the castle park. Magnus trotted along at his heel.
Damn his eyes. Why was he taking a walk? He didn’t want to take a walk. But no one left him a choice. He was surrounded. And very confused.
He’d never had difficulty attracting female attention before his injury. But those attracted to him were women—worldly and self-possessed. Not impressionable, silly girls. And was he going mad, or had they simply not noticed the scar mangling one side of his face?
Good Lord. One of them pinched his arse. Then all of them giggled.
“Won’t you say it for us?” the girl in blue urged him.
“Say what?” he asked.
“You know,” she whispered coyly. “Say ‘Doubt not.’ Won’t you, please? We’ve been dreaming of it since we were little girls.”
Their group drew to a halt in the overgrown garden. The whole gaggle of ladies went breathless with anticipation.
“Doubt not,” he echoed, hardly understanding why.
A chorus of feminine sighs rose up.
“Oh,” swooned one. “That voice. Be still my heart. It’s so romantic.”
God above. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of nightmare.
“Handmaidens,” Miss Goodnight called out in that childish, innocent voice, “do you see it there in the distance? The ruined folly. Do dash ahead, if you will. I’m so keen to see who can pick the largest posy of briar roses by the time I meet you there.”
With a little squeal, the dozen young ladies picked up their skirts and dashed ahead, racing one another toward the horizon.
“There,” Miss Goodnight said. “They’re occupied for a few minutes, at least. Now I can explain.”
“You had better explain. What the hell is going on? What’s this ‘doubt not’ nonsense?”
She took his arm, and they began walking toward the folly. Slowly.
“It’s a famous speech from The Goodnight Tales. Ulric recites it to Cressida just before he leaves on a quest. ‘Doubt not, my lady, I shall return.’ It goes on and on. Doubt not my steel, my strength, my heart . . .”
“Why do they want me to say it?”
“I’m afraid you won’t like to hear this,” she said, sounding doleful. “But you bear a certain resemblance to him.”
“Me? I look like Ulric?”
“Yes. Just uncannily so. Broad shoulders, longish golden brown hair, unshaven . . . You’re a near-perfect match, straight down to the weathered boots.”
“But . . .” Ransom frowned. So this was why she wanted him to hide upstairs. “Surely this Ulric character doesn’t have a scar.”
“He does, as a matter of fact. Ever since episode thirty-four, when he battled the Shadow Knight in the forest of Banterwick.”