God. There were too many contenders for that honor. She could guess at many of them. Others, she could never fathom, and he would never share.
“Learning to hate surprise,” he said, surprising himself with the confession. “I’m a creature of routine now. I have a mental chart of every room in this place, every tabletop. I have to put everything back precisely where I found it, or I’m lost. Makes me feel like an old curmudgeon, growling at anything unexpected.”
“I was unexpected,” she said.
“Yes. You were.”
“And I’ve been altering your routine. Moving things about on your mental chart.”
“Yes. You have.”
She lifted her head from his chest. “I understand why you didn’t want me in the castle. I was a surprise. You must have hated me.”
He swept a touch to her face. “I didn’t hate you.”
“Well, if you didn’t hate me at the first, you have reason now. Ransom, you must believe me. I’m just so sorry. For the letter, for the castle, for Lady Emily. For everything. You have every right to be—”
He shushed her. “Goodnight. We’re trapped together in a small, dark space. For the moment, we’re getting on as well as could possibly be expected. I don’t think this is the time to remind me of my many valid reasons to resent your presence and despise everything you stand for.”
“Right.” She took a deep breath. “On second thought, perhaps we shouldn’t wait to be rescued. There must be a release latch somewhere.”
“I’ll find it.”
“No, it has to be me.” Izzy shifted her body. “Maybe if we re-create our position just before the panel turned. You were between my legs, and I had my hand on the shelf just about . . . here.”
Ransom moved dutifully into place, lifting her by the hips and feeling like a jackass about it. Had he really held her like this? Spread wide and wrapped around him, while he pawed at her and made lewd demands, just so he could prove something to his wounded pride?
Yes. Evidently he had.
“Let’s see,” she said. “How did it go? Oh, yes. You had your fingers inside me, and you were pleading with me to say your name, and then . . .”
“Can we dispense with the details?”
Bloody hell. She was a penniless and homeless virgin who was just as much a victim of her father’s charlatanry as anyone. And Ransom had never felt more disgusting. She had every reason to despise him, too.
“And then”—her body arced as she stretched high—“I think I pulled just here . . .”
Whoosh.
Chapter Seventeen
Izzy’s world tilted once again.
The panel spun on its axis, spitting them back out into the library. But this time, the hidden door didn’t make a complete rotation. It lurched and stopped halfway.
They both tumbled forward with the momentum.
“Oof.”
Ransom twisted as they fell, catching her in his arms and taking the brunt of the fall.
She landed in his embrace, sprawled atop him and gasping for breath.
“Thank you,” she said.
He released her. “Don’t thank me. I was merely—”
“Oh, don’t.” Smiling, she pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Don’t even bother.”
Izzy refused to listen to yet another speech about his dastardly behavior and his life that was a scourge on decency and romance.
Everything was different now. He’d eased her trembling in the darkness. They’d shared their innermost thoughts and memories. He’d threatened her vile cousin with two imaginary, delightfully gory deaths.
They understood one another. At least, a little bit.
Most of all, Izzy knew, beyond a whisper of doubt, that all his talk of being a heartless villain was nothing more than that: talk.
Just to prove it . . . just to get back at him for all his crude, sensual games earlier . . . she bent over and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
And she held it, for two heartbeats more.
Take that, sweet man.
Then she pushed to her feet and did her best to cover herself with her displaced corset and the torn bodice. He remained exactly where he was, flat on the threadbare carpet.