Now that she’d made the decision to go out in search of him, her anxiety had intensified. And unlike her usual heart-pounding terror in the dark, this fear had a defined shape and edges she could grasp on to.
Because this wasn’t imagined fear. Not anymore. This was genuine terror for the safety of someone she cared about. Someone she loved. She loved him, and it didn’t matter that he’d sabotaged all their hard work and future happiness today. If he was out there somewhere, hurting in the dark, she had to help.
And then—just as she’d finally worked loose the knot on her second boot—she heard noises in the courtyard. She ran to the window.
Oh, thank heaven.
He was home.
He was home, his arm slung over Duncan’s shoulder, and he was . . . laughing.
Laughing?
Her fear was gone. In its place, she knew a rush of pure fury.
Izzy stormed down the staircase and into the great hall, just in time to greet the returning men.
She wrapped her arms about herself to stop her trembling. “Ransom. I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?”
Duncan seemed to know his cue to clear out. “I have some . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. Then turned his head to look over his shoulder. “The laundry. Need to . . .”
“Just go,” Izzy pleaded.
He went, and gratefully.
“My thanks,” Ransom called after him. “For all of it.”
Duncan paused and bowed. “It was my honor.”
“So?” She hugged herself tight. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been . . .” He gestured expansively. “Making friends.”
Making friends? She couldn’t have been more astonished if he’d answered, Chasing unicorns.
“Where?” she asked. “And with whom?”
“Well, I started at the vicarage. Wendell Butterfield was there for dinner with the Pelham family. Then, after a few hours, I went to the village inn. When their public room closed for the night, I moved on to the seedy tavern. The Musky Boar, I think it’s called. Charming, sticky little place, filled with interesting types. At least one or two of them could read.”
“Read.”
“Yes,” Ransom said. “You see, that’s what I’ve been doing. Moving from place to place all evening. I needed something read aloud to me, and I couldn’t ask you. Something important.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
“The Goodnight Tales.”
She felt his answer like a blow to the knees. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. It became clear to me today, if I had any hope of ever understanding you, deserving you, much less winning you back—I needed to know what was in those stories. And now, thanks to Abigail and Mr. Butterfield, and the kindly patrons of the local drinking spots, I’ve been through the entire saga. Start to finish. Not that the tale is finished, of course. I’ve some questions for you about that.”
No. No.
Not him. Not Ransom. The one man who didn’t treat her like some insipid little girl in a fairy tale but as a full-grown woman. A beautiful temptress of a woman, with interesting ideas and sensual wit.
Now that he’d read all those stories, he’d be just like Lord Archer and Abigail and everyone else.
Izzy reeled away from him before he could do something soul-destroying. Like pat her on the head. Or offer her a sweetmeat.
He sang out, “Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I’ll tell you such a tale.”
She choked back a sob. “How could you?”
“How could I?” he asked. “How could you? That’s what I want to know. I must say, I have some sympathy for those people who write you so many letters. No wonder they’re deranged. Ulric’s been left hanging for more than a year now, and Cressida’s still stuck in that tower . . . You must tell me who the Shadow Knight is. I need that much, at least. I have my theories, but—”
She buried her face in her hands. “This is terrible. Not you, too.”