Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(12)

He bounced her weight, plumping her backside with his forearm. “There’s so little to you.”

The dismissive words jarred her tongue loose.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “There’s a great deal to me, Your Grace. More than you know. More than anyone supposes. You can carry me outside, if you like. I’ll come back in. Again, and again. As many times as it takes. Because this is my castle now. And I’m not leaving.”

Chapter Four

Ransom shook his head. A brave speech, for a tiny scrap of a woman currently slung over his shoulder. Miss Goodnight could say whatever she wished. The truth of it was, she was a defenseless, near-penniless, unmarried woman, and he was a duke. The decisions were his to make.

What remained of his logic—and that smarting finger on his right hand—insisted she was a problem. With his impaired vision, Ransom depended on an elaborate mental map of the place. That map included every room, every stair, every stone. It did not have room for scampering weasels or distracting, tempting women.

She needed to leave.

But now that he had her in his grasp again, with her br**sts pressed against his back and her sweetly rounded bottom resting on his forearm, other parts of him—parts located far from his brain—were making other suggestions. Dangerous suggestions.

Which meant she really needed to leave.

Even before his injuries, he didn’t allow women close. Oh, he took a great many women to bed. But he always paid them handsomely for the indulgence—with pleasure, gold, or both—and then he bid them farewell. He never woke beside them in the morning.

The one—and only—time he’d sought a more lasting arrangement, it hadn’t ended well. He’d landed here in this decrepit castle, blinded and broken.

But then, there was a part of him—a withered, neglected corner of his soul—that had grown painfully aware of how small and alone she was. And that for all her brave words, she was trembling.

Good Lord, Goodnight. What do I do with you?

He couldn’t let her occupy this castle. Any sort of “sharing” arrangement was out of the question. But was this truly all that was left of him? A cruel, unfeeling brute who would cast a defenseless young woman out into the night?

He didn’t want to believe that. Not yet. He didn’t surrender anything lightly, and that included what few shards remained of his broken soul.

He set Miss Goodnight back on her feet. As he lowered her to the floor, her body slid down his, like a raindrop easing down the surface of a rock.

Ransom knew he’d regret the words he was about to speak. Because they were the decent thing to do, and if there was one thing he’d learned in his life, it was that every time he did the decent thing, he paid for it later.

“One night. You can stay one night.”

He’d been a fool to waste all that time arguing legalities. The castle itself would do the convincing. Once she’d spent a night in Gostley Castle, she wouldn’t be able to run away fast enough.

Miss Isolde Goodnight was about to have a Very Bad Night indeed.

You can stay one night.

Izzy could have whooped with triumph, but she restrained herself.

Instead, she stepped back, smoothing her skirts and hair. Her cheeks burned, but at least he couldn’t know.

“Just one night,” the duke said. “And I’m only agreeing to that much because I expect one night in this place will be enough for you.”

It was a small victory, admittedly, but it was a start.

“Come along, then. I’ll show you to a room. My manservant will bring your things later.”

Izzy followed him out of the great hall and up a spiraling flight of stairs. The closeness of the stairwell made her shudder. Once darkness fell, these stone stairways and corridors would feel like a tomb.

“You’ll want the finest chamber, no doubt. Since you seem to believe it’s your castle now.”

They emerged into a long corridor. Heavy steps carried him down the center of it. He didn’t count aloud, but she could feel him taking the measurements in his head. His mastery of the space was a marvel.

At last he stopped, then made a brisk quarter turn.

“Here you are. I expect this will suit.”

When Izzy peered inside, she was surprised to find a richly furnished chamber. A massive bed occupied one half of it, situated on a raised dais with mahogany posts soaring nearly to the ceiling. Velvet and tapestries hung on all sides. The rest of the furniture didn’t consist of much—a chair with a caved-in seat, a few abandoned traveling trunks, and a dressing table covered in dust an inch thick. A gallery of arched Gothic windows lined the far wall, but the glass had been broken out of nearly all of them.

“Oh,” she said, struggling to take in the room’s decrepit state. “My.”

“Take it all in,” he said wryly. “View the full splendor of your supposed inheritance. Until I arrived some months ago, no one had resided in this place for decades. It’s been looted thoroughly. There are only a few furnished rooms, all of them in states of decay.”

“If that’s the case, I’m grateful this many furnishings have survived.” Izzy moved into the room. A patterned carpet covered the floor. A threadbare one, but to have lasted this long, it must have been well made. “Just look at this bed.”

“Eight paces wide. Big enough for a duke and a half dozen women, besides. Makes a man yearn for the medieval ages.”