Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(18)

She poked her candle into a series of cavernous, mostly empty rooms. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a thorough search of these and choose another to make my bedchamber.”

“And how would you propose to do that? You’ll need fabrics, furnishings, servants. I’m not advancing you any wages. You haven’t any funds.”

A sad truth. Izzy had considered that, of course. “While I’m making my survey tomorrow, I’ll catalog any items of value. Surely there’s something in this place worth selling.”

His denial was swift. “If there were anything worth selling, it would have been looted ages ago. There’s nothing of value here. Nothing worth saving.”

Nothing of value? Nothing worth saving?

He didn’t include himself in that assessment, did he?

Concerned, she turned to look at him. The flickering glow of the candle danced over the handsome planes on the left side of his face. But the scar on his right side defied illumination, shunned the taper’s golden warmth. At night, his wound appeared even wider, more dramatic.

It looked unhealed.

“What makes you so sure?” she asked.

“I know every inch of this castle,” he said. “From the lowest cellar to the highest tower.”

A small, darkened arch beckoned to her left. Her eye was drawn to it, and to the coy whisper of a staircase beyond. A naughty little pigtail of intrigue, spiraling out of view.

“There’s an arch to the side,” she said. “If you know the castle backward and forward, what’s up there?”

“Thirty-four stairs and a circular room at the top, some six paces across.”

“My,” Izzy said, impressed. “That was a very specific answer.”

“Count for yourself if you doubt me.”

She left his side and followed that small, curling staircase up and up, lighting the way with her candle. The way was narrow, and even as slight-figured as Izzy was, she had to climb at an oblique angle. Broad-shouldered Rothbury fell behind.

“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”

He was right. Exactly thirty-four steps later, she emerged into a small, round room. There were no bats. No rats. No ghosts. Just a single slit of a window. She crossed the uneven stone floor in cautious steps and poked her head through the rectangular opening.

Oh.

Oh, her heart.

She had to press a hand to her chest to keep it from jumping out of her body and crashing to the ground below.

How glorious.

The turret was high above the castle, offering a view unimpeded by trees or hills. A patch of sky had cleared just overhead. She was floating among the stars.

Glowing taper in hand, she could almost imagine she was a star. Isolated. Insignificant amid the multitudes. Yet every bit as afire with heat and heart.

Strange, how contemplating the vastness made her feel a little less alone. From far enough away, on some other world, perhaps she would appear to be part of a constellation.

“This is it.” She spoke the words aloud, so there could be no taking them back. “This is mine. I don’t care about the bats, the rats, the ghosts. This turret is going to be my bedchamber, and this castle will be my home.”

The duke joined her, having climbed the thirty-fourth stair. “For the last time, you can’t stay here.”

“Why?” She looked around the room. “Is the turret structurally unsound?”

“No. The peril isn’t from crumbling walls. It’s not from rats or bats or even ghosts.” Skimming his fingers along the wall, he circled the turret perimeter, until his fingers just grazed her arm. “It comes from me.”

He was a large man and a strong one. If he truly wanted to hurt her, there would be little Izzy could do about it.

But in her heart, she just didn’t believe he would.

She couldn’t say he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he’d declined to hurt a weasel, and that seemed to say volumes more.

“Miss Goodnight, I’m a man who has spent a great deal of time in solitude. You’re a defenseless, tempting woman. Do I have to spell it out for you? You’re in D-A-N . . . ger.”

She bit back a laugh. “Your spelling is a bit scary.”

“I could ravish you.”

He said it so solemnly. Now she couldn’t help but laugh.

His brow furrowed. “You think I’m joking.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you. Forgive me. I don’t doubt your skill at ravishing women. I’m sure you’re quite accomplished at . . . at ravishing. Expert, even. I laughed because no one’s ever threatened to ravish me.”

“I won’t believe that. With this hair?” His touch drifted to her neck. “And this softness? You have the voice of a temptress.”

What Izzy had was the beginnings of a cold, and she could have told him so. She could have explained that there was a very logical reason she’d never been in danger of ravishment, and it was because she was plain.

But was she truly plain, here and now? With a blind man, in the dark?

If he was tempted . . .

Didn’t that make her a temptress?

She’d always envied beautiful women. Not solely for the beauty itself but because when attributes were parceled out by whatever deity assigned them, beauty seemed to come tethered to confidence. She craved that more than anything.