Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(3)

Ransom cursed. He didn’t want visitors. Especially not visitors of the female kind. He had enough of that with the local vicar’s daughter, Miss Pelham. She came around the castle every week or so, offering to read him sermons or some other foolishness. At least when Miss Pelham made her sunny march up the hill, basket of good deeds threaded over one arm, she came expecting to find a scarred, unshaven wreck of a man. And she was far too sensible to faint at the sight.

This woman crumpled on the flagstones hadn’t been expecting Ransom.

What was it she’d said about a Lord Archer? She had a letter on her somewhere that explained it, but he couldn’t bother with that now. He needed to get her inside—warm her up, give her a splash of whisky and milk in her tea.

The sooner she recovered her senses, the sooner she could leave.

He wrestled her sodden, unconscious form into his arms and stood. He adjusted her weight, finding the fulcrum between her hips and her shoulders, then made his way up the stairs to take her inside.

He counted the steps out. Five . . . six . . . seven . . .

As he took the eighth step, she shifted in his arms. He froze, bracing for unpleasantness. She’d fainted dead at her first sight of him. If she woke to find him carrying her now, she might expire from the shock. Or split his eardrums with a shriek. Just what he didn’t need—an injury to his hearing.

She mumbled faintly but didn’t rouse. No, she did something far worse.

She nuzzled.

Slid sideways, curling into his embrace, and rubbed her cheek against his chest, seeking warmth. She gave a faint, husky moan.

Another surge of . . . something . . . passed through him. He paused for a moment, absorbing the sharp invasion of it before he continued his climb.

Gods be cursed. The one thing Ransom wanted less right now than a swooning woman? A nuzzling woman. Since his injury, he didn’t like anyone too close. And he didn’t require any nuzzling, thank you. He had a dog.

The dog led the way as he reached the top of the stairs and turned to enter the castle’s great hall. This space was his encampment, of sorts. He slept here, he ate here, he drank here, he . . . cursed and brooded here. His manservant, Duncan, was always after him to open more of the castle’s rooms, but Ransom didn’t see the point.

He settled the girl—the woman—on the decrepit horsehair sofa, pushing it nearer the fire. The sofa legs screeched across the stone floor. He waited to see if she’d stir.

Nothing.

He gave her shoulder a mild shake.

Nothing.

“Wake,” he said loudly. “Look there. It’s Lord Archer.”

Nothing.

Ransom drew up a chair and sat nearby. Five seconds later, he rose again to pace. Twenty-three paces to the leftmost window, then back. He had his strengths, but patience wasn’t one of them. Inaction made him a growly, ill-tempered beast.

When Duncan returned, he could send for a doctor. But it could be hours before Duncan returned.

Magnus whined and nosed about his boots.

Ransom sent the dog to its rug by the fire. Then he crouched beside the sofa and placed one hand on the woman’s neck. He slid his touch along that sleek, delicate column until he found her pulse with his fingertips. The heartbeat was weaker than he would have liked it to be, and rabbit-fast. Damn.

She turned her head, sliding her soft cheek into his hand. There she went again, nuzzling. The friction released gentle hints of a soft, feminine fragrance.

“Temptress,” he muttered bitterly.

If he had to have a swooning, nuzzling woman collapse on his doorstep, why couldn’t it be one who smelled of vinegar and old cheese? No, he had to get one scented of rosemary and sweet, powdered skin.

He pressed his thumb to her rain-splashed cheek. “For God’s sake, woman. Wake.”

Maybe she’d struck her head on the flagstones. He thrust his fingers into her upswept hair, yanking out her hairpins. There were dozens of them, it seemed, and with each one he pulled, the mass of hair seemed to grow wilder. Angrier. The curling locks tangled and knotted between his fingers, obstructing his explorations. By the time he’d satisfied himself that her skull was intact, he could have believed that hair was alive. And hungry.

But her skull was in one piece, with no knots or swellings that he could detect. And she still hadn’t made a sound.

Perhaps she was injured somewhere else. Or maybe her corset was too tight.

There was only one way to tell.

With a gruff sigh, he shook off his coat and turned up his sleeves. Rolling her onto her side, he brushed her predatory hair away and set his fingers to the task of undoing the buttons down the back of her frock. He was out of practice, but there were some things a man didn’t forget. How to undo a woman’s buttons was one.

How to unlace a woman’s stays was another.

As he yanked the laces from the corset grommets, he felt her rib cage expand beneath his palms. She shifted and released a throaty, sensual sigh.

He froze. Another surge of . . . something . . . pulsed through his veins, and this time he couldn’t dismiss it as some tender nonsense.

This was lust, pure and simple. He’d gone a dangerously long time without a woman in his arms.

He pushed the physical response aside. With brisk, businesslike motions, he pulled the sleeves of her frock down her arms, feeling for any broken bones along the way. Then he began working the bodice down to her waist. He couldn’t let her just lie there in wet sacking, or she’d catch a chill.