Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(35)

Then she made a strange, small sound.

“Tsh.”

“What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?”

“That noise you made. It sounded like a flea in the throes of passion.”

“Oh, that. It was nothing. Just a sneeze.”

He stopped. “That wasn’t a sneeze. No one sneezes like that.”

“I do, apparently.” She sniffed. “Oh, dear. I’m going to do it again.”

Another muffled, high-pitched paroxysm, like a mouse shushing a vole. Then another.

“Tsh. Tsh.”

Ransom winced at each one. “Good God, that’s disturbing.”

She sniffed. “It’s not meant to be.”

“That can’t be healthy. If you need to sneeze, sneeze properly.”

She did it again. Three of them this time. Little twitchy sounds.

“Tsh! Tsh! Tsh! This is just how I sneeze,” she moaned. “I can’t help it. This castle is dusty. And the turret has a draft.”

Now this was a problem. She couldn’t do any secretarial work if she fell ill. And Ransom couldn’t survive this cohabitation much longer unless she stayed in her room the whole night.

Very well. He would permit her a few afternoons of housecleaning. And tonight, he vowed, she would be warm and comfortable in her bed, and, most importantly, far away.

He made a mental note.

Procure some blankets. Thick ones.

He did procure blankets. Thick ones.

But the next morning, there she was again. “Good morning.”

And once again, Ransom jolted awake, with an aching cockstand and furious temper. He swore for a minute straight.

“Reading more history books?” he muttered.

“Writing a letter.” Her pen scratched across the page. “I do have correspondence of my own, you know. Would you rather fight one hundred rat-sized elephants or one elephant-sized rat?”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “What?”

“It’s a question. If you had the choice, which would you rather do battle against? A hundred elephants the size of rats, or one rat the size of an elephant?”

“You seem to be under the impression that you’re making sense. You’re not.”

“It’s not a practical question, of course,” she said. “It’s just for discussion. Lord Peregrine and I have been corresponding for years. In his letters, he always poses these silly conundrums, and we debate them back and forth.”

“Wait, wait. There’s some lecherous old stick who writes you these letters directly? Why don’t you tell the presumptuous rogue to go to the devil?”

“It’s not like that. He’s bedridden, poor thing. And he doesn’t think of me as a woman, I assure you.”

So this Lord Peregrine fellow had the imagination to picture battles with elephant-sized rats and rat-sized elephants, but he couldn’t possibly think of Izzy Goodnight as a woman? On that point, Ransom was skeptical. Even if a man was bedridden, he was still a man.

With his injuries, there were many who’d consider Ransom an invalid. He was still a man. Every morning that he woke to the husky softness of her voice, his c**k went granite-hard in response.

“So which would it be?” she went on. “The plague of tiny elephants or one giant rat? And as a corollary, what weapons would you choose?” She tapped her pen nib against the table. “I’m torn, myself. The giant rat would seem easier to kill if I could thrust a sword straight in its heart. But then, what if I missed? Then I’d be facing an enraged, wounded, giant rat.”

Ransom had to give this Lord Peregrine one thing. His letters were excellent at withering lust.

“Tiny elephants would seem less lethal,” she went on. “How much damage could two hundred miniature tusks wreak on a person, anyhow? Perhaps they’d tire themselves out if I had good shin-plates. What do you think?”

“I think you’re debating what sort of armor to wear to a miniature-elephant attack. I think that’s madness.”

“What you call madness, I call . . . creative thinking. You could benefit from some of that, Your Grace.”

He speared both hands through his hair. “Why are you down here at all? Write your letters upstairs.”

“I don’t have a writing desk upstairs.”

Today’s task: Procure a writing desk.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

Not again.

Ransom rubbed his face. “I am now.”

Jesus Christ. This had to stop.

It had been almost a week now. Every day since she’d arrived, he woke to the sounds of Izzy Goodnight all too near.

He didn’t know what time of night she was sneaking down here. He didn’t want to know. He’d taken up drinking himself into a nightly stupor to avoid knowing.

In the past few days, he’d arranged for her to have a companion, blankets, a brazier, a writing desk. What more would it take to get her to stay in her damned room until a decent hour of morning?

A lock and chain, perhaps.

“I thought of something,” she said excitedly. “It came to me last night, in bed. R-A-N-S-O-M.”

He stretched a knot from his neck. “What?”

“That first night, you said, ‘Do I have to spell out the danger?’ But then halfway through, you forgot how to spell danger.”