Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(37)

He tried again, pulling harder. Panic began to build in his chest.

Dear God, it wouldn’t let him go.

“Stop,” she whispered, shushing him. “Do you feel that?”

He felt a lot of things. Far too many things.

“It almost seems as if the ground is trembling.”

Oh. That. Yes, now that she mentioned it, he did feel the shiver in the soles of his feet. The ground was trembling. Someone was approaching in the drive.

Not just someone, but many someones.

He discerned not only hoofbeats but the smoother clack of carriage wheels.

Ransom shut his eyes and quickly reviewed England’s recent military history. The Danes, Napoleon, the Americans . . . all those conflicts had been settled, last he knew. But then, he had been living in isolation.

He asked, “In the past seven months, has England entered any new wars?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she answered. “Why?”

Because by now the vibration had become so intense, he could have believed the castle was under siege.

She clutched his arm. “Goodness. What is that?”

“Am I going mad, or . . . ?” He trained his ear. “Was that a trumpet?”

“It was,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”

He didn’t miss the ominous note in her voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She leapt from his embrace and began pacing the floor. “I knew it. I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

He stood and took her by the shoulders, holding her in one place. He might be blinded, weakened, and on the verge of madness—but while there was still life in him, no harm would come to a woman living under his roof.

“Be calm,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re on about. At once.”

“It’s them. They’ve found me.”

Chapter Twelve

Who’s found you?” he asked.

Izzy winced at the prospect of spilling the truth. Within minutes, there wouldn’t be any hiding it. But the duke wasn’t going to like this. Not at all.

She was preparing to explain when Ransom took her by the shoulders.

His brow was stern. “Now listen to me. I don’t know who they are or what they want from you. But while there’s breath in my lungs and strength in my body, I swear this much: I won’t let you come to harm.”

Oh.

There he went again, making her knees go weak. Never in her life had Izzy been on the receiving end of such a pledge. At least, not one made spontaneously, and most certainly not delivered by such a man as this.

Words were momentarily beyond her. His protective promises had left her feeling rather dizzy. And a little bit guilty for worrying him so.

But only a little bit.

“It is an invasion,” she said, “but a friendly one. We’re getting a visit from the Moranglian Army. Come see, if you can.”

She brought him to the gallery of windows that looked out onto the courtyard.

There, visible through the archway, were approximately a score of mounted riders, followed by three coaches drawn by teams. The armored riders dismounted in unison, and the carriage doors opened, spilling forth about a dozen young ladies in medieval dress. Banners waved briskly in the morning breeze. Izzy couldn’t make out the words emblazoned on them, but she didn’t need to. She knew what they said.

Doubt not.

“Who are these people?” Ransom asked, as the riders and ladies walked through the archway and into the courtyard. “What the hell do they want?”

“I told you, my father’s more enthusiastic readers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and circular letters to share their news. And the particularly dedicated Moranglians . . . well, some of them take it a bit further. They enjoy dressing as the characters, acting out battles and scenes. They’re very well organized. There’s an oath they take, and badges.”

“What’s that god-awful clanking I hear?”

“It’s . . .” She sighed. “It’s armor.”

She risked a glance at the duke’s face.

As expected, he looked revolted. “Armor?”

“I know it makes no sense to you.” She reached for her embroidered shawl. “You don’t have to approve of it. Just don’t disparage them.”

Wrapping her shawl about her shoulders, Izzy leaned out the window and waved. “Good people of Moranglia!”

All the young men and women assembled in the courtyard turned and looked up at her. The knights, with their makeshift armor, fell into a formation.

One stepped forward and performed a deep genuflection. “My lady. I am Sir Wendell Butterfield, first knight of the West Yorkshire Riding Knights of Moranglia, also representing our sisters, the local chapter of Cressida’s Handmaidens.”

“You and your party have traveled far, Sir Wendell.”

“We have. Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Izzy Goodnight?”

“Yes, it’s I,” she called down, smiling. “Miss Izzy Goodnight. Your knights and ladies are most welcome here.”

While the crowd below cheered, Ransom made a gagging noise. “There you are with that treacly voice again.”

“Stop,” she chided, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. “I can’t spoil it for them. They mean well.”