Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(39)

“Oh! That sounds divine.” The girl motioned to her friends, and all dozen of them rushed up the stairs.

A girl in some shade of blue or violet sidled up on Ransom’s right. “You will walk with us, won’t you?”

“Yes, you must join us.” A young woman in white took his left side, boldly threading her arm through his.

Before he knew what was happening, Ransom was swept along as they set out on a walk through the castle park. Magnus trotted along at his heel.

Damn his eyes. Why was he taking a walk? He didn’t want to take a walk. But no one left him a choice. He was surrounded. And very confused.

He’d never had difficulty attracting female attention before his injury. But those attracted to him were women—worldly and self-possessed. Not impressionable, silly girls. And was he going mad, or had they simply not noticed the scar mangling one side of his face?

Good Lord. One of them pinched his arse. Then all of them giggled.

“Won’t you say it for us?” the girl in blue urged him.

“Say what?” he asked.

“You know,” she whispered coyly. “Say ‘Doubt not.’ Won’t you, please? We’ve been dreaming of it since we were little girls.”

Their group drew to a halt in the overgrown garden. The whole gaggle of ladies went breathless with anticipation.

“Doubt not,” he echoed, hardly understanding why.

A chorus of feminine sighs rose up.

“Oh,” swooned one. “That voice. Be still my heart. It’s so romantic.”

God above. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of nightmare.

“Handmaidens,” Miss Goodnight called out in that childish, innocent voice, “do you see it there in the distance? The ruined folly. Do dash ahead, if you will. I’m so keen to see who can pick the largest posy of briar roses by the time I meet you there.”

With a little squeal, the dozen young ladies picked up their skirts and dashed ahead, racing one another toward the horizon.

“There,” Miss Goodnight said. “They’re occupied for a few minutes, at least. Now I can explain.”

“You had better explain. What the hell is going on? What’s this ‘doubt not’ nonsense?”

She took his arm, and they began walking toward the folly. Slowly.

“It’s a famous speech from The Goodnight Tales. Ulric recites it to Cressida just before he leaves on a quest. ‘Doubt not, my lady, I shall return.’ It goes on and on. Doubt not my steel, my strength, my heart . . .”

“Why do they want me to say it?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like to hear this,” she said, sounding doleful. “But you bear a certain resemblance to him.”

“Me? I look like Ulric?”

“Yes. Just uncannily so. Broad shoulders, longish golden brown hair, unshaven . . . You’re a near-perfect match, straight down to the weathered boots.”

“But . . .” Ransom frowned. So this was why she wanted him to hide upstairs. “Surely this Ulric character doesn’t have a scar.”

“He does, as a matter of fact. Ever since episode thirty-four, when he battled the Shadow Knight in the forest of Banterwick.”

He inhaled slowly. This was all starting to make sense to him. Sick, stomach-turning sense.

He pulled her to a halt, turning her to face him.

His eyes were good this morning. As good as they ever were now. He could avoid the stump in his path and make out the vague shapes of the trees and ruined archways, if not the color or form of the birds winging through them.

It was the cruelest of temptations, seeing this much of her and knowing he’d never see more.

He could make out the wide, reddish curve of her mouth and that aura of dark hair, set against the pale . . . was it yellow? . . . of her frock. But he couldn’t see well enough to judge her emotions.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “This is all a little story in your mind. Since the day you arrived, you’ve been living out some bizarre fantasy. Your own little castle, and your own scarred, tortured Ulric. That’s why you won’t leave this place and why you won’t let me be. Why you come down every morning and watch me sleep. I’m like a plaything.”

“No,” she protested. He could see her head shake vigorously. “No, no, no. I’m not living in a fantasy.”

“Get one thing clear, Miss Goodnight. You had better not be forming expectations.”

“Expectations of what?”

“Of me. Of us. Of romance. Just because you grew up on all those fanciful stories, don’t think this is one of them. I won’t be a party to any of this. I’m not the shining hero in disguise.”

She exhaled audibly. “I know. I know. You’re a dangerous ravisher, with brothel bills as long as my arm. Really, I can’t imagine you have any remaining ways to communicate the message, short of stitching ‘A WARNING TO WOMEN’ on your breeches placket. I’m not a ninny. It’s understood. I have not cast you in any chivalric fantasy.”

“Oh, no? Then why did you kiss me like that the first night?”

Her reply was slow in coming. “Just . . . how did I kiss you the first night?”

“Like you wanted to,” he accused. “Like you’d always wanted to. Like you’d spent years waiting for just that kiss. From me.”