Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(56)

“Yes. You have.”

She lifted her head from his chest. “I understand why you didn’t want me in the castle. I was a surprise. You must have hated me.”

He swept a touch to her face. “I didn’t hate you.”

“Well, if you didn’t hate me at the first, you have reason now. Ransom, you must believe me. I’m just so sorry. For the letter, for the castle, for Lady Emily. For everything. You have every right to be—”

He shushed her. “Goodnight. We’re trapped together in a small, dark space. For the moment, we’re getting on as well as could possibly be expected. I don’t think this is the time to remind me of my many valid reasons to resent your presence and despise everything you stand for.”

“Right.” She took a deep breath. “On second thought, perhaps we shouldn’t wait to be rescued. There must be a release latch somewhere.”

“I’ll find it.”

“No, it has to be me.” Izzy shifted her body. “Maybe if we re-create our position just before the panel turned. You were between my legs, and I had my hand on the shelf just about . . . here.”

Ransom moved dutifully into place, lifting her by the hips and feeling like a jackass about it. Had he really held her like this? Spread wide and wrapped around him, while he pawed at her and made lewd demands, just so he could prove something to his wounded pride?

Yes. Evidently he had.

“Let’s see,” she said. “How did it go? Oh, yes. You had your fingers inside me, and you were pleading with me to say your name, and then . . .”

“Can we dispense with the details?”

Bloody hell. She was a penniless and homeless virgin who was just as much a victim of her father’s charlatanry as anyone. And Ransom had never felt more disgusting. She had every reason to despise him, too.

“And then”—her body arced as she stretched high—“I think I pulled just here . . .”

Whoosh.

Chapter Seventeen

Izzy’s world tilted once again.

The panel spun on its axis, spitting them back out into the library. But this time, the hidden door didn’t make a complete rotation. It lurched and stopped halfway.

They both tumbled forward with the momentum.

“Oof.”

Ransom twisted as they fell, catching her in his arms and taking the brunt of the fall.

She landed in his embrace, sprawled atop him and gasping for breath.

“Thank you,” she said.

He released her. “Don’t thank me. I was merely—”

“Oh, don’t.” Smiling, she pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Don’t even bother.”

Izzy refused to listen to yet another speech about his dastardly behavior and his life that was a scourge on decency and romance.

Everything was different now. He’d eased her trembling in the darkness. They’d shared their innermost thoughts and memories. He’d threatened her vile cousin with two imaginary, delightfully gory deaths.

They understood one another. At least, a little bit.

Most of all, Izzy knew, beyond a whisper of doubt, that all his talk of being a heartless villain was nothing more than that: talk.

Just to prove it . . . just to get back at him for all his crude, sensual games earlier . . . she bent over and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

And she held it, for two heartbeats more.

Take that, sweet man.

Then she pushed to her feet and did her best to cover herself with her displaced corset and the torn bodice. He remained exactly where he was, flat on the threadbare carpet.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He let his arms fall to the sides. “I’m slain.”

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Abigail and Duncan reeled around the corner and into the library.

“My God,” Duncan said. He went straight to Ransom, surveying the dust and grime on his coat.

“There you are. We’ve been searching all over.” Abigail ran to Izzy, taking in her ripped garments and disheveled hair. Then she glanced toward Ransom where he lay on the floor. “My goodness. What’s happened?”

“We were . . . We were stuck.” Unable to find the words to explain it, Izzy motioned toward the priest hole and hoped the rest would be obvious.

Abigail screamed.

“Well, it wasn’t that bad,” Izzy said. “We did get out. And I’m so sorry about your gown.”

“It’s not that,” Abigail said weakly. She turned Izzy toward the priest hole. “Look.”

Izzy looked. “Is that . . . ?” She cocked her head to the side, moving closer until there could be no doubt. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. It is.”

There, tucked in the shadowed, dusty back corner of the priest hole, were bones.

An entire person’s worth of bones.

They hadn’t been alone in the dark at all.

The discovery brought a swift end to the dinner party. Centuries-old corpses had a way of doing that.

Ransom sent for both the magistrate and the vicar, and the two spent a full hour debating what was to be done with the bones. Whether reports needed to be filed; whether the remains could be buried on holy ground, and so forth. Even though he was found in a priest hole, he could have just as easily been a vagrant or a smuggler or a thief. There was no telling whether the dead man was even a Protestant or Catholic, so the men gratefully took Izzy’s suggestion that the bones be interred in the castle’s chapel.