Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(67)

Izzy smiled, and her nerves lost their edges, too. He didn’t need to praise their hard work, but it meant a great deal that he did.

“What about the bed?” he asked.

“It’s . . . still there. Exactly where it was before.”

“Show me.”

She took the hand he offered and led him to the edge of the enormous four-poster bed. “Here. There’s a new mattress, of course. And we restrung the frame with new ropes.”

He pushed up and down. “Hm.”

Then he caught her in his arms and launched them both onto the bed. Izzy shrieked as they landed in a tangle in the center of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m testing something.” He wrapped his legs over hers, then rolled them back and forth over the length of the bed. When he stopped in the center again, he said, “I was right. Large enough for a duke and six women besides.”

“If you want six women, none of them will be me.” She struggled to disentangle herself and sit up.

He pulled her back down. “What if I just want you? Six times.”

“Six times in one night? Impossible.”

“That sounded like a challenge.” His hand slid to cup her breast. “I accept.”

“Ransom . . .” Her words trailed off into a sigh as he licked along the lacy edge of her bodice. “Ransom, we can’t. Not now. There’s too much to be done.”

“You’ve done so much already.” He shushed her, nudging her legs apart so he could reach between them. “You’ve been working so hard, Izzy. This room is proof of it. Just relax for a moment. Let me give you something in return.”

It worried her that he couldn’t seem to accept the smallest kindness—not even a sliced pear—without thinking he needed to repay her somehow. If not with wages, with pleasure.

Not that she minded the pleasure, of course. Izzy had scarcely slept in days. The soft, springy mattress cushioning their weight was so inviting, and his hard, wanting body atop hers felt so right. She’d missed him so much.

Still . . .

As he kissed her ear, she sighed and smiled. “Why can’t you be cooperative, ever?”

He slid a hand under her skirt. “Where would the joy be in that?”

Joy.

The word surprised her.

Of all the words he could have used in that sentence. Where would the sport be in that? he could have said. Or, Where would the fun be in that?

But he hadn’t spoken of “sport” or “fun.” He’d spoken of joy. Was that truly what he felt with her?

She hoped so. She couldn’t deny it any longer. She wanted him to feel at home here. Here, in this castle—and here, with her.

If they managed to pull through this . . . inspection, of sorts . . . he wouldn’t need to hide and brood in Gostley Castle anymore.

But might he possibly want to stay?

She touched his face, running her fingers over his cheek and reaching to stroke his hair. This impossible, flawed, wounded man who’d brought her in from the rain. Who’d eased her trembling in the dark. Who’d made her feel beautiful and cherished in his embrace.

He had so much more inside him if only she could find the way to reach it. Passion. Devotion. Love. Somewhere deep inside him was a true and constant heart, struggling to emerge from under all the scars and pride. Some part of her had known it from the first day, when he’d carried her in his arms.

“Ransom,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I hope—”

“Wait.” He shushed her, frowning. “What the devil am I hearing?”

Ransom was listening to sounds he’d hoped never to hear again. The clop of hooves, the clack of wheels—and the ceaseless clanking of cut-rate armor.

Bloody hell. They’re back.

“They’re early,” she said.

She’d known about this? “Izzy, you didn’t.”

“I did. Please don’t be angry.”

As if he could be angry with her. He rose from bed and went to the window, unwillingly and inexorably at once—as if drawn by the sight of a carriage wreck. That familiar silvery rainbow of people poured into the courtyard.

They’d been invaded by the Moranglians again.

Izzy joined him at the window. “I know. I know how you feel about them. But we’re desperate for help. We can’t be particular.” She called down to the men filling the courtyard with their obnoxious clanking. “We are honored, Sir Wendell! How good you are to heed my summons in our hour of need.”

From the courtyard, a voice floated up. “Doubt not, Miss Goodnight. We have returned from thither to offer our service anon.”

Ransom wrested her away from the windows. “Izzy, no. No. I’m supposed to be displaying my sanity and competence in all things ducal. Having the castle overrun by delusionals with play swords and an unnatural fondness for the words ‘thither’ and ‘anon’ is not going to help.”

“We don’t have a choice. There’s no time left to find, train, and outfit servants locally. These people want to help. They’ve drilled to act in unison, and . . . well, they do have matching attire.”

“They are wearing breastplates from some blacksmith’s scrap heap. It’s hardly proper livery.”

“I know it’s unusual, but we’ll play it off as my eccentricity,” she said. “You know how everyone sees me. I’m a dreamy little girl, living in my father’s storyland.”