Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(77)

The rest of the world could never know the truth, but she couldn’t deny how much it meant to know this one man had discerned it. He’d looked beyond the expectations and the public perceptions, and he’d seen her. The real Izzy.

“You truly liked them?” she asked. It was the silliest question, and he chided her for it accordingly.

He tugged on her hair. “ ‘Liked’ isn’t the word.”

But what is the word? she wondered.

Admired? Adored? Cherished?

Loved?

She didn’t need him to say that word, she told herself. But secretly, she couldn’t help wishing he would.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “For that matter, why don’t you tell the world? If I’d written England’s most popular book, I’d never stop crowing about it.”

Was he mad? “Of course I could never tell anyone. Not without ruining everyone’s enjoyment and making my father out to be a fraud.”

“Your father was a fraud. He was a cowardly, shameless fraud, taking all the glory for your hard work.”

She shook her head, reaching into the cupboard for eggs. “At the outset, he was the one protecting me. I was so young. The publishers wouldn’t have even looked at the Tales if they thought I’d written them. I didn’t want the attention, the admirers. The public adoration made my father happy. It was the writing that gave me joy.”

“Until he died, and you lost everything. Don’t you miss it now?”

“Of course I miss it. Terribly.” Even now, more than a year later, she carried a sense of aching loss that never quite went away. “But how could I continue? If I tried to pass the work off as my father’s, it would legally belong to Martin. If I sent it under my own name, the publisher would only send it back. Unread, most likely. ”

“How will you know if you don’t try?”

“You don’t understand this, Ransom. You can’t see.”

His head jerked in affront. “I don’t know what my blindness has to do with it.”

“Everything.” She sighed.

His blindness had everything to do with it.

No man had ever—ever—treated her the way he did. She was small and plain and insignificant. But on the page, her words could be so much more. They could be influential, admired. Even powerful.

But only if they weren’t hers.

She’d come to accept that this was how it would always be. She was at her best when she was invisible. That’s why she’d written herself with emerald green eyes and sleek amber hair. The real Izzy wasn’t good enough.

Until now. The real Izzy was good enough for Ransom. He would never know how much that meant. But she would endeavor to show him.

She squeezed his arm. “Let me make your pancake.”

He looked on as she gathered eggs and began cracking them in a bowl.

“Who taught you to make pancakes?” he asked. “Your family’s cook?”

She laughed a little. “We had no cook. My father’s only income came from a handful of pupils he tutored. Until the stories became successful, we never had the money for servants.” She poured milk in the bowl, sifted in a measure of flour, and began to beat the mixture with a spoon. “No cook, no maid, no governess. It was always just me and Papa. I taught myself to make a fair number of things, but pancakes were a favorite.”

“So. You spent your childhood acting as your own cook, maid, and governess. Then you became the family provider at the age of thirteen.” His hands framed her waist. “I’m tempted to take that spoon from your hands and send it sailing out the nearest window. You should never make another pancake again.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “This is different. It’s my pleasure to make one for you.”

He slid his arms about her waist and hugged her as she added a sprinkle of salt and sugar to the bowl.

And she decided—right here in this kitchen—there was something else she’d like to share with him, too.

“Would you like to know how it continues? The true identity of the Shadow Knight?”

“Are you joking?” His arm cinched tight about her waist. “I would trade almost anything to know that. Anything but pancakes. Pancakes are not for up negotiation.”

“So Ulric was dangling from that parapet.” She found the butter in its crock. “And just beginning to pull himself up, when the Shadow Knight unsheathed his sword and severed one of his hands in a single blow.”

Ransom winced. “Good Lord. You do have a bloodthirsty imagination.”

“Now he’s dangling by only one hand. With the rain falling, the wind whipping about the parapets. He has not only the weight of his body but the weight of his armor. It’s too much. He’s starting to lose his grip. It’s over, and both Ulric and the Shadow Knight know it.”

She set the bowl of pancake batter aside, offering him her sugary fingers to lick.

She went on with her tale. “ ‘Tell me,’ Ulric says, as he slips from three fingers to two. ‘Before you send me to my death, tell me who you are.’ At last, the Shadow Knight lifts the visor of his helmet, revealing an all-too-familiar face, and says”—she lowered her voice, giving it an ominous cast—“ ‘Ulric. I am your brother.’ ”