Romancing the Duke (24 page)

She whimpered with despair.

“But the biggest shock of all had nothing to do with the characters or the storyline.” He sat up, facing her. His dark eyes seemed to focus on hers. “It had to do with you.”

Her heart quivered in her chest.

Oh, God. He knew.

“Yes,” he said, confirming her fears. “I know the truth.”

That was it, then. Her charade of thirteen years was up. He knew everything.

Which left Izzy with only one possible response.

Run.

Chapter Twenty-three

W
ith a painful gasp, Izzy broke the icy veneer of her panic. She tore from the great hall and dashed up the spiraling staircase.

“Izzy.”

She rushed on.

He chased after her. “Izzy, stop. Don’t run from me, damn it. Don’t ever run from me.”

She stumbled to a halt in the corridor, putting one hand to the wall for strength.

He was right. Lady Emily Riverdale had run from him. She’d done it because of Izzy’s stories, and in doing so, the girl had ruined Ransom’s life.

If Izzy could give him nothing else, she owed him this. The chance to confront her, face-to-face.

So she stopped running. And turned to face the truth.

“Ransom, I . . . I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.”

“Oh,” he said, “I think you can.”

He caught her by the waist and steered her into the nearest room—which happened to be the newly refurnished, never yet used ducal chamber.

He kicked the door shut behind them.

“You did dream up all those outlandish stories, after all. So it’s clear that you can imagine quite a lot of things.” As he spoke, he backed her toward the bed. “So perhaps you can put yourself in my place, as I sat there—first in the vicarage, then the inn, then that sticky tavern—slowly coming to the certain realization that the author of these tales was not Sir Henry Goodnight. It was, and always had been, you.”

The edge of the mattress hit her in the back of the knees, and she fell backward onto the bed. He fell with her, caging her with his limbs and using his weight to pin her to the mattress.

“So, tell me.” His voice was as dark and hollow as a cave. “
Can
you possibly imagine how I felt?
Can
you put a name to that intense emotion that filled my chest so completely, it pained my ribs?”

“Anger,” she guessed, feeling faint.

He shook his head. “Wrong.”

“Rage? Betrayal?”

“Wrong, and wrong again.” He touched her lips, tracing their shape with his thumb. “It was pride. Oh, my Izzy. I was so damned proud of you, I thought my heart would burst.”

Her
heart stopped beating altogether.

“Proud of . . .” She cleared a lump from her throat. “What do you mean? How could you be proud of me?”

“Stop that nonsense. Don’t pretend anymore, not with me.” He swiped away her tear. “I was proud because you wrote it. You wrote all of it.”

“Yes, and that means it’s all my fault. My work is to blame for Lady Emily’s elopement. Your injuries and blindness. The fact that you’re now on the brink of losing everything. It’s
my
fault, all of it.”

“Then all I can say is . . .” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Bless you. Thank you.”

“You can’t mean those things.”

“But I do. If you had not taught that silly, flighty Emily Riverdale to dream of love, I would have had no chance of believing in it, myself. I would not have come here. I would not have met you. Even if I had, I would have been too arrogant and hardheaded to ever let you close.”

He dropped his head, burying his face in her neck. “Izzy, I owe you everything. You are my heart. My very life. If you leave me . . . ”

His voice broke. Her heart swelled.

She slid her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “If you’ll only let me hold you, I won’t ever let you go.”

They kissed deeply, sweetly. And slowly. As though now they had all the time in the world.

“I’m so sorry for earlier,” he said. “The stupid things I said. I was a bastard.”

“I won’t argue.”

“I ruined all your work. Worse, I destroyed all the plans I’d been making.”

Her brow wrinkled. “What plans had you been making?”

“Well, to begin with . . .” He rose up on his elbows. “I’d been planning to seduce you in this bed tonight.”

Izzy swallowed. “Has that plan altered?”

Please say no. Please say no.

“Yes, it has.” He rose up and straddled her waist. “I don’t think seduction is called for. I think you’re overdue for a ravishing.”

A thrill shot through her.

Yes.

This was just what part of her craved—for him to take control. Just this once. She’d been the responsible person in the Goodnight household since the age of ten. All those years of feverishly scribbling stories, working to keep bread on the table and oil in the lamps. Then the constant tension of keeping the truth to herself—always counting her statements in any conversation, clenching her fists and holding her tongue. Making sure no one got close enough to guess. Because she needed to guard not only their family income but the dreams and hopes of thousands.

And all the while, she’d been yearning for someone to take care of
her.
She’d dreamed of this. A man strong enough to protect her, bold enough to see her for who she truly was. Willing to claim her for his own.

She was long overdue for a ravishing. A lifetime overdue.

But it couldn’t happen tonight.

When he laced his hands with hers and pushed her back against the bed, she protested. “No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“Not like this. I can’t let you ravish me.”

She took advantage of his surprise, turning and flipping their positions on the bed so that she lay sprawled atop him.

“Tonight,” she vowed, “I’m going to ravish
you.
”

R
avish
him
?

Ransom made a halfhearted attempt at demurring. He muttered a few incoherent words of protest. But his body betrayed him.

“I know you want it,” she whispered, hiking her skirts to straddle his hips.

And he did. He wanted this badly indeed.

She couldn’t know what it meant to him, to be pushed back against the bed, divested of all his clothing, and then . . . just touched. Caressed. And best of all, kissed. Kissed everywhere. With no reciprocation or compensation expected. Nothing up for barter or exchange. Just the outpouring of her sweetness, her passion. Her beautiful heart.

She kissed him everywhere. Everywhere.

He found it adorable, some of the places she chose to grace with her lips. The inside of his elbow. His knobby chin. His hairy, muscled calves. And all the while, her soft, sensual hair dragged over his skin, like a thousand caressing fingers.

She kissed his lips, of course, sliding her tongue deep to twine with his. She kissed his cheeks and temples—both the unmarked and the scarred. She kissed the tender place just beneath his ear, and she ran her tongue down the center of his chest and . . .

And stopped at his navel.

Damn.

He didn’t want to press her for it. But by this point, she’d put her mouth on him just about everywhere else, and his cock was getting ideas of its own. Straining for her touch, aching for her kiss. Even leaping, like a tethered beast.

“Izzy.”

At last, she took his erection in hand. She pressed her lips to the crown. Encouraged by his moan of helpless pleasure, she did it again. And again, this time sweeping gently with her tongue.

“Show me,” she whispered. “Show me what to do.”

He couldn’t resist that invitation. He fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her to take him in her hot, wet, lovely mouth and stroke him up and down. She didn’t need a great deal of instruction. Once she had the rhythm, he released his grip and let his head fall back against the pillow, reveling in the bliss.

She took him deep in her mouth one last time, and then released him, sliding her tongue along the sensitive underside. He groaned in a wordless plea for mercy.

“Are you ready to be ravished?” she asked, in a sultry, honeyed tone.

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth. “Very much so.”

She climbed his body, straddling his pelvis and rubbing her heat up and down his rigid length. Then she froze, poised above him. Holding the tip of his cock lodged just where it wanted so desperately to go.

Dear God. She would kill him.

“Izzy.” The unspent lust had his voice in a stranglehold. “Now. Do it now. I’m begging you.”

“You know the word I’m waiting to hear.”

Did he know?

Ah. Yes, he supposed he did. The little minx.

“Please.” He reached for her, tangling one hand in that long, wild, curling hair, and said it again. “
Please.
”

“That’s more like it.”

She sank down on him, slowly and smoothly, taking him all the way to the root.

Yes.

For as long as he could bear it, he allowed her to set the pace. She rode him in a slow, gentle, rolling rhythm that teased his patience to the brink.

And when he couldn’t be patient anymore, he grasped her hips in his hands and guided her to move faster. Harder. He planted his feet on the bed and pushed upward with his hips, meeting her halfway with his thrusts.

She fell forward, and the soft, bouncing heat of her breasts met his chest. He held her, wrapping her in his arms so tight, treasuring her every tiny gasp and sigh of pleasure. He held himself back as long as he could, driving into her again and again—pushing her higher and higher, until she shuddered and came apart in his arms.

And when she came, he came, too. It was oneness, and it was glorious, and it was perfect, and it was her. All her.

God, he loved her.

Gathering her close, he rolled onto his side and tucked her head to his chest. She nuzzled sweetly, curling in his embrace.

He rested his chin on her head. “I’m going to ask you a question, Izzy. I’ve never asked this of a woman before. And it’s taking me a great deal of courage to even broach the subject, so please—I beg you, consider your answer carefully.”

“What is it?”

“Izzy, my heart . . .” He tenderly stroked her hair where it fanned across the pillow. “In the morning, will you make me a pancake?”

Chapter Twenty-four

A
s soon as the dawn came streaming through the windows, Izzy shook her sleeping lover awake. It pained her to do it. He was so beautiful there, his bronzed limbs tangled amid crisp white sheets and downy pillows.

He looked at peace.

But today was going to be an interesting day, to say the least. He couldn’t sleep through any more of it.

“Ransom.” She nudged his shoulder.

He startled. “What? What is it?”

“Wake and dress. The solicitors are coming today. I don’t know where Duncan is, but he’s sure to turn up soon.”

“Izzy, for God’s sake. Curse the solicitors. Duncan resigned. And I thought we’d moved past this. I’m not going to hide what we have any longer.”

“I’m not hiding it.” She plopped down beside him on the bed and ruffled his hair. “I’m just hurrying you along. If you want your pancake, it has to be now.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

A few minutes later, wearing rumpled clothes and a rare smile, Ransom followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen just off the great hall.

She stoked the fire and began pulling bowls and spoons from the cupboard. “So, how did you guess the truth?”

“How did I
know,
do you mean? I’ve had my suspicions for some time now. You describe sunsets as dying warriors, you read in voices, and you write me silly lines of dialogue. Once I finally heard the stories, it was obvious. I knew because I know you. Izzy, you shouldn’t deny or pretend any longer.”

Very well. She wouldn’t pretend any longer. Not with him.

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.’ ”

He let her fingertip slide from his mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,”
she replied. “It’s truly not that much of a twist. The motif runs through most chivalric literature. Knights-errant are always having to face down a nemesis who is revealed to be their father, brother, or a long-lost son.”

She put a pat of butter in the heated pan and followed it with a generous spoonful of batter.

“But I thought Ulric’s brother died in the Crusades,” Ransom said.

“Ulric thought so, too. He
thought
Godric died on the battlefield, but he survived. It took him years to make his way back to England, and with every step, he dreamed of vengeance on the brother who had left him for dead.”

He shook his head. “Next you’ll tell me Cressida’s truly their sister.”

“Cressida, their
sister
? Lord, no. What on earth would make you think of such a thing?”

“It would be a good surprise,” he said. “You have to admit.”

She made a sound of disgust as she flipped the pancake. “They can’t be siblings. They’ve
kissed.
”

“Not very deeply.”

“It’s still a
kiss.
They are not brother and sister.” She laughed. “What a suggestion.”

She slid the finished pancake on a waiting plate. Just then, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and Izzy looked up just in time to see a familiar figure, capped with a shimmering knot of blond hair.

“Izzy, there you are.”

Abigail.

Izzy bit her lip, uncertain what the vicar’s daughter would think of her now. Ransom’s declarations yesterday had left little room for ambiguity, and here they were in rumpled half dress, making early-morning pancakes in the kitchen. The fact that they were lovers must be obvious.

And just in case it wasn’t apparent enough, Ransom slid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.

“Abigail,” she said. “Good morning. I was just—I mean, we were . . .”

“It’s all right, Izzy.” Abigail moved into the room, drawing Izzy aside. “I won’t tell a soul. In fact, I’m here to ask you for a favor. If anyone asks you, I stayed here at the castle last night.”

“Oh?” Understanding dawned. “Oh. Of course you did.”

“I most definitely did not spend the night at the Moranglian Army encampment,” Abigail went on in a low whisper, “allowing Mr. Butterfield some mildly unchivalrous liberties.” A wash of pink touched her cheeks.

Izzy smiled. “Of course you didn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. What are friends for?”

Abigail gave her a squeezing hug and heaved a sigh of relief. “Now,” she said brightly, “what’s to be done about these solicitors? How do we prove that the duke’s not an incompetent lunatic? Surely we haven’t given up.”

Izzy looked to Ransom. “We haven’t given up. Have we?”

“No, we haven’t,” he said. “Let them come. No more charades. No more pretense. I will answer their questions, honestly. If, at the end of it, they mean to challenge my fitness as duke, I will see them in the Lord Chancellor’s court.”

“I like that plan,” she said. “Abigail, can we still count on your help?”

“Of course.”

“Duncan has resigned,” Ransom said, scratching his unshaven jaw. “But I think I can convince him to stay. As a friend. We’ll still need footmen.” He looked to Abigail. “You said the Moranglian Army is still camped nearby? Perhaps I can persuade them to come back.”

Izzy wasn’t sure that was a wise idea.

“Ransom, you were so hurtful to them yesterday. Lord knows what they’re thinking of me. Whatever you say to them . . . I suggest you consider beginning with a sincere apology. And concluding with the word ‘please.’ ”

He chewed a bite of his pancake and shrugged. “They’re reasonable men. I’m certain with a bit of conversation, we can reach an understanding.”

E
vidently, an understanding wouldn’t be so easily reached.

Not two hours later, Ransom found himself in the Moranglian encampment. Surrounded, hooded, and held at sword point, with both hands bound behind his back.

And now they were taking him into the woods.

He tried to make himself heard through the clanking of armor and the sacking thrown over his head. “Good sirs, truly. I know yesterday I said hurtful things. But today, I’ve come in peace. I wish to join your ranks.”

A pointed object jabbed him in the kidneys. “One does not simply
join
the Knights of Moranglia. It’s not that easy. There’s a ceremony and an oath.”

“And a trial,” another said.

“Very well. I will submit to your trials. But really, is the hood necessary? I am already blind.”

He took another jab to the kidneys. “Kneel.”

He knelt. Someone removed his hood.

Ransom took a greedy gulp of fresh air. “So what do I do? What do I need to say?” He cleared his throat. “Anon I pledge mine fealty thither . . .”

They put the hood back over his head.

“Prithee,” he protested, “if thou wouldst waiteth a goddamned second—”

“Brother Wendell, he’s not taking this seriously,” one of the knights said. “Our order is a sacred trust. We’re here because we’re united by a higher purpose.”

Another chimed in. “If we admit him to our ranks, we must treat him as one of our own. As a brother. Do you think he’s going to treat us the same way?”

Ransom bowed his head and managed to shake his hood loose. Unburdened, he lifted his eyes and spoke to the faceless men surrounding him.

“Listen,” he said. “I know. I’m not your friend. I’m the bastard who thrashed you and took your pocket money at school. But right now, I’m on the ground. In the woods. Kneeling in something highly unfortunate, on the day after my valet quit his post. I am serious about this. I am seriously apologetic for what I said. And I seriously need your help.”

That was the first time Ransom could recall ever saying those words:
I need your help.
And look, he hadn’t even collapsed of humiliation.

The first knight spoke again. “Don’t allow it, brother. He’s not a true Moranglian.”

“But I am now,” Ransom insisted. “And Sir Wendell should know it. He was there at the vicarage for dinner when we read through the first part.”

“Then prove your worth,” the second knight said. “In installment seventeen, what three ingredients did Ulric fetch for the Witch of Graymere’s potion?”

Bloody hell. That was very specific. Ransom searched his memories of the previous night. He’d been paying attention to the story—he’d been lost in it, truly—but he hadn’t taken sodding
notes
. “Toe of troll, hair of newt, and . . . and unicorn piss? Damn it, I don’t know.”

“Do you see?” the knight said. “He’s not sincere. I bet he doesn’t even know the Doubt Nots.”

“Wait,” Ransom said, perking up. “Those, I know.”

He remembered this part. It was a good part, with Ulric taking his leave of Cressida before departing on his quest to slay the Beast of Cumbernoth. He’d made quite a speech.

“Doubt not, my lady,” he recited. “Doubt not. I shall return. Doubt not my blade.”

“It’s steel,” someone corrected, adding a corrective thump to the back. “Doubt not my steel.”

“Right, right.” He concentrated on the muddy ground. “Doubt not my steel. Doubt not my strength. And there’s something more, and something else about the king, and then ‘you remain queen of my heart’ and it ends with, ‘For my lady, and for Moranglia.’ ” He lifted his head. “There, is that good enough?”