Good.
“This is my castle.” His voice rang from the stones. “Rouse yourselves and begone.”
He swept his vision over the assembled inanity. The young ladies at the edges were a colorful assortment of blurs. Their gowns trailed behind them on the ground. The “knights” were a clash of metallic glints and silver flares.
Any moment now, they’d all run away. Exit through the archway like a rainbow pouring through a sieve. Any moment now.
Moments later, he was still waiting. They didn’t run away.
At last, the one called Sir Wendell found his voice. “All knights, salute!”
A bang echoed through the courtyard, as if they’d all thumped their fists against their armored chests in unison.
“All knights, kneel.”
With a wince-inducing clanking, the knights went down on one knee.
“Our liege. We are honored.”
What . . . the . . . devil.
They were supposed to run away screaming. Instead, they were kneeling and saluting. Ransom couldn’t understand it. Just what was going on here?
Miss Goodnight joined him, but she didn’t offer any explanation. “Sir Wendell, how can we be of help this morn?”
“We are on our way to the annual North Regional tournament, Miss Goodnight. Someone informed us of your presence in the neighborhood, and we couldn’t resist stopping by. We had . . . no idea.”
No idea of what, Ransom wondered. No idea of decorum? No idea of common sense?
“We’ll be on our way,” Sir Wendell promised. “But might we trouble you for so long as it takes to rest and water our horses?”
“Oh, please do visit the village!” Miss Pelham joined them on the step, breathless. She must have thrown on her frock and dashed down the stairs. As usual, she wouldn’t miss any chance to promote the goods and services of the parish.
“It’s just a half mile down the road,” she said. “That way. The stables here at the castle are small, but the inn in Woolington can offer you fresh water, hay. There’s a smith, if you need him. And a pub that serves a fine breakfast. The village would be most happy for your custom.”
Sir Wendell bowed. “An excellent suggestion. Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Pelham. Miss Abigail Pelham. My father is the local vicar.”
Yes, indeed, Ransom silently concurred. Thank you, Miss Pelham. By this point, he didn’t care who convinced these people to go. Just so long as they went.
As the knights gathered and made plans to depart, one of the young ladies approached them on the stairs. “Miss Goodnight, please. While the men take the horses to the village, might we stay here? We would so love to have a visit with you. Perhaps a chance to see your castle?”
“I’m afraid the castle isn’t fit for visitors just yet,” Miss Goodnight answered quickly, and sweetly. “But perhaps you’d be so good as to join me for a walk in the castle park? There are some romantic-looking ruins I’ve been yearning to explore.”
“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.”
She covered her face with one hand and moaned. “Why must this be so mortifying? Oh, that’s right. Because it’s my life.”
Ransom kept silent, waiting for an explanation.
She lowered her hand. “Believe me, Your Grace. You will never meet another woman with fewer expectations of romance. You’ve seen how Lord Archer and Miss Pelham and all these people treat me—like a naïve little girl. Everyone’s always treated me that way. I’ve never had even one suitor. So yes, I kissed you like I’d been waiting to kiss you all my life. Because I’d been waiting to kiss someone all my life. Yours just happened to be the lips that met mine.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t kiss me like that was your first kiss.”
“Of course not.” She turned and resumed walking. “I kissed you like it would be my last.”
Her last?
The words kept tumbling through his mind as they walked toward the ruined folly. He could scarcely fathom the absurdity of them.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s like you’ve crammed your brain so full of fairy tales, you’ve squeezed out all the common sense. You’re clever, quick, attractive. Men should be clamoring for you.”
She took his arm and nudged him to the side, around an obstacle in their path. “My life thus far has featured a distinct lack of any such clamoring.”
“That’s only because you’re stuck living in your father’s soppy stories.”
“It’s not only that.” She started to drift away.
He tightened his arm, keeping her close at his side. “Wait.”
Somehow, she had to be made to understand. He couldn’t let her go walking about the world, believing that no more kisses were waiting for her. Or worse—that she shouldn’t go searching them out. She didn’t belong in this castle, hiding away for the rest of her life until she withered to dust. That was his fate, not hers.
“Ransom,” she whispered, “don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what these girls suggest or giggle about. I don’t see you as Ulric. Ulric is honorable and decent, and you’re—”
“Not.” With an impatient wave of his hand, he batted her words away. “We’ve established that.”
She tried again. “In the stories, which every reasonable person knows are just stories, Ulric loves Cressida with a pure, gallant, ridiculously chaste heart. They trade longing glances from opposite turrets. They send little notes back and forth through their servants. In twelve years, they’ve kissed exactly twice. If I wanted a man who was anything like Ulric, I wouldn’t have thrown myself at you that first night. I wouldn’t sit pondering the exact measurements that make up ‘magnificence.’ And I surely as anything wouldn’t spend hours staring into the darkness every night, dreaming of how your hands would feel against my bare skin.”
What? Her confessions bounced right off his defensive bluster.
“You’re not making sense.”
She growled in frustration. “I know I’m not. It makes no sense at all. I’m not a silly little girl who dreams of knights. I’m a woman. A woman who’s inconveniently, completely, and for the first time in her life, in lust. Just burning with desire for the worst possible man. A profane, bitter, wounded duke who refuses to leave her house. Oh, you are dreadful.”
“And you want my hands on your body.”
A faint whimper escaped her throat. “Everywhere.”
