A dramatic, uneven scar sliced from his brow to his temple, ending on the crest of his right cheekbone. Though the candle flame flickered and sparked, his eyes didn’t narrow or focus.
Of course.
The realization flared within her. At last, something about this day made sense.
It all made sense.
The darkened room, his refusal to read her letter, his manual assessment of her health. His repeated mentions of Izzy’s beauty despite what should have been ample evidence to the contrary.
He was blind.
Chapter Two
Ransom remained still, letting the candle illuminate the mangled side of his face. He’d been keeping his distance to spare her this, but she’d requested the light.
So he waited, allowing her a good, long look.
No shrieks, gasps of horror, or soft thuds as she hit the floor. Not this time. She exuded nothing but that same teasing fragrance of rosemary.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the candle.”
Her voice was even more alluring than her scent. She had the accent of a sheltered English miss—but with an undeniably husky, sensual undertone.
“Has it been a long time since your injury?” she asked. “Were you wounded in battle? A duel? An accident?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m fond of long stories.”
He plunked the candlestick on the table with finality. “Not this one.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s terribly forward of me to ask. I had decided against it. But then I thought, surely you must know that I’m wondering. If I pretended sudden interest in the ceiling or the weather, that would be an insult of sorts, too. And you seem the sort of man who’d prefer honesty—even the uncomfortable kind—to insincerity, so I just”—her voice dropped a half octave—“decided to ask.”
She went quiet. At last.
He was irritated with his body’s response to her presence. Her femininity was like a lacy blanket taking up his favorite chair. Not something he would have brought into the room, but since she was there . . . he couldn’t deny that a scarred, neglected part of him craved that softness.
Hell, he ached for it, straight to his bones.
“Very well, I won’t press you for the story behind it,” she said lightly, “but be forewarned. I shall probably make one up.”
“Make up as many stories as you wish. Just don’t make me the hero in them.”
“When can we expect Lord Archer to arrive?”
Damned if Ransom knew. He hadn’t the faintest idea who this Archer might be. “There’s been some misunderstanding. Whoever it is you’re searching for, he isn’t here. My manservant will be returning soon. I’ll have him see you back to Woolington.”
She hesitated. “Then I suppose I should dress.”
“Go on.” He waved in invitation. “There’s no dressing room. And if you haven’t gathered as much by now, you needn’t wait for me to avert my eyes.”
Just the same, he turned to the wall. He clucked his tongue, calling Magnus to heel.
Behind him, light footsteps padded across the floor. The rustle of petticoats grated on his calm. He reached down to give the dog a light scratch.
“There’s quite a mountain of correspondence on your table,” she pointed out. “Are you very sure a Lord Archer didn’t write to you?”
Ransom considered. True, he couldn’t be sure of anything that pertained to his written correspondence lately. Duncan had many useful skills, but none of them could be described as secretarial.
“It’s just . . . I’m grateful for the offer of transport to Woolington,” she said. “But I don’t know where I’d go from there. I see you’ve emptied my purse onto the table. You must have noticed how little was in it.”
He had noticed. She had exactly three shillings, ten pence in her purse. No jewelry of any value. He hadn’t searched the valise, but it weighed almost nothing.
“If you force me out tonight, I’ve nowhere to go.”
Ransom heard the slight waver in her voice.
He shut his ears to it.
He couldn’t fathom why a young, unaccompanied woman would make the journey alone to the middle of Northumberland by the grace of her last few shillings.
But this Miss Goodnight needed to say good-bye. He wished her no ill, but he had nothing to offer her, either. If she was looking for a rescuer, she’d found the wrong man.
“My manservant can take you to the village church,” he said. “Perhaps the vicar’s—”
Magnus’s ear perked under his touch. The dog’s skull vibrated with a low, nearly inaudible growl.
A moment later, Ransom heard the sound, too. Hoofbeats coming up the road. An unfamiliar rhythm. It couldn’t be Duncan. “Perhaps this Lord Archer has come for you after all.”
She released a breathy sigh. “Thank heaven.”
“Indeed.”
In a matter of moments, the intruder’s steps sounded in the courtyard. “Hullo, there? Miss Goodnight?”
She flew to the window and called down. “Up here, my lord. The great hall.”
Once the man entered the hall, his steps arrowed straight toward their place near the hearth. Confident, clipped. Much too fast.
Ransom gritted his teeth. Damn, he hated this. Being at this constant disadvantage, unable to control the situation.
The fireplace poker was close at hand. He lifted it. “Stop there.”
The footsteps halted, some ten feet away. He felt the fresh source of scrutiny burning over his scarred face.
“Is that . . . ? But it can’t be.” The newcomer took one step forward. “Rothbury? Good God. It’s like coming face-to-face with a ghost.”
“I don’t know you,” Ransom said.
“No, but I know you.” Archer lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was on the guest list, you see. Bride’s side.”
Ransom steeled his jaw and kept his expression impassive. He wouldn’t give this cur the pleasure of a reaction.
“No one’s seen you in months,” Archer went on. “The rumor about Town is that you’re dead.”
“Well, the rumor has it wrong.”
The truth was even worse.
Ransom gave the poker a meaningful tap against stone. This was his castle. He didn’t answer questions here; he asked them. “Explain yourself. What are you doing, luring unsuspecting women to my home?”
“To your home?” Archer chuckled in a low, disconcerting way. “Well, this should prove interesting.”
Izzy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.
Lord Archer did make a fine-looking player. She was comforted by his starched cravat and fitted gloves. Signs that civility still existed somewhere in the world.
“If you’ll permit me to speak with Miss Goodnight,” Archer said, unperturbed by the makeshift weapon leveled at his chest, “I think you’ll find all your questions answered.”
The Duke of Rothbury—for it would seem he was the duke, after all—lowered his poker. Grudgingly. “Speak.”
Lord Archer turned to Izzy. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So. I’ve been most anxious to meet the famous Izzy Goodnight. My nieces will be green with envy.” His enthusiasm faded as he looked her over. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected.”
Izzy held back a sigh. She never was.
“I always pictured you as a wide-eyed child,” he said.
“I was twelve when my father’s stories began appearing in the Gentleman’s Review. But that was almost fourteen years ago. And, in the natural way of things, I’ve aged one year every year since.”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “I suppose you would have.”
Izzy merely smiled in response. She’d long made a habit of rationing her remarks when speaking with her father’s admirers. The Lord Archers of the world didn’t want Izzy to be a grown woman with her own set of likes and dislikes, dreams and desires. They wanted her to be the wide-eyed young girl of the stories. That way, they could continue to read and reread their beloved tales, imagining themselves in her place.
For that was the magic spell of The Goodnight Tales. When they settled down with each weekly installment, readers felt themselves tucked beneath that warm purple quilt. They saw themselves staring up at a ceiling painted with silver moons and golden stars, their hair fanned across the pillow for a loving father’s hand to stroke. They looked forward to that same, familiar promise:
Put out the light, my darling Izzy, and I shall tell you such a tale . . .
The truth of her childhood didn’t match what was printed in the magazines. But if she ever let it slip—oh, how people resented her for it. They looked at her as if she’d just ripped the wings off the Last True Fairy in England.
Lord Archer sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward her in confidence. “Say, I know you must be asked this all the time. But my nieces would garrote me with their skipping ropes if I didn’t try. I don’t suppose your father . . .”
“No, my lord.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t know how Cressida escapes from the tower. And I’m afraid I’ve no idea of the Shadow Knight’s true identity.”
“And Ulric’s still dangling from that parapet?”
“As far as I know. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind it.” He gave her a good-natured smile. “It’s not your fault. You must be more tortured by the uncertainty than anyone.”
You have no idea.
Tortured by the uncertainty, indeed. She was asked these same questions at least three times a week, in person or in letters. When her father died suddenly of an apoplexy, his ongoing saga had been interrupted, too. His beloved characters had been left in all sorts of perilous situations. Locked in towers and dangling from cliffs.
Izzy found herself in the most desperate straits of all. Stripped of all her possessions, cast out of the only home she’d ever known. But no one thought to inquire after her well-being. They all worried over Cressida locked in her tower, and her beloved Ulric, hanging by three fingers from the parapet.
“My father would be most gratified that you asked,” Izzy told him. “I’m thankful, too.” It was the truth. Despite her current circumstances, she was proud of the Goodnight legacy.
Over by the hearth, the duke cleared his throat.
“My lord,” she said, “I think our host is eager to have us gone. Might I ask about this bequest my godfather left me?”
“Ah, yes.” Lord Archer rummaged in a small portmanteau. “I’ve brought all the papers with me. We can have it done today. Rothbury can hand over the keys if there are any.”
“Keys?” She sat tall. “I don’t understand.”
“Your inheritance, Miss Goodnight. It’s this. The castle.”
Her breath left her. “What?”
In a dark voice, the duke protested, too. “Impossible.”
Lord Archer squinted at the documents. “Here we are. ‘To Miss Isolde Ophelia Goodnight, I leave the property known as Gostley Castle.’ Is it pronounced like ‘Ghostly’ or ‘Ghastly’? Either one seems accurate.”
“I thought the bequest was money,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “A hundred pounds, perhaps two.”
“There is no money, Miss Goodnight. Just the castle. Lynforth had several goddaughters, and apparently he gifted them with too few ponies or hair ribbons over the years. In the last months of his life, he decided to leave each of them every girl’s dream. Her very own castle.”
“Now wait,” the duke interrupted. “This castle has been in my family for hundreds of years.”
Archer looked at the papers. “And apparently it was sold to Lynforth just a few months back.” He looked over his papers at Izzy. “I take it you’re surprised by this?”
