Rats? Izzy jumped back. She put her hands over her face and peered through her fingers at the bed enclosed by shredded hangings. Yes, the mattress had been disemboweled—its straw and horsehair contents strewn about and arranged into . . .
Oh, goodness, those could be nests.
If she stared hard enough, she could have sworn she saw the rotted straw moving.
She forced herself to say, “Snowdrop will be happy. And very well fed.” A distant moaning startled her. “What’s that noise?”
He shrugged. “Probably one of the ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“This is a borderlands castle, Miss Goodnight. If you know about castles, you should know what that means.”
“I do.”
Gostley Castle’s original purpose would have been to quell Scottish rebellion. Quelling rebellion meant capturing rebels—and not to keep them as houseguests. There was no telling how many people had been imprisoned in this castle, even tortured and killed, over the centuries. By the duke’s own ancestors, no less.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said.
He smirked. “Give it a night.”
Night. It would be nightfall soon. Izzy’s stomach twisted in a knot at the thought.
“I take it you’re pleased with your accommodations.” He leaned one shoulder against the archway. “ ‘Pleased’ isn’t the word.”
The word was something more like “horrified.” The thought of spending the night in this room reduced her insides to a quivering, whimpering puddle.
But she couldn’t let on. That was just the reaction he hoped for. He wanted her to run away.
This would have to be home for tonight. Rats and moths and all.
She forced an enthusiasm she didn’t quite feel. “I’m sure this will make an enchanting bedchamber, with a bit of work and imagination. The proportions are majestic. The bed only wants a new mattress and hangings.” She walked to the row of windows. “And there’s a lovely view of the sunset.”
“For those who can view it.”
Izzy winced, regretting her insensitive comment. “I could describe it for you.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve seen sunsets.”
“But you haven’t seen this sunset.”
The prospect from the window was breathtaking. The cloud-covered sky had fragmented into puffs of gray, alternating with swatches of vibrant blue and rosy orange. From this vantage, one could see the castle walls rambling through romantic evening mists that curled all the way from the sea.
“The sun is setting just beyond the tower. But ‘setting’ is the wrong word for this. Too peaceful. This sun is struggling. Going down like a bloodied fighter in the jaws of a great, stony beast.”
Heavy footsteps carried him to stand behind her. “Has it disappeared yet?”
“Almost. One final flash of gold, as it slips into the beyond, and . . .” She released her breath. “There. It’s gone.”
“There’s a rule about sunsets in this castle, Miss Goodnight.”
“There is?”
“Yes.” He turned her to face him. “And a man and a woman standing in this very place are compelled to heed it. No choice. There’s only one thing to be done.”
“What’s that?”
Her pulse stumbled. Surely he couldn’t mean to . . .
He lowered his head and made his voice a seductive whisper. “Duck.”
Duck?
She was still blinking at him in confusion when a strange sound tugged her attention aside. It sounded like . . . a great amount of wet laundry, flapping on the line in a stiff breeze.
She turned away from the window.
Oh, Lord.
Before her eyes, the vast bed canopy seemed to come alive. First, it began to shimmer, then to ripple—like a quicksilver cloak caught by the wind.
Then small pieces of it began to break away, one by one, each following the other.
“Oh, no.” She stiffened. “Those can’t be . . .”
They were.
Bats.
An entire colony of them had been roosting in the highest reaches of the canopy. Now they took wing one by one, then ten by ten . . . and then hundreds all at once.
She turned—just in time to see another black, swarming cloud pouring down the chimney. There must have been thousands.
And all of them were flooding straight for the windows.
“Duck,” he repeated. “Now.”
When she didn’t immediately react, the duke wrapped his arms about her and hauled her toward the floor.
In seconds, the bats were everywhere, swarming above them in a roiling black cloud. Izzy ducked her head and took the shelter he offered. His chin tucked hard on her head, and she could feel his whiskers rasping against her scalp.
And through it all, his heart pounded, strong and steady. She clutched his shirt in both hands, burying her face in that constant rhythm, until it was all she could hear. No flapping. No screeching. Just thump-thump-thump.
At last, he lifted his head.
Izzy did the same. “I thought you said this was the best room.”
“Nothing wrong with it,” he said. “They’re all out. Won’t be back until morning. It’s safe now.”
Oh, it was anything but safe. Now it was nightfall, and she was stuck in this haunted, infested castle. In the arms of this tormenting, intriguing, devious duke. She didn’t know what to do with him. She didn’t even know what to do with herself.
Flailing her hands and stammering were all that came to mind. Neither idea seemed useful in the least.
And then . . . she felt a little scratching sensation.
Just behind her ear.
And all she could do was shriek.
Ransom was just about to release her when she latched onto him with sudden force.
“Help me.” Her whisper trembled. Her body did, too.
“What is it?” he asked.
“B-b-bat.”
He almost smiled despite himself. “The b-b-bats are all gone, Miss Goodnight.”
“No, they’re not. They’re not. There’s one caught in my hair.”
“There’s nothing in your hair. That’s an old wives’ tale. Bats don’t get caught in people’s hair.”
“There. Is. One. In. My. Hair,” she pronounced in distinct syllables, each word rising a halftone in inflection. And then, in one frantic high-pitched squeal: “Getitout!”
To be sure, bats didn’t normally get caught in people’s hair. But he’d forgotten, hers wasn’t normal hair. This curly mane of hers could snare a rabbit. Perhaps a horse.