She still felt that tension simmering within her now.
He’s not attracted to you, she told herself. He just wanted to intimidate her, and besides—any flirtations he might engage in were predicated on a misunderstanding. He wouldn’t be interested if he had his eyesight.
Before climbing into the narrow bed, she lit a stumpy taper with her flint, then fixed it on the floor with a dab of wax.
It was going to be a cold, lonely night. Izzy steeled herself to withstand it.
She’d been given the deed to this castle. Now she had to stake her claim to it, earn her place as its mistress. And she would. Excepting her clothes and a set of seed-pearl earrings left to her by Aunt Lilith, Gostley Castle was the first thing worth more than a pound or two that Izzy had ever owned outright.
She wasn’t going to give that up.
Tonight, no bat, rat, ghost, or wounded duke would frighten her.
But she couldn’t escape the dark.
It was childish to be afraid of the dark. As a grown woman, Izzy understood this. She knew it with her mind, and she felt it with her soul—but her gut. Oh, her gut could never quite be convinced. Much less her heart, which woke her with the sort of pounding that could drive nails.
She sat bolt upright in her bed, disoriented and sweating, despite the cold. Her candle must have burned itself out. All was black. A thick, oppressive sea of black without so much as a sliver of moonlight to sail by.
Her eyes strained, peering in every direction, unable to settle on any spark or shadow but unable to give up the search. She fumbled about for her flint and came up empty. Where had she left the dratted thing?
How she hated this. Her fear, and how stupid it made her. Yesterday, she’d made a journey to Northumberland by herself, taken possession of a medieval fortress, and held her ground against a scarred, angry duke. She ought to feel like a strong woman, by any measure. But in the dark of the night, she was always—always—nine years old and terrified.
Distant memories came clawing back. She swallowed, and her throat felt raw. As if she’d spent hours screaming.
She began to tremble. Drat.
Izzy tucked her knees more tightly to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling into a tight ball.
What o’clock was it? She hoped that she’d managed to sleep the majority of the night before waking, but in her bones she felt it was probably only midnight or some short time past. An eternity before dawn. Every heartbeat drawn into a lifetime. She would huddle here for hours and hours, staring into the black and feeling pure agony.
Just this night, she told herself. You only have to last this one night. And it will never be this bad again.
Then she heard it.
No ghostly moaning or groaning. Just a light, rhythmic scraping. Back, then forth.
Back . . . then forth. Raising every hair on her arms.
Oh, Lord.
Izzy knew she had a choice. She could hide in her bedchamber and cower for the rest of the night, sleepless and miserable. Or she could go investigate. If she truly meant to stay in this castle, she needed to be its mistress.
She left her room on trembling legs, feeling her way down the spiraling stairs and into the main corridor. The scraping sound continued.
She moved toward it.
Probably just a branch or shutter moving in the wind, she told herself. Definitely not a ghost. Nor snakes. Nor the hanged body of a border rebel, left dangling from a rafter until it wasted and decayed to mere bones, swaying back and forth just enough that the toe bones scraped the floors. Leaving grooves in the stone, after centuries.
She stopped and shook herself. She could hear her father now.
God’s blood, Izzy. You have the most gruesome imagination.
Yes, she did. It was a blessing on occasion, but in the dark, it was always a curse.
She moved along the corridor, hastening toward that faint yet promising red glow from the great hall. There was light and heat there. The fire in the hearth had to be burning still—the duke had placed a small tree on it earlier, plus the remnants of the two splintered chairs.
All she needed was a bit of light. Once Izzy could see a little—just a little—she would feel so much better about everything. That was always the case.
She tiptoed into the great hall and peered hard toward the hearth. She glimpsed an unlit taper in a candlestick, perched atop the mantel.
Perfect.
She padded across the floor, reaching for the candlestick. The thing weighed thirty pounds if it weighed an ounce. Giving up on the brass holder, she wrested the candle loose and lit it in the fire.
Glowing candle in hand, she could breathe easier. She stood in place for a solid minute, doing just that. Breathing.
“Miss Goodnight.”
Izzy jumped in her skin. She nearly dropped the candle.
“Making your escape already?” he asked dryly. “Can’t even last one night?”
She turned, gathering the open neck of her nightrail with one hand. There the duke stood, not five paces away, still fully dressed. Apparently, he’d been awake. And walking. That must have been the sound she heard—his footsteps, brushing over stone.
“No, I . . . I’m not escaping at all.” She tried to sound breezy. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Too scared, I gather.” He slid a flask into his coat pocket.
“Too excited,” she lied. “I’ve inherited a whole castle, and I’ve barely seen any of it yet. I’m keen to explore.”
“In the dead of night? Return to your chamber. You can’t traipse about the place in the dark. It’s not safe for you.”
She moved to his side. “Do you mean to join me, then?”
“That’s not safe, either,” he muttered.
Nevertheless, he put a hand on the small of her back, following close as she left the great hall and began to climb the stairs. At the top of the staircase, she turned down the corridor, retreating toward her chamber. She thought.
“See?” he said. “You’ve already turned the wrong way.”
Izzy stayed quiet, determined not to admit fault. “I’m not lost. I’m exploring.”
He made a disbelieving noise.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not afraid of rats. The bats are gone for now. And I don’t believe ghosts are real.”
“Do you believe I’m real?” he asked.
If she were honest, Izzy had her doubts. He seemed so larger-than-life. Even she, with her wild imagination, had never dreamed up anyone quite like the Duke of Rothbury.
As they moved down the corridor, his hand never left her waist. Her skin burned beneath his touch.
She poked her candle into a series of cavernous, mostly empty rooms. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a thorough search of these and choose another to make my bedchamber.”