Hazy, dreamlike images lingered in his mind. Images of dark hair spilling through his hands and a lush mouth moving under his. A soft hand splayed against his chest.
He turned on his side and groaned. God, that kiss. That stupid, ill-conceived, arousing, soul-rearranging kiss.
She could not spend her nights in this castle. He had to find her other lodgings. Today.
Sitting up, he pushed both hands through his hair. A bath was in order. Preferably a cold one.
“Duncan,” he called.
No answer. No valet-sounding noises, either.
He made his way out to the cistern just off the courtyard and drew a bucket of water. Then he stripped to the waist, lifted the bucket high, and poured its freezing contents straight over his head and torso.
Lust be drowned.
The cold shock of his dousing was just starting to wear off when Magnus joined him by the cistern. Ransom drew some water for the dog and gave him a scratch behind the ears.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Damn. One day, and he’d know that voice anywhere. Husky. Soft. Much too close. How did this woman keep sneaking up on him?
“Goodnight,” he muttered.
Her footsteps crossed the courtyard, destroying his calm beat by beat.
Ransom braced himself for his first sight of her.
No one knew it but Duncan and a few useless surgeons, but his injury hadn’t left him completely blind.
Oh, he was mostly blind, most of the time—blocky shapes and shadows were the best he could make out. And sometimes, he was fully blind. Everything was a dark, murky gray.
But then there were a precious few hours of the day when he was only partly blind.
In those hours, he had the vision of a nonagenarian with no spectacles. He could make out vague contours and a few muted colors. A tree might appear as a fuzzy, irregular patch against the sky, its foliage a gray-green shade, like mold on cheese. If he stared at the page of a book, he could force a dark square of text to separate into lines. But he couldn’t make out any words or letters. He could get a vague idea of a face—the most prominent features standing out, like the simple face of a child’s rag doll. Two button eyes, a slash of mouth. No subtleties of expression.
That was how much he could see at his best. And for once, that seemed like a blessing. He might have been addled by the feel, scent, and taste of Miss Goodnight last night . . . but at least he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the sight of her. At best, she’d appear to him as an anemic, pale column with dark hair. Bland and uninspiring.
He was counting on it.
But as she entered his view, she had the wretched luck to pause just in front of the castle’s eastern archway, which was flooded by morning sun.
His first glimpse of Izzy Goodnight was to see her bathed in gold. The sunlight showed him, in blazing relief, a slender, gracefully curved silhouette and a corona of wild, loose hair that seemed to be afire.
Holy God.
If he’d been standing, he might have dropped to his knees. He was sure he heard a choir singing. This was the kind of beauty that one could rightly call “striking.”
As in, he felt struck by a brick.
Move, he silently begged her. Take two steps to the right. Or the left. No, no. Just leave entirely.
“I didn’t think you were awake,” he said.
“Oh, I’m awake.” He saw a smile—a wide, reddish curve—bloom across her face.
He ran his gaze down her body, taking in the hazy but quite evident curves of her bosom and hips. He’d held all that against him last night. And now he couldn’t fathom why on earth he’d let it go.
“Believe me,” she said, “I’ve been awake since the batwing crack of dawn. I’ve been exploring my castle.”
Right. That was why.
With a whistle to Magnus, he headed back inside.
She followed him, of course. All the way into the great hall.
“Do you know,” she said, yawning a sultry yawn, “this place really is lovely in the morning. The way the sunlight comes through the windows, taking all that dust in the air and whirling it into gold. We had a rocky start yesterday, but today . . . Gostley Castle is starting to feel like home.”
No, no, no. This was not home. Not for her, and most definitely not for them.
“Did you . . . want to put on a shirt, Your Grace?” she suggested.
In reply, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. He wasn’t doing anything to make her more comfortable.
“I’ll make tea,” she said, moving toward the hearth. “Oh, look. Fresh bread.” When next she spoke, she did so with her mouth full of it. “Did Duncan fetch this, or does someone bring it up? I know there was milk yesterday.” She poked around, making busy clanging noises. “I don’t suppose there are eggs? If I do say it myself, I make a very good pancake.”
Oh, no. This just grew worse and worse.
I make a very good pancake.
Appalling.
What was even more appalling was that Ransom found himself suddenly hungry for a very good pancake. Starving. Ravenous. Damn it, he was faint with yearning for a very good pancake.
Any self-respecting rake had two kinds of women in his life: those he took to bed at night and those who made him a pancake in the morning. If he suddenly wanted both from the same woman, it was a warning flag. One big and red enough for even a blind man to see.
Get out now. The threat is coming from inside the castle.
“Keep your breakfast simple,” he said. “And quick. Duncan will take you to the village this morning. We’ll see about finding you lodging in the inn, or—”
“Oh, I’d love to go into the village,” she said. “But only for provisions. What sort of fish do you have hereabouts? I’d wager there are some lovely trout in the river.”
Ransom gritted his teeth. There were, indeed, lovely trout in the river. Miss Goodnight was never going to taste them.
He rose to his feet. “You need to understand. You cannot stay here. Not after what happened between us last night.”
“Last night,” she repeated. “Yes. Do you mean the part where you tried to frighten me off from a property that’s legally mine?”
“No. I mean the part where we kissed like illicit lovers.”
“Oh.” She drew out the word. “That. But we both know that was nothing.”
Nothing? Offended, he pushed a hand through his hair. “That was not nothing.”
“It was one kiss. One kiss doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course one kiss changes things. If it’s done right, a kiss changes everything. A kiss is the first step on a long, winding, quite perilous path of sensuality. This morning, Miss Goodnight, is where you turn back.”