He smelled so good. So simply, and so masculinely, good. It made no sense to her, how the most humble, unlikely scents could add up to an exotic cologne. If one gathered a flask of whisky, a strop of old leather, and a cake of plain soap, then tied it all together with a few wisps of dog hair—no one would expect the resulting “bouquet” to smell more enticing than an armful of roses. But somehow it did.

And then there was his heat. He seemed made of it. The man was a coal-fired furnace. He radiated warmth through his grasping hands, his hard chest, his lips.

Oh, his lips. The whiskers dotting his chin and jaw were abrasive, but his lips were . . . not soft, exactly. Soft meant pillows or petals, but his lips were the perfect blend of resilience and gentleness. Give and take.

When at last he reached her mouth again, his taste was easy to name. Whisky and tea. And when he thrust his tongue deep, whisky and need.

So much need.

That was the most stirring, intoxicating part. Everything about his embrace told her that he needed, and what was truly astonishing—that he sought something he needed in her. He twisted his hand in the back of her nightrail and kissed her more deeply, relentless, as if chasing that something. Searching for it.

And part of her wanted nothing more than to surrender. To offer whatever he needed of her, and gladly.

Be careful, Izzy.

“Enough.” With that gruff pronouncement, he released her. So quickly, she almost stumbled.

The sounds of labored breathing filled the turret.

At length, he cursed. “That was a disaster.”

Izzy put her hand to her temple. She was alone in the dark again, and her head was spinning. This was the moment for a witty, sophisticated retort.

What came out of her mouth instead was, “You kissed me first.”

“You kissed me back.”

“And then you kissed me more.” She sighed. So much for sophisticated banter. “I won’t make too much of it if that’s your concern. I know you only kissed me to intimidate me. But you should know this. It didn’t work.”

“I think it did work.” He pulled her close again. “I felt your heart pounding.”

Well, if a pounding heart was a sign of fear . . .

She flattened one hand against his chest, covering the thumping beat there. The man must be terrified.

Izzy felt a strange pang of sympathy for him. Growing up as Sir Henry Goodnight’s daughter had taught her all about male pride. Her father had labored for years in obscurity as a poorly paid, frustrated scholar. Once the stories found success, the adulation of readers was the food that sustained him. He couldn’t last a week or more without another meal of fawning praise.

And if pride was that important to a middle-aged scholar, Izzy could only imagine how vital it must be to man like the Duke of Rothbury. How difficult adjusting to blindness must be for a man like him, young and strong and in his prime of life. For the first time, he was forced to rely on others. He must hate that feeling.

So he’d learned Gostley Castle, pace by pace, month after month, building a painstaking map of every room in his head. By now this castle was a fortress to his pride. The one place he still felt in control.

And today . . . thanks to some legal quirk, he’d lost it. To a plain, penniless spinster.

It wasn’t any great wonder he despised her.

But just because Izzy understood and sympathized, that didn’t mean she would give up. She couldn’t surrender her own interests just to soothe his pride. She’d made that mistake before, and it was why she found herself here, penniless and stranded in a crumbling castle with nowhere else to go.

She had to look out for herself. No one else would.

“You needn’t be anxious, Your Grace. We will do whatever it takes to sift through the papers and legalities. In the meantime, I promise, I won’t be much trouble.” She gave his chest a gingerly pat.

His hand closed on her forearm and pushed it away. “What you’ll be in the morning, Miss Goodnight, is gone. I will see you back to your bedchamber now. And when morning comes, I will find you somewhere else to stay.”

Izzy relented, saving her strength for tomorrow. In the morning, he would try to make her leave. He might scare her, shout at her, ply her with threats or kisses.

She would be strong as these castle walls.

She would not give one inch.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, Ransom awoke with a surplus of inches—all of them straining against his breeches falls.

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.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I promise, Your Grace. I won’t fling myself at you again. I wanted a kiss, and you gave me one. You are safe from my curiosity.”

God. So that’s what this was. The girl was letting him down gently. In his eagerness to get a first glance at her, he’d forgotten that she’d be doing the same—taking her first well-lit look at him, and all his scars. Or her second proper look, if he included the time she’d swooned.

You’re not a handsome, swaggering buck anymore, you fool.

She went on, “When we’re not at work with your correspondence, the castle will keep me fully occupied. There’s a great deal to be done here. Rooms to survey. Vermin to purge. A proper bedchamber to furnish.” She dropped into a chair nearby. “Bread?”