Castle of Dreams: A Midnight Tale

Chapter 2

“Are you ill?” he asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Are you with child?”

Her burst of laughter startled the dog. “Definitely not. I’m not the sort of woman who faints, I promise you. I just hadn’t eaten much today.” Or yesterday, or the day before that.

Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Perhaps she was catching a cold. That would help explain the fainting, too.

Throughout this conversation, her host remained at the hearth, facing away from her. His coat stretched tight at the shoulders but hung a bit loose about his midsection. Perhaps he’d recently lost some bulk. But there was plenty of him remaining, and all of it was lean and hard. His body was much like this great hall around them. Suffering from a bit of neglect, but impressively made and strong to the bones.

And that voice. Oh, it was dangerous.

She didn’t know which upset her more: That this shadowy, handsome stranger had made so free with her person—carrying her in his arms, unlacing her stays, taking down her hair, and stripping her to her thinnest undergarments? Or that she’d somehow slept through the whole thing?

She snuck another glance at him, silhouetted by orange firelight.

The latter. Definitely the latter. The most exciting quarter hour of her life, and she’d spent it completely insensible. Daisy, you fool.

But though she had no firm recollection of being carried in from the rain, her body seemed to have a memory of its own. Beneath her clothing, she smoldered with the sensation of strong hands on chilled flesh. As if his touch had been imprinted on her skin.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to carry me inside.”

“There’s tea. To your left.”

A chipped mug of steaming liquid sat on a table nearby—to her left, as he’d said. She took it in both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms before lifting it for a long, nourishing draught.

Fire raced down her throat.

She coughed. “What’s in this?”

“Milk. And a drop of whisky.”

Whisky? She sipped again, not in a position to be particular. When approached with the appropriate caution, the brew wasn’t so bad. As she swallowed, an earthy, smoky heat curled through her.

On the same table, she found a small loaf of bread and broke into it, famished.

“Who are you?” she asked between mouthfuls. Aunt Lilith would not be pleased with her manners.

“I’m Greysberg. You’re in my castle.”

Daisy swallowed hard. This man claimed to be the Duke of Greysberg? It seemed too much to believe. Shouldn’t dukes have servants to make their tea and dress them in proper attire?

God help her. Perhaps she was trapped with a madman.

Daisy drew the blanket close. Despite her doubts, she wasn’t going to risk provoking him.

“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Should I address you as ‘Your Grace?’ ”

“I don’t see the point of it. Within a few hours, I hope you’ll refer to me as ‘That ill-mannered wretch you importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.’ ”

“I don’t mean to be trouble.”

“Beautiful women are always trouble. Whether they mean to be or not.”

More teasing. Or more lunacy. Daisy wasn’t sure which. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was no kind of beauty. It didn’t matter how she pinched her cheeks or pinned back her aggressively curly hair. She was plain, and there seemed no getting around it.

This man, however, was anything but ordinary. She watched him as he tossed more wood on the blaze. He added a log as thick as her thigh, but he handled it with all the ease of tinder.

“I’m Miss Daisy Goodnight,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name.”

He poked the fire. “Why would I have heard the name?”

“My father was Sir Henry Goodnight. He was a scholar and historian, but he was most well-known as a writer.”

“Then that explains why I don’t know him. I am not a reader.”

Daisy looked to the arched windows. The afternoon was darkening. The lengthening shadows worried her, as did the fact that she’d yet to make out the entirety of her host’s face. She was growing anxious to see him, look into his eyes. She needed to know just what sort of man held her at his mercy.

“It seems Lord Archer might be some time yet,” she ventured. “Might we have a candle or two while we wait?”

After a grudging pause, he took a straw, lit it in the fire, and, carefully cupping the flame with one palm, moved it to a taper fixed atop the mantel.

The task seemed to cause him inordinate difficulty. The candlewick caught, but he held the straw in place until it burned down to his fingertips. He cursed under his breath and whipped it with his hand, shaking out the flame.

“I hate to be a bother. It’s just that I’m . . .” She didn’t know why she was admitting it, except that she felt sorry he’d burned himself to increase her comfort. “I’m not fond of the dark.”

He turned to her, bearing the candle. One side of his wide mouth tipped, like a scale weighted with irony. “I haven’t made my peace with it either.”

The new flame cast golden light on his face. Daisy startled. His sculpted, aristocratic features did much to bolster his claim of being a duke. But something else about his face told a different story.

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 Daisy’s beauty despite what should have been ample evidence to the contrary.

He was blind.

Chapter Two

William 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 William 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?”

William 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.”

William 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, William 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.”