Romancing the Duke

And stopped at his navel.

Damn.

He didn’t want to press her for it. But by this point, she’d put her mouth on him just about everywhere else, and his cock was getting ideas of its own. Straining for her touch, aching for her kiss. Even leaping, like a tethered beast.

“Izzy.”

At last, she took his erection in hand. She pressed her lips to the crown. Encouraged by his moan of helpless pleasure, she did it again. And again, this time sweeping gently with her tongue.

“Show me,” she whispered. “Show me what to do.”

He couldn’t resist that invitation. He fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her to take him in her hot, wet, lovely mouth and stroke him up and down. She didn’t need a great deal of instruction. Once she had the rhythm, he released his grip and let his head fall back against the pillow, reveling in the bliss.

She took him deep in her mouth one last time, and then released him, sliding her tongue along the sensitive underside. He groaned in a wordless plea for mercy.

“Are you ready to be ravished?” she asked, in a sultry, honeyed tone.

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth. “Very much so.”

She climbed his body, straddling his pelvis and rubbing her heat up and down his rigid length. Then she froze, poised above him. Holding the tip of his cock lodged just where it wanted so desperately to go.

Dear God. She would kill him.

“Izzy.” The unspent lust had his voice in a stranglehold. “Now. Do it now. I’m begging you.”

“You know the word I’m waiting to hear.”

Did he know?

Ah. Yes, he supposed he did. The little minx.

“Please.” He reached for her, tangling one hand in that long, wild, curling hair, and said it again. “Please.”

“That’s more like it.”

She sank down on him, slowly and smoothly, taking him all the way to the root.

Yes.

For as long as he could bear it, he allowed her to set the pace. She rode him in a slow, gentle, rolling rhythm that teased his patience to the brink.

And when he couldn’t be patient anymore, he grasped her hips in his hands and guided her to move faster. Harder. He planted his feet on the bed and pushed upward with his hips, meeting her halfway with his thrusts.

She fell forward, and the soft, bouncing heat of her breasts met his chest. He held her, wrapping her in his arms so tight, treasuring her every tiny gasp and sigh of pleasure. He held himself back as long as he could, driving into her again and again—pushing her higher and higher, until she shuddered and came apart in his arms.

And when she came, he came, too. It was oneness, and it was glorious, and it was perfect, and it was her. All her.

God, he loved her.

Gathering her close, he rolled onto his side and tucked her head to his chest. She nuzzled sweetly, curling in his embrace.

He rested his chin on her head. “I’m going to ask you a question, Izzy. I’ve never asked this of a woman before. And it’s taking me a great deal of courage to even broach the subject, so please—I beg you, consider your answer carefully.”

“What is it?”

“Izzy, my heart . . .” He tenderly stroked her hair where it fanned across the pillow. “In the morning, will you make me a pancake?”

Chapter Twenty-four

As soon as the dawn came streaming through the windows, Izzy shook her sleeping lover awake. It pained her to do it. He was so beautiful there, his bronzed limbs tangled amid crisp white sheets and downy pillows.

He looked at peace.

But today was going to be an interesting day, to say the least. He couldn’t sleep through any more of it.

“Ransom.” She nudged his shoulder.

He startled. “What? What is it?”

“Wake and dress. The solicitors are coming today. I don’t know where Duncan is, but he’s sure to turn up soon.”

“Izzy, for God’s sake. Curse the solicitors. Duncan resigned. And I thought we’d moved past this. I’m not going to hide what we have any longer.”

“I’m not hiding it.” She plopped down beside him on the bed and ruffled his hair. “I’m just hurrying you along. If you want your pancake, it has to be now.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

A few minutes later, wearing rumpled clothes and a rare smile, Ransom followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen just off the great hall.

She stoked the fire and began pulling bowls and spoons from the cupboard. “So, how did you guess the truth?”

“How did I know, do you mean? I’ve had my suspicions for some time now. You describe sunsets as dying warriors, you read in voices, and you write me silly lines of dialogue. Once I finally heard the stories, it was obvious. I knew because I know you. Izzy, you shouldn’t deny or pretend any longer.”

Very well. She wouldn’t pretend any longer. Not with him.

The rest of the world could never know the truth, but she couldn’t deny how much it meant to know this one man had discerned it. He’d looked beyond the expectations and the public perceptions, and he’d seen her. The real Izzy.

“You truly liked them?” she asked. It was the silliest question, and he chided her for it accordingly.

He tugged on her hair. “ ‘Liked’ isn’t the word.”

But what is the word? she wondered.

Admired? Adored? Cherished?

Loved?

She didn’t need him to say that word, she told herself. But secretly, she couldn’t help wishing he would.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “For that matter, why don’t you tell the world? If I’d written England’s most popular book, I’d never stop crowing about it.”

Was he mad? “Of course I could never tell anyone. Not without ruining everyone’s enjoyment and making my father out to be a fraud.”

“Your father was a fraud. He was a cowardly, shameless fraud, taking all the glory for your hard work.”

She shook her head, reaching into the cupboard for eggs. “At the outset, he was the one protecting me. I was so young. The publishers wouldn’t have even looked at the Tales if they thought I’d written them. I didn’t want the attention, the admirers. The public adoration made my father happy. It was the writing that gave me joy.”

“Until he died, and you lost everything. Don’t you miss it now?”

“Of course I miss it. Terribly.” Even now, more than a year later, she carried a sense of aching loss that never quite went away. “But how could I continue? If I tried to pass the work off as my father’s, it would legally belong to Martin. If I sent it under my own name, the publisher would only send it back. Unread, most likely. ”

“How will you know if you don’t try?”

“You don’t understand this, Ransom. You can’t see.”

His head jerked in affront. “I don’t know what my blindness has to do with it.”

“Everything.” She sighed.

His blindness had everything to do with it.

No man had ever—ever—treated her the way he did. She was small and plain and insignificant. But on the page, her words could be so much more. They could be influential, admired. Even powerful.

But only if they weren’t hers.

She’d come to accept that this was how it would always be. She was at her best when she was invisible. That’s why she’d written herself with emerald green eyes and sleek amber hair. The real Izzy wasn’t good enough.

Until now. The real Izzy was good enough for Ransom. He would never know how much that meant. But she would endeavor to show him.

She squeezed his arm. “Let me make your pancake.”

He looked on as she gathered eggs and began cracking them in a bowl.

“Who taught you to make pancakes?” he asked. “Your family’s cook?”

She laughed a little. “We had no cook. My father’s only income came from a handful of pupils he tutored. Until the stories became successful, we never had the money for servants.” She poured milk in the bowl, sifted in a measure of flour, and began to beat the mixture with a spoon. “No cook, no maid, no governess. It was always just me and Papa. I taught myself to make a fair number of things, but pancakes were a favorite.”

“So. You spent your childhood acting as your own cook, maid, and governess. Then you became the family provider at the age of thirteen.” His hands framed her waist. “I’m tempted to take that spoon from your hands and send it sailing out the nearest window. You should never make another pancake again.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “This is different. It’s my pleasure to make one for you.”

He slid his arms about her waist and hugged her as she added a sprinkle of salt and sugar to the bowl.

And she decided—right here in this kitchen—there was something else she’d like to share with him, too.

“Would you like to know how it continues? The true identity of the Shadow Knight?”

“Are you joking?” His arm cinched tight about her waist. “I would trade almost anything to know that. Anything but pancakes. Pancakes are not for up negotiation.”

“So Ulric was dangling from that parapet.” She found the butter in its crock. “And just beginning to pull himself up, when the Shadow Knight unsheathed his sword and severed one of his hands in a single blow.”

Ransom winced. “Good Lord. You do have a bloodthirsty imagination.”

“Now he’s dangling by only one hand. With the rain falling, the wind whipping about the parapets. He has not only the weight of his body but the weight of his armor. It’s too much. He’s starting to lose his grip. It’s over, and both Ulric and the Shadow Knight know it.”

She set the bowl of pancake batter aside, offering him her sugary fingers to lick.

She went on with her tale. “ ‘Tell me,’ Ulric says, as he slips from three fingers to two. ‘Before you send me to my death, tell me who you are.’ At last, the Shadow Knight lifts the visor of his helmet, revealing an all-too-familiar face, and says”—she lowered her voice, giving it an ominous cast—“ ‘Ulric. I am your brother.’ ”

He let her fingertip slide from his mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s truly not that much of a twist. The motif runs through most chivalric literature. Knights-errant are always having to face down a nemesis who is revealed to be their father, brother, or a long-lost son.”

She put a pat of butter in the heated pan and followed it with a generous spoonful of batter.

“But I thought Ulric’s brother died in the Crusades,” Ransom said.

“Ulric thought so, too. He thought Godric died on the battlefield, but he survived. It took him years to make his way back to England, and with every step, he dreamed of vengeance on the brother who had left him for dead.”

He shook his head. “Next you’ll tell me Cressida’s truly their sister.”

“Cressida, their sister? Lord, no. What on earth would make you think of such a thing?”

“It would be a good surprise,” he said. “You have to admit.”

She made a sound of disgust as she flipped the pancake. “They can’t be siblings. They’ve kissed.”

“Not very deeply.”

“It’s still a kiss. They are not brother and sister.” She laughed. “What a suggestion.”

She slid the finished pancake on a waiting plate. Just then, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and Izzy looked up just in time to see a familiar figure, capped with a shimmering knot of blond hair.

“Izzy, there you are.”

Abigail.

Izzy bit her lip, uncertain what the vicar’s daughter would think of her now. Ransom’s declarations yesterday had left little room for ambiguity, and here they were in rumpled half dress, making early-morning pancakes in the kitchen. The fact that they were lovers must be obvious. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">