All Scot and Bothered

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Cecelia watched his large hands make deft and quick work of shaping the stick and stripping it of all bark.

  His jaw, generally set into a stubborn square, relaxed with the absorption of his attention to his work enough to soften his lips. It was easy to forget that his hard mouth could be full, as he so often kept it tightly drawn into a frown.

  The only other time she’d witnessed that mouth relaxed like this was the night he’d kissed her. That night seemed so long ago, and yet she remembered it with the fresh detail of yesterday.

  Because she thought of that kiss every time she lay down to sleep.

  Did he?

  Next to him, a pile of firewood that appeared to be a decade old hunkered in the corner waiting to be immolated.

  She could suddenly relate. She tugged at the high collar of her slate-gray traveling kit as heat licked over her skin.

  “Where’s Phoebe?” she asked by way of greeting.

  Avid eyes found hers, and she offered him what she hoped was a nonchalant smile.

  Ramsay jutted his chin toward the ladder leading to the closed loft hatch above the front door. “She collapsed into bed hours ago.”

  “Oh.” Cecelia followed her many appetites farther into the room. She locked her hands behind her as she glanced about her surroundings, letting her gaze alight on anything but the man currently wreaking havoc on her senses.

  “Did ye find anything in the book?” he asked.

  “No.” She’d found her own mouth locked in a disgruntled frown. “At this rate it could take me days. A week. Perhaps more. But I do find myself getting closer … I think.” Her list of what the code wasn’t certainly grew by the moment, and she decided to optimistically consider that progress by process of elimination.

  He stood, abandoning the stick but not the knife, and retrieved a rough-hewn bowl from the shelf. “Ye take what time ye need,” he said without looking at her as he ladled the fragrant stew simmering on the fireplace into the bowl. “I’ll take care of ye until then.”

  I’ll take care of ye. Cecelia tried to think of the last time anyone had said that to her.

  “You’re very kind. Very generous.”

  “We both ken that’s not true.” Ramsay carried the bowl to the table and pointed to the rickety chair with his knife. “Sit. Eat.”

  She sat and picked up the spoon, dipping it into the peasant stew with a delicate motion as Ramsay retreated to the other side of the couch to reclaim his perch on the hearth.

  “There’d be more, but yer girl foraged her own portion, most of Jean-Yves’s, and half of mine.” He shook his head in disbelief. “She’s such a wee thing, I doona ken where she put all that food.”

  Cecelia smiled with a growing fondness. “We share a hearty appetite, I suppose.”

  He gave a gruff chuckle and retrieved a long feather from a basket of many at his side. “I used to eat like that at her age, and I stayed scrawny until…” He let the sentence die away, then seemed about to say something before he changed his mind. “Until I was older.” He took the knife to the feather, shaping it in delicate strokes.

  Awareness of a strange and civil awkwardness that had bloomed between them ate at Cecelia. He’d avoided all but the barest of contact with her on the train, instead providing Phoebe most excellent and patient company while Cecelia looked after Jean-Yves.

  She’d fretted at first that Phoebe’s newfound hero worship of the giant Scot would be irritating to him. But he’d suffered her endless barrage of questions with not only patience, but a good humor Cecelia hadn’t known Ramsay possessed.

  She almost wished that he’d been an ogre. She really didn’t need any more reasons to want—er—like him right now. Not while everything was so chaotic. So awful.

  Because around him she found herself less self-reliant than she ever had been.

  There was a magnetism about a man so large and strong, she decided. That had to be the whole of her problem. He simply radiated some sort of gravitational or magnetic pull, unwittingly drawing her into his orbit. The urge to cast her burdens onto his wide shoulders had become overwhelming. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up relying upon him. She’d give in to the impulse to play the damsel to his knight in shining armor.

  I’ll take care of ye.

  Generally, it was her job to do the caring, a vocation she devoted herself to wholeheartedly. Of course, the Red Rogues and Jean-Yves were dedicated to her in the absolute. She’d never wanted for love.

  But there was a difference between being cared about and being taken care of. She’d never even considered that difference before now.

  Lost in such thoughts, she blew puffs of air over the fragrant stew waiting for the steam to cool.

  “You cooked this yourself?” she marveled.

  Ramsay lifted one shoulder without looking up at her.

  “Where did you learn to cook?” she queried.

  “Here.” He split the feather down the middle with a masterful stroke and then picked up the stick.

  Having exhausted the scope of her conversation, she took a tentative bite.

  Dark, rich duck meat so tender she barely had to chew melted into a savory broth with the perfect mélange of vegetables and barley.

  Cecelia closed her eyes to lend her groan of appreciation adequate dramatics.

  When she opened them, Ramsay had frozen mid-motion, his knuckles white on the handle of the knife as he stared at her, unblinking.

  “Whoever taught you your culinary skills should be heartily commended.” She loaded the spoon with her next bite with relish. “My compliments to the chef.”

  He grunted some sort of sound that might have been either appreciative or dismissive before returning to his work.

  Cecelia studied him as she ate with as much vigor as her manners would allow. He’d never seemed quite so preoccupied before. Had never stayed silent for so long, at least not in her presence.

  Granted, this was the first time they’d ever been alone together when he wasn’t either cursing her … or kissing her.

  For some reason, she ardently wished he’d do one or the other now. Anything but this dour, distant silence.

  She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from him as he worked. The cords and muscles of his forearms flexed and shifted with his intricate motions. The movements swift and sure, as though he’d done this thousands upon thousands of times.

  Arrows, Cecelia realized around a particularly delicious mouthful. He was crafting arrows. What an odd hobby. Odd and … handsome in a rather masculine sort of way.

  Cecelia had often caught herself wondering what it was Ramsay did with his free time, being a man without vices and all.

  Now she knew.

  Captivated, she hungered to learn more. To learn everything. Was this where he’d built a body such as his, tromping about the Scottish countryside? Had he brought her here simply to ignore her? Were they still at odds in his estimation?

  She chewed on her thoughts through the entire bowl of stew. Once her hunger had been sated, she could stand his silence—his indifference—no longer.

  “You have a lovely home here,” she ventured.

  He snorted out something that would have resembled a laugh if it hadn’t contained such derision. “Ye doona have to be kind,” he told the arrow.

  His answer troubled her. “I’m not being kind. I’m partial to simple quietude and much prefer cozy houses to grand ones. I find I’m eager to explore the countryside.”

  That brought him to look up sharply. “Doona go into the woods or venture onto on the moors without me. It’s mainly bogs interrupted by patches of swamp and I’d not have ye get lost. Or worse.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. She didn’t say that the terrain hadn’t seemed particularly swampy. Nor did she mention that she’d noticed more agriculture and grazing land than bogs.

  She supposed it was best she remain indoors. It made his keeping her safe and hidden a great deal easier. However, if she were locked in here with his curre
nt attitude, she might well go mad.

  Perhaps they could at least take Phoebe out of doors and allow her to wade by the little dam she’d seen in the river.

  Had Ramsay swum in the pond as a boy? she wondered. What had his childhood been like? Certainly not carefree and happy, or he’d be some other sort of man.

  He gained his feet abruptly, startling her out of her reverie. “Are ye finished?” he asked, gesturing to her empty bowl.

  “Oh. Yes.” She made to rise, but he retrieved the bowl from in front of her and took it to the bucket beneath the water pump.

  “It was wonderful, thank you. Let me help you clean,” she offered. “It’s the very least I can do.”

  “Nay.” He abandoned the dirty dishes and went to the neat stack of trunks and supply boxes by the doorway. “Not until after dessert.”

  She perked up instantly. “Dessert, you say?”

  Cecelia did her best not to admire the very taut view of his backside as Ramsay bent to riffle through one of the smaller crates. He extracted a little flat box wrapped with a ribbon, and an unmistakably sized bottle.

  Cecelia clamped her teeth over her bottom lip nearly humming with anticipation.

  He didn’t.

  The box landed before her with an unceremonious thunk. “I believe ye once said ye couldna go without truffles and wine.”

  A smile broke over her that seemed to spread through her entire body. Were she a spaniel, she’d have wagged her tail until it fell off.

  Ramsay’s expression stalled for a moment, going carefully blank.

  Cecelia did her best not to do something inappropriate to express the depth of her gratitude because the impulse to leap up and kiss him was almost overwhelming. “And here I thought you condemned my affinity for such indulgences.”

  He gave her a droll look she ignored as she tore into the box.

  “I shouldna want yer exile here to be entirely contemptible,” he said by way of flippant explanation.

  “Chocolate and wine could make a heaven of hell,” Cecelia claimed before she sank her teeth into the dark, delectable dessert and moaned her approval, massaging the truffle against her palate with her tongue. “You must try one, or perhaps five. They’re delicious.”

  The cork came free of the bottle with a louder pop than usual, causing her to jump a little.

  Abashed, she held her fingers up to her lips as she laughed at her own startle, in case her teeth were stained with chocolate.

  Instead of returning her smile, he frowned, his grip tight on the neck as he stared at her. “I just realized I doona have wineglasses, not even ale tankards.” He gestured to the meager shelves, empty now that they’d used the few bowls and the one plate for supper, apparently. “Ye’ll have to drink from the bottle.”

  “How scandalous of me. How will you ever abide?” She swiped the proffered wine from him and inhaled deeply at the vintage. Sweet berries and cassis. Perhaps a bit young, and not aerated, but what did she care?

  “Tonight we will drink like the common folk we were born to be,” she said, adopting an admittedly horrific lowbrow accent. She saluted Ramsay, and then sealed her lips over the bottle and tipped it back.

  Smooth liquid poured into her mouth, sharp at first, before thickening to sweet, mingling with the chocolate until a dry velvet finish left her wanting more. She corked the rim with her tongue to enjoy the flavor of the first swallow before allowing a second flood of the lovely vintage.

  Her appetite whetted, she unsealed her mouth. The bottle made a hollow audible sound, and she pressed her knuckles to the corner of her lip where a small rivulet of wine escaped with a vampiric drip down her chin.

  Unsure of what to do next, she extended the bottle to Ramsay.

  He made no move to take it. In fact, he stood before her, his gaze affixed to where the drop of wine had disappeared behind her knuckle. His features frozen into an expression she might have recognized as hunger.

  “Would you like a taste?” she asked.

  “Ye tempt me, woman.” His growl held a note of accusation.

  Did she? Could she? A thrill lanced through her at the thought. Why ever did temptation have to be negative? Eve tempted Adam first, and women forever paid for it. But, according to the canonical texts, if she hadn’t have tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit, then mankind wouldn’t exist. And so, might Mother Eve have done Adam, and therefore mankind, a favor?

  “I had to eat alone,” she prodded. “Must I drink alone as well?”

  Two distinct wrinkles of consternation appeared on his forehead. “I’ve already told ye—”

  “I know, I know. Ye doona indulge.” She imitated him terribly, but was pleased to see his forehead smooth a little as his consternation relaxed into amusement. “But I ask you, who is here to judge you? Who must you be perfect for now?” She turned in her seat, making a show of checking the empty room for interlopers before lifting a challenging brow.

  “Certainly I, the Scarlet Lady, queen of iniquity, and so forth, am so far beneath your lofty lordship that a few swills of wine won’t sink you to my lowly, contemptible state.” She grinned and rocked the bottle from side to side before his nose. “Come now. It’s been a long day.”

  She’d meant to disarm him. However, her tease seemed to do more than that. He looked not disarmed, but defeated.

  He took the bottle and sank to the chair across from her, releasing a weighty breath. “Ye might not believe this, but I wasna always such a bore.” He sealed his mouth to the same lip of the bottle and drank long and deep.

  Unable to form a reply, Cecelia found herself captivated by the crest and sinew of his neck as he swallowed. How did one build such prodigious strength to even apply to the muscles in one’s throat?

  His lips lingered on the rim longer than they ought, as though he wasn’t finished savoring the taste he found there.

  Finally, he returned the bottle to her.

  She was more judicious with her subsequent sips of wine. They seemed spiced with a richer, more complex flavor.

  Was she tasting the wine? Or the man who’d only just sampled it?

  She set the bottle on the table in between them, thinking things she should not. Wanting what could not be. Wondering what might have been had she met Lord Ramsay before she’d known to which family she belonged.

  “Lass, I’ve treated ye unfairly,” he rumbled.

  Cecelia tried to swallow. Failed. And tried again. She stared at the amber bottle between them, bringing the width and breath of him out of focus.

  His statement seemed more than fortuitous considering the direction of her thoughts. Momentous, perhaps. She was ill prepared to meet his eyes. For him to see the earnest pleasure his words brought her.

  “Is this another of your non-apologies?” She’d meant to sound lighthearted but feared she failed, utterly.

  “Nay,” he replied with unmistakable gravitas. “It’s an apology in earnest. I am sorry, Cecelia.”

  The fine hairs on her body vibrated at the sound of her name, and her next breath felt tight and short.

  He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with a solemn intensity. “I had reason to hate yer aunt, before all of this,” he confessed. “Personal reasons, just as strong as any moral objections, and I let them blind me.”

  This surprised her enough to take three more drinks before returning the bottle to the table. “I might have reason to hate her, too, if she had aught to do with whatever happened to poor Katerina Milovic and those missing girls.” Cecelia bit her lip to keep it from shaking with emotion. “Tell me, what did Henrietta do to you?”

  Did she truly want to know?

  Ramsay leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, and Cecelia carefully listened to him, doing her best not to be distracted by a man in such a state of undress.

  It was only his forearms, after all. What the devil was the matter with her? Why could she not stop staring? Why did the fine hairs and toned sinew make her fingers twitch with the urge to touch him?


  “Years ago, I think Henrietta realized my political ambitions. She coveted my secrets, my soul, for her collection. And when they were not readily found, she sent a professional, one of her employees, to seduce them out of me.” His jaw worked to the side in a fit of gall.

  “Did it work?” Cecelia asked anxiously.

  He shifted and tilted his head swiftly enough to crack his neck. “I … availed myself of the woman she sent me.”

  “You what?” The question escaped her before she could call it back. She hated the feeling in her stomach that accompanied it. A pang—no, pain. Actual physical discomfort at the thought of him with a lover. Was she angry at his hypocrisy?

  Or jealous?

  “I didna know Matilda was employed by her, not at first,” he explained, misinterpreting her discomfiture. “I courted her for months. I proposed to her.”

  If he thought that fact made the situation better, he was sorely mistaken.

  “Did she accept?” Cecelia hoped she didn’t reveal her dismay on her expression.

  “Aye.” He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But the whole affair was short-lived. I came home once to find her rifling through my possessions and personal papers. I confronted her and she confessed her true aim. Begged for my forgiveness.”

  “Did she love you?” Cecelia queried.

  He snorted and took a swig. “She claimed to.”

  “Did … you love her?” She wished she didn’t want to hear the answer so desperately. That she didn’t fear it so much.

  “I desired her.” His eyes flicked to hers. “But I can honestly claim I’ve never loved anyone.”

  He’d proposed marriage, she wanted to argue. She remembered what he’d said in the Redmayne gardens in regard to love. So why this woman, Matilda? What made him desire her enough to do something like that? What sort of beauty had she possessed? What made Cassius Gerard Ramsay fill with enough desire to take a woman to wife?

  And … why had Henrietta exploited him thus?

  Cecelia blew out a disgusted breath, disturbing her ringlets before burying her face in her hands and wiping at the tired eyes beneath her spectacles. “I’m starting to wonder if I’ve any relations of whom I can be proud.” Were they all gamblers, blackmailers, and zealots? Or worse?