All Scot and Bothered

by Kerrigan Byrne

  When she’d found the girl unharmed, her relief and tender joy had humbled him.

  Cecelia. The girl had called her Cecelia that night. Not Mother, or Mama.

  He generally had such an eye for detail. He certainly should have suspected then. But murder had been flowing through him at the time. He’d grappled wrath and fury back into the darkness in order to safely conduct the ladies home.

  Another reason the woman was extraordinary. She mothered a child that wasn’t even her own. According to her, she’d been fancy-free before the death of Henrietta Thistledown. She’d traveled and gallivanted as one third of a trio of redheaded Rogues, had enjoyed an education and a small but comfortable fortune. But when a bevy of students and dependents and a motherless child had landed in her lap, she’d taken the responsibility for their employ and well-being upon her shoulders without a second thought. She became their champion against the likes of him.

  And worse.

  Ramsay shut his eyes and listened to the deer saunter beneath him as he contemplated the tight fist curling around his heart.

  Cecelia Teague made him question everything.

  Everything.

  His stance on women, family, morality, integrity, the past …

  The future. Their future?

  For so long he’d wanted nothing like a family. He’d striven only to attain the height of power that the common people were seizing every day from the old monarchy and hierarchical structures. Certainly, the aristocracy was giving way to men like him: men of industry, intellect, education, economy, and the means to shape an empire though the force of the rising democratic structures of government.

  And now he was wrapping his fingers around Excalibur, as it were, poised and ready to pull the sword from stone and claim what was his due.

  But at what cost? His soul?

  His heart?

  Are you happy? Her simple question bounced between his temples, taunting him like a ball thrown down a hill, forever rolling away.

  Happiness had never been an expectation of his. His childhood had been a nightmare of drunken beatings, shouting matches between his parents, and an empty belly. When his mother left and his father died, survival had been his only goal. He worked day and night for heat, clean water, and food. Who had time to contemplate happiness when you had to fight the scourge of starvation, silence, and isolation? When every adult you came into contact with tried to either take advantage or take what was yours by right?

  He’d perched up here some days shooting at anyone who dared approach. Not knowing if they were looters or neighbors.

  Once in a while, they’d been both.

  He forgot how to act or eat properly first. Then how to speak. In the years he’d lived in this cottage alone, an empty hole had opened up in his chest. This cold, silent void where a family ought to have been. Where mercy might have lived.

  Where vagaries like happiness and love could have been nurtured.

  He’d never succumbed to the silence or the emptiness, but he’d always carried it with him, even after he’d been taken to Redmayne Keep.

  He couldn’t believe it. More than twenty years had passed since he’d been dragged from this place, feral and filthy. A bestial, inhuman creature driven by nothing but instinct.

  And the process of civilizing him had been both painful and humiliating.

  He’d pledged never to become that creature again.

  Which was what made Cecelia Teague such a danger to him.

  Because she spoke to everything that had once made him little better than an animal. Despite her innate gentility, her intelligence, and her impeccable manners, she drew from him a carnal—nay—carnivorous instinct he found impossible to ignore, let alone control.

  As evidenced by the prior night.

  Ramsay’s body responded, tightening at the memory. Hardening with need.

  The first time he’d met her as the Scarlet Lady, he’d been so angry, so self-righteous. Partly because he’d wanted to know what it would feel like to have that generous mouth wrapped around his cock.

  He might have guessed it would be a singular experience.

  But he’d never expected to lose himself in unparalleled bliss. He’d never have thought she’d surpass his every previous encounter, exceed his most salacious fantasies. That her body would be the vehicle to a rapture most men were not fortunate enough to attain.

  He’d lain awake all night with the taste of her coating his mouth, the pleasure she’d wrought in him still thrumming through every sinew and cord of his body. He’d been so grateful for the chill of the evening, and yet he’d yearned for her warmth. Even after the heat had cooled, something else became insistent. Some other organ than his sex.

  He didn’t simply want to fuck her, but to hold her. To comfort her. To find comfort with her.

  The thought of making her laugh held more innate appeal than receiving a knighthood. He’d rather spend an afternoon indulging her appetites for chocolate than dining with royals and Continental contacts.

  Even after he’d cleaned his teeth this morning and washed all traces of her away, her essence clung to him like it was now a part of him.

  And therein lay the crux of the problem.

  She threatened to topple all he built. To leach his ambition from him and replace it with contentment—nay, complacency.

  That, he could not abide.

  He could not simply melt into her comfort. Couldn’t allow her softness to smooth away his sharp edges and temper what had made him hard, angry, and unrepentantly ruthless. He could not indulge, not without facing dastardly consequences.

  But there was still honor to consider. His. Hers. And a mutual desire that was undeniable.

  Only one thing to be done about it.

  Claim her in every absolute way.

  Marry her.

  She was now Cecelia Teague and the Scarlet Lady. But … what if she could become someone else?

  Cecelia Ramsay.

  With her considerable skills, soft heart, and unparalleled intellect, she could be such a force in his world. Even though they both were cursed with tainted legacies, there was a chance to build a dynasty together that future generations would be proud of.

  He could protect her, pleasure her, grant her and Phoebe opportunities they’d never have otherwise. Both freedom and respectability.

  And perhaps, she could teach him something about happiness. And the odd indulgence.

  Every time she smiled at him, with every kiss or intimacy they shared, a little light had ignited within that dark void inside him. He felt less empty.

  What would a lifetime of her smiles do?

  Ramsay shook his head, pushing the longing away and replacing it with resolve.

  There would be time for that. But today, he had to stay sharp. Dangerous. Especially if he was about to take on the fortress built around the current Lord Chancellor and steal his dubious throne. All the while, he had to keep Cecelia safe. And to do that, he mustn’t allow distractions.

  Something else stalked along the game trail, confidently picking its way through the thicket.

  Ramsay took in a deep breath, drew a bead, and let his arrow loose.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The afternoon sun had been uncharacteristically relentless. Ramsay swiped at his forehead and squinted at the sky. He had time for a dip in the loch before the shadows became long, and he could think of nothing better.

  Even though it was bloody and disgusting work gutting, skinning, and stringing up a buck to treat the meat properly, Ramsay didn’t mind; it kept him occupied and away from temptation.

  Wiping his hands, he snuck into the house to retrieve a clean change of clothing, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

  No such luck.

  Phoebe sat at the table, swinging her feet off the ground as Jean-Yves allowed her to cheat at whist.

  Ramsay glanced around for Cecelia and couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed not to find her. She’d be working at the desk on that d
ratted codex.

  Phoebe beamed at him, the divot in her chin deepening. “There you are. Why are you stained?”

  Cecelia’s butler eyed him with rank misgiving, but nodded in a respectful manner. Well, respectful for a Frenchman, anyhow.

  “I skinned a buck just now, lass,” he explained, extracting a fresh shirt and trousers from his trunk.

  “Seems a waste to shoot a buck if we are only here but a few days,” Jean-Yves harrumphed from behind the fan of cards he held up with his uninjured arm.

  Ramsay frowned, but he didn’t rise to the occasion.

  “There are several large families hereabouts who would be glad of what meat we doona use.” He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, especially not in his own home. But he’d long since understood that the Frenchman was more a father figure than employee of Cecelia’s, which disposed him to dislike and distrust a man who had designs on her.

  Designs so undeniable, any fool could decipher his intent. His desire.

  Jean-Yves was no fool.

  Ramsay couldn’t say he minded the older man’s protective nature. Were he a father, he’d not approve of their current situation for his daughter, that was for certain.

  Phoebe scooted off her chair and landed on the scuffed boots she’d taken to wearing daily to romp out of doors. “I don’t believe I’ve tasted buck,” she said, drifting closer to watch him curiously. “Is it delicious?”

  “It can be.” He stepped around her, refusing to be charmed by her tiny voice and perfect little proper accent. He fetched a towel for drying along with a bar of soap and opened the door. “I’ll be back to prepare supper.”

  He shut the door behind him, but it didn’t remain closed for long.

  “Where are you going?” Phoebe chirped, chasing him down the path.

  “To the loch shore, wee one. I willna be far.”

  She scampered around to block his path. “I’ll go with you, so you won’t be alone.”

  A little copy of Cecelia, this one, sweet-natured and forever championing the lonely. Except she didn’t look like her at all. She was little for her age with eyes the color of a murky sea. He’d thought her hair a light brown the color of wet sand, but little gold strands glistened from unruly ringlets. Her features were strong and square for a lass, but striking. She might be handsome when she grew, and if not, she’d at least be imposing.

  “Ye canna go with me,” he answered. “I need to bathe.”

  Her little nose wrinkled in a feminine gesture of displeasure identical to the one his mother used to wear. “Is the bath behind the lock?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “Locks are not for bathing, they’re for—for locking, obviously.”

  A chuff of mirth escaped him, and he almost gave in to the urge to tousle her fair little ringlets. “Not a lock, Phoebe, a loch.”

  She shifted her eyes, blinking rapidly in confusion.

  “What ye Brits call a lake, we Scots call a loch,” he clarified.

  Her eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because that is our language.”

  She made a sound of wonderment. “You have your own language?”

  “Aye.”

  “Will you teach it to me?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why?” She pouted.

  “Because I’m stained with blood and offal and I need to go bathe.”

  “That’s all right, you can teach me along the way, and I’ll play in the shallow pool by the rocks whilst you bathe in the deep end.”

  He began to shake his head. “I doona think—”

  “What do you call that rock?” She pointed to what was once a stepping-stone.

  “Clach,” he answered absently. “But ye should stay here—”

  “And this?” She pulled the dilapidated fence open, sweeping her hand most gallantly for him to pass.

  “Tha thu nad pian ann an asail,” he muttered.

  Her forehead wrinkled. “All that for a gate?”

  “Nay, it means…” You are a pain in my ass, he didn’t say. “It means … go tell Jean-Yves ye’re going to the loch.”

  She sprinted inside with an exuberance Ramsay, even as a vital man, couldn’t remember ever possessing.

  He chuckled, waiting on the outside of the hip-high gate.

  Ramsay often lost patience quickly with children, but oddly enough he found Phoebe’s precocious curiosity easier to bear. He could identify with her relentless need to understand things. To bend the world to her will. And her constant well-meaning nature was endlessly lovely.

  When she emerged only three breaths later, she’d already shucked her pinafore and nabbed a towel of her own.

  “I decided you can teach me how to swim, too,” she panted, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the forest. “Do let’s hurry. How do you say tree in Scottish? Scots?”

  “Gaelic,” he corrected, sauntering after her. “And it’s craobh. Also, English lasses canna swim in Scottish lochs, you’ll freeze yer wee noggin off.”

  She pitted her entire strength against his arm, urging him to hurry. If he let her go, she’d fall flat on her little nose. “If you can do it, I can,” she declared.

  “Is that so, now?”

  “I’m not afraid of the cold.” She stopped tugging and changed tactics, turning to face him. “Please, Lord Ramsay. Please?” Her eyes must have taken up half of her face as she laced her fingers and pleaded as though she were at church praying for relief. “When will I ever again be allowed to swim in the wilds of Scotland?”

  “With Cecelia as yer guardian, I imagine ye’ll have the chance to do all sorts of things,” he said, wondering if she realized how lucky she was.

  A little anxiety peeked through her pluck. “I’ll have to go back to London when this is over. And Cecelia said I must be educated, that she’ll tutor me, or send me to school if I like.”

  He nodded approvingly as he struck out again through the meadow at a much more meandering pace. Earth crunched beneath their boots, and a summer breeze ruffled their hair with the sweet smell of blossoms and loamy earth. The moment was a gentle one, a simple one, and Ramsay found himself enjoying the company of the tiny chatterbox. “Ye should go to school,” he urged. “Ye must learn to be a lady, I suppose.”

  She screwed up her face, another uncannily familiar expression. “I think I’d rather be a doctor than a lady.”

  “A doctor, ye say? Have ye been talking to Alexandra?” His sister-in-law was an archeologist first and a duchess second, at least in her own estimation.

  “A lady doctor,” she announced. “One who takes care of women who are having babies.”

  “Ye mean a midwife?”

  “No,” she stated vehemently. “My mother, she died giving birth to me. A midwife didn’t know what to do, but a doctor might have done.”

  “I see,” he murmured, incalculably glad for the umpteenth time to have been born a man.

  Phoebe prattled ceaselessly as she walked, and Ramsay did his best to follow along. She spoke of Frances Bacon and Fanny de Beaufort. Who, apparently, didn’t accompany them on their outing as they preferred not to get wet.

  The loch was little more than a grotto dammed by a rock wall that might have been a bridge in centuries past, collapsed by any number of marauding armies or clannish skirmishes or nothing more violent than the forages of time.

  Ramsay settled Phoebe on the other edge of the wall where the river slowed to a trickle allowed by a break in the dam. He threatened to truss and blindfold her if she peeked over the wall as he bathed, only half joking.

  He washed in record time, chuckling quietly as he listened to the girl sing with astonishing lack of intonation as she played. Donning his trousers, he climbed the rocks and peeked over to find her wrapping a ribbon around a bouquet of wildflowers.

  “Are those for Miss Teague?” he asked, teetering over the dam and making his way down the rocks toward her.

  “Yes.” She presented the bouquet to him with pride. “I think yo
u should give them to her.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do ye, now?”

  She nodded ardently. “Aren’t dashing men supposed to give ladies flowers?”

  Rubbing his chin, he eyed the bouquet with consternation. “Aye, but I’m not dashing.”

  She brought the flowers back to her chest, studying him intently, measuring his amount of dashingness. “Well … not as dashing as some of the men who would visit Miss Henrietta and Genny,” she admitted with no small amount of sincerity. “But I think Miss Cecelia likes you in spite of that. Besides, you’re big and brave and have better hair then most men your age.”

  “A distinguished commendation, indeed,” he said wryly.

  “And you saved her just like d’Artagnan,” she said dreamily. “If she’s any sort of proper damsel, she’s supposed to love you after that, so…” She reoffered the bunch of flowers to him.

  Ramsay hesitated to take them, because Cecelia Teague was no sort of proper damsel.

  Phoebe pressed them upward, standing on her tiptoes. “I brought a purple ribbon, as that’s Cecelia’s favorite color.”

  “I’d noticed she wears violet often.” He gingerly took the flowers, hoping they’d not disintegrate in his big, unwieldy hands.

  “Don’t you think she’s rather fetching in violet?” The girl’s countenance glowed with shy mischief. “In most colors, really. And I know some women look plain with spectacles, but not Cecelia. She’s lovely all the time.”

  “She is lovely all the time,” he agreed before adopting a stern look. “Ye’re playing matchmaker, are ye?”

  Phoebe shrugged, climbing up the bank to skirt the dam. “Do you think you’ll marry her?” she queried, disastrously portending nonchalance.

  “Would ye mind?” he asked.

  She plopped down on the line of grass that skirted the black pebbled sand of the loch and began to unlace her boots. “Will you let me go to university if she marries you?”

  Ramsay couldn’t contain a smile. “If ye want to be a doctor, I’ll not stop ye.”