Page 18 of All Scot and Bothered
A pair of hazel eyes gaped back at her from a cherubic face.
A girl.
Cecelia quickly estimated her identity.
“Phoebe?” she whispered. For some reason, she’d suspected the girl from Henrietta’s note to be grown. It’d never occurred to her that she would harbor a child.
The girl nodded, honey-colored ringlets falling over her shoulder as she pressed her finger to her lips.
Cecelia nodded back conspiratorially, wishing she knew more about children and how to gauge their ages. She could be seven or so, though her eyes seemed older, perhaps? And it was impossible to tell for certain, what with her little body folded beneath the dark underbelly of the desk, half concealed by the ruffles of Cecelia’s own skirt and cloak.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs as Genny’s loud protests echoed down the hallway.
Blast it all. Just whowasthis Phoebe?
Sisters in all but blood… so it would seem they were not related.
Was she the secret Henrietta had been killed for? Was her life also in danger? And if so, from whom—this Vicar of Vice?
There was simply no time for answers.
“Phoebe, I need you to stay under there,” Cecelia whispered. “No matter what you hear, can you remain silent until those men leave?”
The girl smiled gravely, holding her finger to her mouth.
“Very good,” Cecelia praised. “I’m Cecelia. Henrietta has charged me to keep you safe and I promise to do so.” she vowed, doing her best to school the panic out of her voice. She’d never broken a promise; she hoped to God she could keep this one. “Can you guard this book for me, Phoebe? It belonged to Miss Henrietta, and I don’t want anyone to take it.”
The girl snatched the diary and clutched it to her chest, wedging herself further beneath the desk. Cecelia straightened and shoved the letter in her bodice just as the door to the study burst open with such force, it rebounded off the wall.
The man filling the doorway caught it in his enormous hand.
Had Cecelia been a fainting woman, she might have expired on the spot. As it was, her head swam with both rejection and recognition. Her eyes widened in an endeavor to take in the full magnitude of the masculine form before her.
Blood retreated from her extremities, and she became immediately grateful her pallor was concealed beneath the face powder.
Because even though she could make out none of his features without her spectacles, the unparalleled height, breadth, and specific hues of this particular Scotsman were undeniable.
She knew him. Of course she did.
Lord Cassius Gerard Ramsay.
They were practically related now that Alex, the sister of her heart, had recently married his brother.
And yet she knew little about him. He was a man of mysterious origin, strict principles, and, if his claims should be believed, zero indulgences.
She’d spoken with him on only two prior occasions, and their interactions had been—well—rather confounding.
He’d watched her that night at Castle Redmayne with a deep scowl and hungry eyes.
She often lay awake at night revisiting the evening and the two men who’d dominated it. One, an Italian count as handsome and sleek as the devil, dark curls tamed with pomade and Phoenician features alight with masculine interest.
And the other, Lord Ramsay, a golden-haired archangel. A stalwart warrior for all things he deemed just and right and good. A paladin of sorts, who might have been knighted years past by some fortunate maiden for slaying dragons and demons alike.
And now that self-same man stared at her from the doorway, his eyes the color of a winter’s moon glinting with that righteous warrior’s wrath.
In those eyes,shewas the dragon he’d come to do battle with.
To vanquish.
