Page 19 of All Scot and Bothered
The temperature immediately dropped in his presence, the atmosphere around them thick and preternaturallysilent. It was the ethereal kind of muffled quiet one experienced during a fresh snowfall. Not the absence of dissonance, but a void in the center of it all.
A cold and lonely place.
Just as the chill he brought with him was discordant with the warm sunlight filtering through the windows, so was the sight of a body so large and rough-hewn as his trapped in such an expensive suit.
No, she’d been mistaken before. He was no angel. His was a barbaric build. One that belonged draped in Viking skins, furs, and armor as he bled for pagan gods on a battlefield. Indeed, it was as if the fabled gods of war crafted him for the distinct purpose to crush, to conquer, and then to rule. He didn’t occupy space, he filled it. Commanded it. He owned the earth upon which he stood as there surely was no man or army alive that could wrest it from him.
He advanced, clutching documents in his fist as though they were Excalibur.
Dumbstruck, Cecelia did nothing but stare as his features came into focus, sharpening with terrifying exactitude as he closed in.
She detected no recognition from him, only rage.
She groped for something to say, a witty, caustic introduction that she could use to chip away at the ice. But apparently, her shock at the sight of him had stolen not only her wits, but her breath as well.
He tossed the papers in front of her. Cecelia glanced down to find a Writ of Warrant signed by his own hand.
“Do ye ken who I am?” he rumbled in a voice meant only for them.
Genny tumbled into the room behind him, followed by a handful of constables and a detective in a smart suit.
“Everyone in the empire knows who you are.” The pitch of her voice was breathy, higher, and unintentional.
As was her French accent.
Genny let out a strangled noise.
Lord, what am I doing?
She’d simply panicked. She couldn’t risk him recognizing her voice. Who knew what kind of memory he possessed?
“It’s important that ye know my name,” the giant Scot said.
“I know your name,” she replied.
He lifted a golden brow in a silent dare. “Say it, then.”
Something in the command thrummed a sensual vibration deep in her body, and she had to squirm to quiet it. “Lord Ramsay.”
His chin dipped once in a curt nod. “And to what name do ye answer?”
Cecelia leaned back in her chair, to give her lungs more space as they seemed to be one breath away from eminent collapse. “Why, I should think you’ve heard of me as well, my lord, as you’re currently calling upon my establishment.”
Did he recognize her at all? Could this preposterous, overdone disguise be enough to keep the secret of her identity intact, at least for the moment?
He grimaced, scanning the room with an expression one might wear if one had stepped in sewer sludge. “It’s quite impossible that a man such as I would have the opportunity to suffer an introduction to a woman such asye.”
If only he knew.
Her lids fluttered closed in what she hoped he read as a coy gesture and not the retreat it was. “I am known to all as the Scarlet Lady. It is a thorough pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord Chief Justice.” She reached her gloved hand out to receive him.
He snorted, his lip lifting in disgust as he regarded herhand as one would rotten rubbish. “Pleasure has nothing at all to do with my visit, as ye can well see.” He gestured to his army of police.
“A shame. Such is not generally the case.” Cecelia found a measure of her fear replaced by indignation.
“Tell me. Yer.Name.” This he demanded through gritted teeth, though his voice never rose even one octave. The effect was most terrifying.
“I believe I already did.”
