Page 52 of All Scot and Bothered
Cecelia stood and opened her mouth, but Alexandra beat her to it.
“Oh come now, Ramsay, you cannot think she had anything to do with this.”
“And why not?”
Alexandra scoffed. “Though her study was primarily mathematics, she would, of course, be educated in the applications thereof, which would mean a rudimentary knowledge of physics and chemistry. In fact, we attended many courses together.”
“Yes.” Francesca stepped in to champion her. “And as Cecelia stated, she still insists upon attending boring lectures all the time. What would she have to gain by blowing up her own place?”
Cecelia leveled a droll look at Frank just as Ramsay’s mouth flattened into a thin line.
“There are cleaner ways of getting rid of evidence.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yer friends are awfully protective of ye, Miss Teague. Almost as if they ken ye’re guilty of something.”
Cecelia straightened, doing her best to meet his gazehead-on. “It’s ever been thus, my lord, we protect one another.”
“Cecelia’s of a generally shy and sensitive nature,” Alexandra explained. “And she’s only just been through something unthinkably traumatic. Perhaps we can finish this another time, Ramsay.”
He grunted out a strange sound that Cecelia thought might have been a laugh if a lion had rendered it. And if one could laugh without smiling. “Shy? Sensitive? Now I ken ye take me for a fool, but no one is that gullible.” He raked fingers through his thick fall of hair. “Chemistry and physics… My grandmother Ramsay would have burned ye three for a cadre of witches.”
Until now, Phoebe had been so quiet and still, her presence was all but forgotten. She marched toward Ramsay until she stood beneath him, little fists planted on nonexistent hips.
“Anyone with eyes can tell she’snota witch,” the girl declared, unfazed by the golden giant even as she tilted her head all the way back on her neck to look up at him.
Cecelia watched, stunned as something no less than miraculous happened.
Ramsay’s face, which she’d been thus far certain was carved from the same stone and ice as his heart, softened in increments until his eyes were pools of liquid charm and his mouth no longer pressed into his ever-present frown.
With such an expression he appeared almost… handsome.
Almost.
“Where did ye come from, wee lass?”
“I don’t know.” The clear-eyed girl stood like the proverbial David against Ramsay’s Goliath. “But you can’ttruly believe in witches, and I know you can’t burn them anymore.”
“Of course no one will burn,” he said, almost apologetically. “Though, not to naysay ye, lass, but I know for certain this particular trio of redheaded ladies have a penchant for trouble. Multiple explosions, fires, gunfights, kidnappings, and nefarious brews that once even put my brother in an enchanted sleep for a full day and a night.” He crouched down, still not bringing him eye level with the girl, but stretching his soiled clothing in the most diverting of ways over his legs, arms, and shoulders.
“Doesna that sound like the doings of witches to ye?” he asked gently.
Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at Cecelia, her expression uncertain.
Cecelia knew she should be mad enough to spit nails, but instead she found herself unable to do aught but watch the conversation unfold.
“She’s too pretty to be a witch,” Phoebe decided with an adorable wrinkle of her brow. “And besides, her nose isn’t even a bit warty, nor are her fingers gnarled.” She looked back to Ramsay, no doubt to see if she’d made a convincing enough argument.
The Scot in question was staring at Cecelia. “Och, lass, ye’ve the right of it, I suppose.”
Cecelia fought the urge to fidget beneath his intense regard. One that carried weighty questions and even heavier accusations.
Also, she wondered if he realized that he’d agreed she was pretty…
“What’s yer name, child?” The rumble of his voice as he spoke to the girl threatened to unstitch something deep within Cecelia’s belly.
“I’m Phoebe.” She curtsied.
“It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Miss Phoebe.” They shook hands briefly, and the ghost of a smile haunted the corners of Ramsay’s mouth. “I’m—”
“I know who you are. You’re the Vicar of Vice. You were yelling last time you were here. I hid under the desk so you wouldn’t take me away.”
