Page 54 of All Scot and Bothered
“Regularly.”
“Can you teach me how?”
“Oh, you darling girl, I thought you’d never ask. Auntie Frank will be your most enthusiastic instructor.”
“Should I misbehave for the doctor, then?”
“Of course not.”
“When should I?”
“That is an excellent question—Oh dear, do stand aside by the wall with me.”
“Why?” Phoebe asked.
“Because you don’t want to get trampled by a duke.”
At the sound of heavy running footfalls, Alexandra’s grip tightened on Cecelia’s.
“Where is she?” The Devonshire accent echoed from the walls of the hallway, raw with equal parts anxiety and ferocity.
“In the courtyard gardens,” they heard Francesca dictate. “She’s unharmed, by the by.”
Redmayne was a devilishly dark streak of animalistic motion as he broke from the door of the entry to see his wife standing at the bottom of explosive debris.
“You’re welcome!” Francesca’s amused call from the hallway went unheeded.
With a little cry, Alexandra released Cecelia’s hand.
Glass from myriad broken windows intoned the duke’s and duchess’s desperate footsteps across the ruined gardens as their rush forward ended in a collision of bodies that would have driven a smaller man to his back.
Redmayne, however, enfolded his little wife into his chest, curling strong shoulders over her as she reached into his jacket and banded her arms around his back.
One large hand cupped the back of her head, and the other drew itself up and down her spine as he pressed his scarred cheek to her crown.
Despite his gentle handling of her, a string of foul curses that would have turned a buccaneer’s cheeks red ripped through the air. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, do you hear me?”
Alexandra burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m all right. Not even a scratch on me. There’s no need to worry.”
“No need to—” He thrust her away from him, examining her well-being for himself. “This is the second explosion you’ve escaped without a wound in as many years. So help me, there willnotbe a third.”
“I’m glad you came.” Alexandra leaned heavily on her husband, and he instantly bent to scoop her into his arms as he sent his brother an unspoken message with eyes the identical shade of wintry blue.
Ramsay nodded once.
“I’m taking you home,” he murmured to his wife.
“But.” Alexandra looked anxiously over her husband’s shoulder, her mask of soot mostly left on the duke’s shirtfront. “Cecil…”
“Ramsay’s with her.” Redmayne didn’t even pause.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. He wants to hang her, you know.”
“Yes, but not today,” the duke replied, as though it was the furthest worry from his mind. “We’ll deal with that after I get you home, bathed, and thoroughly examined.” His tone was neither teasing nor censorious nor even overtly sexual. Just incontestable.
Inevitable.
Cecelia and Alexandra both shrugged at each other helplessly as Redmayne conducted his wife away, but not before Cecelia caught a copper gleam of relief in her cherished friend’s eyes.
