Page 67 of All Scot and Bothered
If the sound of her was dangerous, the sight of Cecelia was almost his undoing.
The lantern light gilded her with an angelic aura often depicted in the paintings of Catholic saints. She could have been a Pre-Raphaelite muse. Her eyes so wide and full of light, even without her spectacles. Her cheeks round, ivory, and peach. Her chin dimpled. And her hair—those glorious curls—escaped a loose and hasty braid that fell over her shoulder, longer than was fashionable.
She appeared a cherub but for the midnight-blue silk wrapper turning her every generous curve into a dark sin. The lace of a high-necked nightgown hid any hint of flesh, but he knew the garment was a summer one, thin and gossamer.
Were he to unbelt the robe, he’d see right through it in the lantern light.
Ramsay’s mouth went dry.
Simultaneously, Cecelia made a nervous noise in her throat before gesturing to the side table with her writing instrument. “There’s coffee and biscuits. Croissants, if you prefer. My cookmaid is absent, so if you require heartier fare, I could suggest a cafénearby with an excellent breakf—”
“That willna be necessary.” He held up a hand, cursing every god of Eros he could think of. He was almost forty-goddamned-years-of-age. Could he go at least once inthis woman’s presence without an unwelcome erection? He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, grateful she couldn’t see his lap from her angle at the desk.
Not that she was looking. She’d returned to the book she’d been hunched over, making swift notes on a paper.
It was only then that Ramsay noted the evidence of strain tightening her features, even in the immensely flattering golden light. She was more pale than peachy. Her full mouth compressed into a line, shadows smudging the delicate skin beneath her eyes. Eyes that were both focused and a bit frenzied.
“Ye should have woken me,” he admonished gently.
She didn’t look up. “I apologize for keeping you waiting for so long, I had a deuced time putting Phoebe to bed.”
A pang, sharp and powerful, pierced him at the thought of the wee lass. Her tiny trusting arms and her large hazel-gray eyes. “Entirely understandable,” he said. “How is she?”
“Alive, thanks to you.” Cecelia glanced at the closed door to her study, as though she could check on the child through the walls. “Resilient,” she proffered further, her eyebrow tilting as though the fact surprised her. “She seems so delicate, but I’m learning that she and I are more alike than I realized. The more information she has, the easier it is for her to process. That being said, I don’t exactly know what or how much information is proper for a child of seven.”
“She’s a lucky girl,” Ramsay murmured before he meant to.
“Lucky how?” She sighed, digging her fingers into exhausted eyes. “In less than a week she’s been witness to a fatal bombing and a shooting. It’s a wonder she’s not entirely traumatized. As it is, I shouldn’t wonder if she will bear the scars of this night for ages.”
Ramsay wanted to call the tight ball in his chest respect, but there was a great deal else jumbled up in there. Worry, admiration, wariness, protectiveness, possession?
“She’s lucky ye’re a good mother to her,” he said lamely.
Her gaze flicked to him, and then quickly away. Her auburn lashes fluttered down over her cheeks as she pretended to study the work beneath her. “That remains to be seen,” she murmured.
He’d pleased her. Ramsay was glad to see some of her color return.
“Unlike me, ye’ve not slept,” he noted.
She shook her head, tapping her pencil on the desk. “I won’t sleep. I can’t. Not until I’ve figured out what Henrietta’s done. Not until those I love are safe.”
Guilt made an oily slick down Ramsay’s spine. He’d been so blinded by enmity, by what he considered to be lies, that he’d missed the truth. A truth that might have cost her life.
He opened his mouth to reveal what he knew when she tossed her pencil into the spine of the book and stood, obliging him to do the same.
He buttoned his suit coat, hoping she didn’t look down. “I must admit that I might have been… unduly brutal, earlier.”
She shook her head. “I would say you were brave. Brutality was necessary against those men, I’m afraid.”
“Nay.” He fought the very juvenile urge to squirm. “Nay, I mean with ye. The things I said when last we met…”
“Oh.” She blinked at him, as though he’d astonishedthe wits right out of her. “I suppose, if you were not so vigilant against me, then tonight might have been my last.” She took a step closer. “That man who… who would have… Well, he proved you right a bit, didn’t he? Henrietta must have been involved in something unthinkable to amass such enemies.” She shut her eyes for the space of a trembling breath. “If I’m honest, you were forgiven the moment I saw you in the alley. However, your apology is formally accepted, of course.”
“I… hadn’t apologized.” Had he?
A soft smile tilted her soft mouth. “You seemed to be working up to it. Am I mistaken?”
“Aye. Nay.” Ramsay turned around, dismayed to find nowhere to advance and no place for retreat. “Christ, I mean, I amattemptingto apologize, I just havena… ever…” He trailed away. How did one go about doing this?
