Page 94 of All Scot and Bothered
Ramsay took in a deep breath, drew a bead, and let his arrow loose.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
The afternoon sun had been uncharacteristically relentless. Ramsay swiped at his forehead and squinted at the sky. He had time for a dip in the loch before the shadows became long, and he could think of nothing better.
Even though it was bloody and disgusting work gutting, skinning, and stringing up a buck to treat the meat properly, Ramsay didn’t mind; it kept him occupied and away from temptation.
Wiping his hands, he snuck into the house to retrieve a clean change of clothing, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
No such luck.
Phoebe sat at the table, swinging her feet off the ground as Jean-Yves allowed her to cheat at whist.
Ramsay glanced around for Cecelia and couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed not to find her. She’d be working at the desk on that dratted codex.
Phoebe beamed at him, the divot in her chin deepening. “There you are. Why are you stained?”
Cecelia’s butler eyed him with rank misgiving, butnodded in a respectful manner. Well, respectful for a Frenchman, anyhow.
“I skinned a buck just now, lass,” he explained, extracting a fresh shirt and trousers from his trunk.
“Seems a waste to shoot a buck if we are only here but a few days,” Jean-Yves harrumphed from behind the fan of cards he held up with his uninjured arm.
Ramsay frowned, but he didn’t rise to the occasion.
“There are several large families hereabouts who would be glad of what meat we doona use.” He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, especially not in his own home. But he’d long since understood that the Frenchman was more a father figure than employee of Cecelia’s, which disposed him to dislike and distrust a man who had designs on her.
Designs so undeniable, any fool could decipher his intent. His desire.
Jean-Yves was no fool.
Ramsay couldn’t say he minded the older man’s protective nature. Were he a father, he’d not approve of their current situation for his daughter, that was for certain.
Phoebe scooted off her chair and landed on the scuffed boots she’d taken to wearing daily to romp out of doors. “I don’t believe I’ve tasted buck,” she said, drifting closer to watch him curiously. “Is it delicious?”
“It can be.” He stepped around her, refusing to be charmed by her tiny voice and perfect little proper accent. He fetched a towel for drying along with a bar of soap and opened the door. “I’ll be back to prepare supper.”
He shut the door behind him, but it didn’t remain closed for long.
“Where are you going?” Phoebe chirped, chasing him down the path.
“To the loch shore, wee one. I willna be far.”
She scampered around to block his path. “I’ll go with you, so you won’t be alone.”
A little copy of Cecelia, this one, sweet-natured and forever championing the lonely. Except she didn’t look like her at all. She was little for her age with eyes the color of a murky sea. He’d thought her hair a light brown the color of wet sand, but little gold strands glistened from unruly ringlets. Her features were strong and square for a lass, but striking. She might be handsome when she grew, and if not, she’d at least be imposing.
“Ye canna go with me,” he answered. “I need to bathe.”
Her little nose wrinkled in a feminine gesture of displeasure identical to the one his mother used to wear. “Is the bath behind the lock?”
He paused. “What?”
“Locks are not for bathing, they’re for—for locking, obviously.”
A chuff of mirth escaped him, and he almost gave in to the urge to tousle her fair little ringlets. “Not a lock, Phoebe, a loch.”
She shifted her eyes, blinking rapidly in confusion.
