Page 32 of All Scot and Bothered
But to refuse would be suspiciously rude.
Ramsay held open the door for her. She barely heard her friend’s worried well wishes, for all she noted was his gaze like a branding iron as he followed her into the night.
CHAPTERSIX
Ramsay awaited a verbal assault as he led the apprehensive Miss Teague into the ducal gardens of Redmayne Place. To his surprise, he was met with none.
She walked beside him, her arm tense within his, her back straight as a mooring post as she stared at the flowers with undue resolution.
She didn’t want him to look at her, which was deucedly irritating, because he yearned to do exactly that, survey every inch of her in the moonlight.
He should have used the quiet to contemplate just what exactly he’d done by inviting her out here.
And why the devil he’d done it.
Instead, he couldn’t help but appreciate that he didn’t have to work so hard to adjust his stride to fit hers. She was uncommonly, almost indecently, tall for a woman.
Her legs must go on for eternity.
He firmly squelched the thought, doing his best to appreciate the lobelia, hollyhocks, and calendulas as they passed.
London’s relentless lights reflected off lazy, intermittent clouds. The gold of gas lamps competed with the silver of the full moon, and the uncommonly warm evening had coaxed the blossoms to bare themselves with shameless abandon.
In Scotland, a night such as this one, laden with heady perfume and spiced with enchanting expectancy, would belong to the Fae.
Ramsay told himself he didn’t miss home, that this hollow longing was for something else. For justice. For redemption.
For serenity.
A serenity that hovered over the evening, threatening to spill over them if they’d only let it.
A silent breeze toyed with one of Miss Teague’s copper ringlets, tossing it against her cheek. His hand itched to brush it away as she lifted her head toward the kiss of air, her face a mask of appreciation.
The world was so cold, and that chill had become a part of his own body’s fabric. Like eternal winter. Or a lonely Highland moor in January.
Except where their arms linked, her warmth lingered and threatened to spread.
Her scent, a mixture like spun sugar and summer berries mingled with the fragrance of the gardens, inundated his olfactory senses with a gluttony of delicious aromas. The rhythmic clip and crunch of their steps on the stones hypnotized him, draining some of his tension with a percussive sort of magic.
“You’re rather silent.” Her gentle remark conveyed no censure, only uncertainty. “For a man who wanted a private word.”
Silence, Ramsay had discovered, could be as loud as a brass section in a symphony. He’d learned to conduct silencelike a maestro. It made people uncomfortable, often driving them to reveal too much about themselves to fill the void.
But not Cecelia Teague. She’d remarked upon the quietude, drawing both their focuses to his weapon of choice.
A weapon he hadn’t meant to deploy against her.
It was merely that her nearness effectively emptied his mind of the weight of his responsibilities and the frustrations of the day. And the lift of that burden was rather miraculous.
“Forgive me,” he started.
“Not at all,” she said carefully, still not looking away from the flowers at her side. “There’s no need for conversation between us.”
“Nay.” He paused, turning to face her, their arms sliding away from each other’s. He missed the warmth immediately. “Nay, Miss Teague, I’m addressing my behavior toward ye and the Count Armediano during our last interaction at Castle Redmayne. I’m not usually so…” He groped for a word.
“Domineering?” she supplied, her dimple deepening as she threw him a cheeky glance before it darted away. “Overbearing, impolite, officious—”
“Aye.” He held up his hand in a gesture of surrender. “Aye, take yer pick. I was all of that and more.”
