Page 49 of All Scot and Bothered

Ramsay blinked at Alexandra, disbelief etched into the hard frown lines bracketing his mouth. “Ye mean for me to believe Redmayne allows ye to come to this place?” He gestured to the rubble.

“Redmayneallowsme nothing. I am my own person and ask permission of no one.” Alexandra slid her gaze to Cecelia. “However, I was touring the school to see if I wanted to add it to my more philanthropic endeavors. As it turns out, I categorically do. Especially now.”

Cecelia would have expressed her undying gratitude to Alexandra had she not been interrupted by the explosive din of an enormous burning beam of wood, which chose that moment to roll down the mountain of rubble toward them.

In a manner that very much remind her of a charging bull, Ramsay lunged forward with his arms open and scooped up all three women, sweeping them back as the log landed in a volcano of sparks and dust and ash in the exact spot they’d gathered.

It was rather like being swept up by a brick wall.

He jerked away the moment they’d been deposited to safety, leaving Cecelia feeling oddly bereft. To wield such tremendous strength was unimaginable to her.

But to be buttressed by it. Shielded and supported by it.

To rely upon and be rescued by it.

How extraordinary.

Ash and dust filmed her spectacles, obstructing her vision completely. The grit of it gathered on her face and settled in a chalky-tasting skein on her teeth. A fit of wheezing coughs overtook her, and she bent forward with her hand over her mouth to regain her breath.

No one said a word, but a handkerchief was thrust into her hand.

Cecelia wiped the dust and ash from her lips, nose, and chin so she could breathe.

It smelled like him. Like clean linen, sharp soap, and… books.

She paused to pull the scent deep into her beleaguered lungs before swiping off her spectacles to clean them with the unsoiled side of the soft cloth.

She searched the gardens anxiously, noting that Frank and Alexander were gaining their balance and their breath behind her, but were otherwise unharmed.

Phoebe stood safely some distance away, pressed against the far wall, her features indistinguishable.

Jean-Yves had thankfully been conducted from the room by the medics before the log fell.

No harm done. Cecelia opened her mouth to thank Ramsay, but he spoke before she was able.

“Jesus kilt-lifting Christ. It’sye.”

It was hard to discern from his voice if he was more furious or incredulous.

Cecelia glanced over at him, finding nothing but the blunt shapes of his features and the stunning size of everything else. Then she held her glasses up to bring the world—and the man—into focus.

Catching her reflection in the one window that remained intact, she saw what Ramsay did. The soot about her face was shaped very much like a masquerade mask. Covered thusly, without her spectacles on and her hair dusted with ash and debris, she unequivocally resembled the woman he’d met only yesterday in the ruined residence.

The woman he detested.

The Scarlet Lady.

“It is I,” she confessed upon a wistful sigh.

She’d kissed Ramsay…

And never would again judging by the antipathy with which he currently regarded her.

His hair had become disheveled, and the high collar of his crisp suit was now smudged with grime, his necktie missing. But his eyes. His eyes glinted with silver storms, the blue vanishing almost completely.

If the storm wasn’t about to be unleashed upon her, she’d have taken all the time she could to admire and absorb it.

To bask in the ferocious beauty of it, as she’d always been fond of storms.