Page 57 of All Scot and Bothered

The jury was still out.

Redmayne was as close to his physical equal as he could possibly get in this city. Ramsay outweighed his brother by almost a stone, but the duke had built his impressive stature by climbing the tallest mountains in the world, fording the longest rivers, and hacking his way through environs not fit for human inhabitation.

Pound for pound Redmayne was the strongest man he knew, besides himself, and that strength was compounded by the agility of a jaguar.

So, Ramsay decided, he wouldn’t feel guilty for hammering him into the dirt.

He threw a right hook that might have broken a tooth—or a jaw—but Redmayne ducked, following through with an uppercut to the solar plexus that stole his breath.

Ramsay punched the light of victory right out of his brother’s eyes with a lightning-fast left jab.

Redmayne spit a bit of blood onto the ground beneath them and circled to his left, wiping at his lip with the back of his knuckle. His muscles bunched and rebounded as he hopped from foot to foot.

Come to think of it. They should do this more often.

“Marriage is making ye soft, brother,” Ramsay taunted, shaking his arms in front of him to keep them loose, feeling strong and raw and male.

“And age is making you slow,” Redmayne charged. His first blow glanced off Ramsay’s chin and the second one missed altogether as he weaved out of his way and danced to the duke’s side, landing a punishing shot to his ribs.

“Ye were saying?”

Redmayne coughed a bit but recovered admirably.“Who are you fighting, Case? A certain redheaded Rogue? Or are you simply at war with yourself?”

“Donna call me Case in public.” Ramsay lunged, landing a devastating blow to the body and paying for it by taking a hit to his jaw that left a ringing in his ears.

“What public?” Redmayne gestured as he spun away, opening his arms for a brief moment to encircle the empty room.

The hour was late, and the club would likely be closed had he and Redmayne not lingered. The elderly had gone home to bed, and young dandies would have supped and moved on to chase vices and late-night delights.

They’d have to find somewhere other than Henrietta’s now.

“I have no desire to discuss the Scarlet Lady,” Ramsay snarled.

“I never mentioned her name,” Redmayne said, smugness tugging at the corners of his mouth. The expression emphasized the scar on his upper lip, barely concealed by his close-cropped beard.

“Doona condescend to me.” Ramsay lashed out. Missed. Regrouped.

“I’m not condescending, I’m condemning.” Redmayne’s eyes glinted the same wintry blue Ramsay saw in the mirror every day.

The one reminder of the heartless mother they shared.

“What possible reason could a hedonistic git like ye have to condemn me?” Ramsay was so astonished by the ludicrous notion, he dropped his hands and took a well-placed jab to the mouth.

His teeth cut into his lip, and the metallic tang of blood offended him. He spat it onto the ground as Redmayne delivered another scathing blow, this time with words.

“Cecelia Teague was the victim today, and you treated her like the villain.”

There it was. The reason he’d punished himself in this manner. The truth that he’d wanted to pummel out of himself until he could bandage it with righteous wrath.

She haunted him. Nay, she possessed him like a demon that refused to be exorcised. The tracks her tears had made through the grime on her face lanced him every time he closed his eyes. Her words tangled inside his head, creating tornadoes of doubt that threatened to rip through everything he believed to be true.

Why?

Because he wanted her? He wanted her like he’d wanted nothing before. Like a blind man desires to see color, or a starving man craves a meal.

She was a flame dancing in the distance across the cold tundra into which he’d been born, tempting him closer. Calling him to bask in her warmth.

But he knew that if he relented, her flames could prove to be hellfire, consuming everything good about the life he’d built from nothing.