Page 63 of All Scot and Bothered

Whatever world she found out in the darkness might be untenable. The tragedy too great to bear, the failure enough to crush her. She’d never live with herself if—

“Cecelia?”

The small, watery sound of her name tore a raw sound of pure joy from her chest.

“Phoebe!” She scrambled to her feet and lunged for the little shadow that stood backlit by the entry to the alley.

Scooping the girl against her, Cecelia cradled Phoebe’s head into her neck as little arms and legs latched around her middle and clung like a burr. The child’s tears slid down her throat into her collar, and her own leaked into Phoebe’s silky, honey-colored ringlets.

“Are you hurt, darling?” The question dragged from her throat with a husky horror. “Did he harm you?”

Phoebe shook her head, pulling back to look over her shoulder. “The man chasing me grabbed my arm, buthesaved me.”

Cecelia whirled in the middle of the street to find Ramsay standing in the entry to the alley a mere three paces away. His heavy shoulders and chest heaved with labored breaths. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed, locking with hers.

Not a wolf, she thought again. A lion.

He stood over his kills proud, unrepentant. His broad features etched with a ferocity she’d assumed civilization had bred out of the modern gentleman. It was why their empire espoused such rigid strictures. Because might had once taken precedence over manners. The men who were able to incite the most fear were the ones who wielded the power.

And man forever desired to separate his kingdom from that of the beasts.

But it just wasn’t so, she realized. Not really. Not in times such as this when threats to one’s life stripped away the layers of courtesy, civility, and superior intellect.

Leaving the soft animal exposed. Vulnerable.

It didn’t matter how many tall steel buildings contained the economy and the empire, or how many layers of finely spun clothing contained the flesh. People were essentially predators. They’d forever prey on one another.

And if that was so, a woman might count herself fortunate to rely upon the protection of the king of beasts.

She might not be ashamed to succumb to the possession electrifying his unblinking stare.

Something welled within Cecelia she’d never before experienced and couldn’t identify.

Was it emotion? Or sensation? Or strictly a primitive physical reaction? She hadn’t the time to analyze it.

Lights were beginning to appear in the windows of the row houses, splashing gold over the mist. Some brave souls peeked out into the night, though none of the gentlefolk dared to venture where gunshots had been fired.

Ramsay shook himself from whatever thrall the recent violence had over him, and he reached her in three swift strides.

“Give me the girl,” he ordered.

“No.” The word escaped her before she had time to think about it. She had to fight the urge to bare her teeth at him.

They were both creatures of instinct tonight, it seemed.

His hand encircled her upper arm with his fingers, and Cecelia gaped at it, for her appendage was not slender.

The grip was surprisingly gentle, coaxing, even though the stony familiarity returned to his expression. “Ye’re trembling hard enough to shake her loose.”

Was she?

Cecelia suddenly noted a curious weakness in her arms. Her knees seemed to have all but disappeared, threatening to fold her legs from beneath her.

“Give her over, Cecelia.” Her name in his low, cavernousbrogue vibrated through her, washing over the tremors of terror like a soothing balm.

She loosened her grip on Phoebe, allowing the child to make the decision.

To her astonishment, the girl levered away from her and turned her torso to stretch tiny arms out to Ramsay. The man had frightened her, once upon a time, but Phoebe was a canny child and recognized strength and safety when it was offered.