Page 64 of All Scot and Bothered

She looked even smaller in the arms of the burly Scot. Her legs couldn’t span his ribs; nor could her arms reach the breadth of his shoulders. Instead, she hooked an elbow around his neck and rested her cheek on his shoulder, reaching her free hand for Cecelia.

Doing what she could to stave off the trembling of her fingers, she threaded them with Phoebe’s and allowed Ramsay to lead them home.

They navigated around the third body sprawled on the cobbles, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the chest. His was the shot she’d heard.

Ramsay kept Phoebe’s face angled away, making certain she didn’t see any of the night’s carnage.

“What… what about the police?” Cecelia hovered closer to his side when they passed the last alley before reaching her steps.

How could he be both so calm and so vigilant at once? He’d just killed three men.

“I’ll deal with them once ye’re safely inside,” he said. “For now, I’m not letting ye out of my sight.”

What had once been a threat now became the ultimate comfort.

Cecelia climbed her stairs after Lord Ramsay on legs made of quivering custard. Inside her, a maelstrom of thoughts and fears twisted and battered at her.

He would be in her home, this man who hated her. Who’d kissed her.

Who’d killed for her.

For someone so practiced at calculating odds, Cecelia couldn’t even begin to predict what the outcome of this interaction would be.

CHAPTERTEN

Ramsay often woke with a violent jerk before dawn licked at the black ribbon of the Thames.

This time, however, consciousness drifted over him in languid increments. He felt confused, befuddled, but didn’t want to give in to that just yet.

A delectable scent enticed him into further awareness. Bread, but sweeter. And coffee. His hand rested on his chest, and a soft blanket slid back and forth over the wounded mounds of his knuckles with every measured breath.

A wooden scratching sound permeated the languor. Repetitive, but not unpleasant.

He cracked one eye open the merest slit, not ready to commit to cognizance.

An etched-glass lantern flickered not far away. When had he lit it? He generally slept in absolute dark. Drapes drawn and…

He yawned and scratched at his suit jacket.

And naked. He always slept naked.

Granted, he had taken three lives last night.

He dropped his lid closed with a heavy breath. Killing or tupping always had the same effect on him. A weighty fatigue. Like a blanket that wanted to smother his thoughts. To douse his deeds and deliver him into the welcoming darkness.

He must have arrived home and collapsed into bed still fully attired.

Except… when had he?

His memories churned behind his eyelids in a garbled array of images.

He’d paid a private investigator often used by their office to watch Miss Teague’s home, but he’d arrived in the evening for reports to find the man had abandoned his post.

As he’d settled in to surveil the cozy light pouring from her windows, a fracas had distracted him. Miss Teague had sent her little girl running up the cobbles before she’d been shoved into the alleyway by a brawny bastard.

By a man who’d signed his death warrant by touching her.

Ramsay hadn’t thought before reacting. His long legs chewed up an entire block by the time the man chasing Phoebe had caught her up. He’d grappled the fucker, shot him with his own gun, and leapt down the alley in time to see Cecelia go down beneath a sharp blow.