Page 72 of All Scot and Bothered

“Oh.” Cecelia followed her many appetites farther into the room. She locked her hands behind her as she glanced about her surroundings, letting her gaze alight on anything but the man currently wreaking havoc on her senses.

“Did ye find anything in the book?” he asked.

“No.” She’d found her own mouth locked in a disgruntled frown. “At this rate it could take me days. A week. Perhaps more. But I do find myself getting closer… I think.” Her list of what the codewasn’tcertainly grew by the moment, and she decided to optimistically consider that progress by process of elimination.

He stood, abandoning the stick but not the knife, and retrieved a rough-hewn bowl from the shelf. “Ye take what time ye need,” he said without looking at her as he ladled the fragrant stew simmering on the fireplace into the bowl. “I’ll take care of ye until then.”

I’ll take care of ye.Cecelia tried to think of the last time anyone had said that to her.

“You’re very kind. Very generous.”

“We both ken that’s not true.” Ramsay carried the bowl to the table and pointed to the rickety chair with his knife. “Sit. Eat.”

She sat and picked up the spoon, dipping it into the peasant stew with a delicate motion as Ramsay retreated to the other side of the couch to reclaim his perch on the hearth.

“There’d be more, but yer girl foraged her own portion, most of Jean-Yves’s, and half of mine.” He shook his head in disbelief. “She’s such a wee thing, I doona ken where she put all that food.”

Cecelia smiled with a growing fondness. “We share a hearty appetite, I suppose.”

He gave a gruff chuckle and retrieved a long feather from a basket of many at his side. “I used to eat like that at her age, and I stayed scrawny until…” He let the sentence die away, then seemed about to say something before he changed his mind. “Until I was older.” He took the knife to the feather, shaping it in delicate strokes.

Awareness of a strange and civil awkwardness that had bloomed between them ate at Cecelia. He’d avoided all but the barest of contact with her on the train, instead providing Phoebe most excellent and patient company while Cecelia looked after Jean-Yves.

She’d fretted at first that Phoebe’s newfound hero worship of the giant Scot would be irritating to him. But he’d suffered her endless barrage of questions with not only patience, but a good humor Cecelia hadn’t known Ramsay possessed.

She almost wished that he’d been an ogre. She really didn’t need any more reasons to want—er—like him right now. Not while everything was so chaotic. So awful.

Because around him she found herself less self-reliant than she ever had been.

There was a magnetism about a man so large and strong, she decided. That had to be the whole of her problem. He simply radiated some sort of gravitational or magnetic pull, unwittingly drawing her into his orbit. The urge to cast her burdens onto his wide shoulders had become overwhelming. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up relying upon him. She’d give in to the impulse to play the damsel to his knight in shining armor.

I’ll take care of ye.

Generally, it was her job to do the caring, a vocation she devoted herself to wholeheartedly. Of course, the Red Rogues and Jean-Yves were dedicated to her in the absolute. She’d never wanted for love.

But there was a difference between beingcared aboutand beingtaken care of. She’d never even considered that difference before now.

Lost in such thoughts, she blew puffs of air over the fragrant stew waiting for the steam to cool.

“You cooked this yourself?” she marveled.

Ramsay lifted one shoulder without looking up at her.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she queried.

“Here.” He split the feather down the middle with a masterful stroke and then picked up the stick.

Having exhausted the scope of her conversation, she took a tentative bite.

Dark, rich duck meat so tender she barely had to chew melted into a savory broth with the perfect mélange of vegetables and barley.

Cecelia closed her eyes to lend her groan of appreciation adequate dramatics.

When she opened them, Ramsay had frozen mid-motion, his knuckles white on the handle of the knife as he stared at her, unblinking.

“Whoever taught you your culinary skills should beheartily commended.” She loaded the spoon with her next bite with relish. “My compliments to the chef.”

He grunted some sort of sound that might have been either appreciative or dismissive before returning to his work.